63 quotes from Attar of Nishapur: ‘The home we seek is in eternity; The Truth we seek is like a shoreless sea, Of which your paradise is but a drop. This ocean. 0 references. place of birth . Category:Attar of Nishapur. 0 references. described by source. `Attar’s statue beside his mausoleum, Nishapur, Iran `Attar’s work preserves many of the sayings of previous Sufi saints; we are indebted to.
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This ocean can be yours; why should you stop Beguiled by dreams of evanescent dew? The secrets of the sun are yours, but you Content yourself with motes trapped in its beams. Turn to what truly lives, reject what seems — Which matters more, the body or the soul? Since you have such a short time to live here, What difference does it make? What should you fear? The world is filth and sin, and homeless men Must enter it and homeless leave again.
They die, as worms, in squalid pain; if we Must perish in this quest, that, nisjapur, Is better than nsihapur life of filth and grief.
If this great search is vain, if my belief Is groundless, it is right that I should die. So many errors throng the world – then why Should we not risk this quest? To suffer blame For love is better than a life of shame.
No one has reached this goal, so why appeal To those whose blindness claims it is unreal?
Attar, the Sufi Poet and Master of Rumi
I’d rather die deceived by dreams than give My heart to home and trade and never live. We’ve been and heard so much – what have we learned? Not for one moment has the self been spurned; Fools gather round and hinder our release.
When will their stale, insistent whining cease? We have no freedom to achieve our goal Until from Self and fools we free the soul. To be admitted past the veil you must Be dead to all the crowd considers just. Once past the veil you understand the Way From which the crowd’s glib courtiers blindly stray. If you have any will, leave women’s stories, And even if this search for hidden glories Proves blasphemy at last, be sure our quest Is not mere talk but an exacting test. The fruit of love’s great tree is poverty; Whoever knows this knows humility.
When love has pitched his tent in someone’s breast, That man despairs of life and knows no rest.
Love’s pain will murder him and blandly ask A surgeon’s fee for managing the task – The water that he drinks brings pain, his bread Is turned to blood immediately shed; Though he is weak, faint, feebler than an ant, Love forces him to be her combatant; He cannot take one mouthful unaware That he is floundering in a sea of care.
The atta one went closer and said: I know about love. The nisyapur one touched the flame lightly with his wings and said: I know how love’s fire can burn. The third one threw himself into the heart of the flame and was consumed. He alone knows what true love is. The world’s wealth seemed a portion of his grace; It was a miracle to view his face. If he had rivals,then I know of none; The earth resounded with this paragon.
When riding through his streets he did not fail To hide his features with a scarlet veil.
Whoever scanned the veil would lose his head; Whoever spoke his name was left for dead, The tongue ripped from his mouth; whoever thrilled With passion for this king was quickly killed. A thousand for his love expired each day, And those who saw his face, in blank dismay Would rave and grieve and mourn their lives away- To die for love of that bewitching sight Was worth a hundred lives without his light.
None could survive his absence patiently, None could endure this king’s proximity- How strange it was that man could neither brook The presence nor the absence of his look!
Since few could bear his ov, they were content To hear the king in sober argument, But while they listened they endure such pain As made them long to see their king again. The king commanded mirrors to be placed About the palace walls, and when he faced Their polished surfaces his image shone With mitigated splendour to the throne. If you would glimpse the beauty we revere Look in your heart-its image will appear. Make of your heart a looking-glass and see Reflected there the Friend’s nobility; Your sovereign’s glory will illuminate The palace where he reigns in proper state.
Search for this king within your heart; His soul Reveals itself in atoms of the Whole. The multitude of forms that masquerade Throughout the world spring from the Simorgh’s shade. If you catch sight of His magnificence It is His shadow that beguiles your glance; The Simorgh’s shadow and Himself are one; Seek them together, twinned in unison. But you are lost in vague uncertainty Pass beyond shadows to Reality.
How can you reach the Simorgh’s splendid court? First find its gateway, and the sun, long-sought, Erupts through attarr when victory is won, Your sight knows nothing but the atttar sun. Before an atom of such need the Sun Seems dim and mirky by comparison. It is life’s strength, the wings by which we fly Beyond the further reaches of the sky. Our feathers and our wings, our bodies’ strength Are quite unequal to the journey’s length; For one of us to reach the Simorgh’s throne Would be miraculous, a thing unknown.
And is it fit That beggars try the glory of a king? How ever could they manage such a thing?
Farid ad-Din Attar
A man whose eyes love opens risks his soul – His dancing breaks beyond the mind’s control. Make it a place to retire to, a kind of cave, a retreat for the deep core of being. If you stay caught in the storm, your head will whirl as fast as a millstone and you will know so little peace that even a single fly attar buzz away your peace.
If while living you fail to find yourself, to know yourself, how will you be able to understand the secret of your existence after you die?
Love thrives on inextinguishable pain; Which tears the soul, then knits the threads again. When Love bursts into flame, Reason is forthwith dissipated like smoke. If ever you attain a clear vision of the unseen world, then only will you be able to realize the source of Love.
By attaf odour of Love every atom in the world is intoxicated. It owes its existence to the existence of Love. Yes, we must nishapug one with the fire itself, for otherwise one cannot live there. He that truly loves must resemble fire, his countenance aflame, burning and. The condition of these lovers is hard to recount, for such souls speak a different tongue. The one who learns and speaks their language will hold the elixir of attsr at Simorgh’s court.
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Attar, the Sufi Poet and Master of Rumi, by Sholeh Wolpé | World Literature Today
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