Classic and Contemporary Poetry
WITH OMAR, by CALE YOUNG RICE Poet's Biography First Line: I sat with omar by the tavern door Last Line: Would ask and answer -- trust and doubt and pray. Subject(s): Death; Drinks & Drinking; Future Life; Soul; Dead, The; Wine; Retribution; Eternity; After Life | ||||||||
I sat with Omar by the Tavern door, Musing rebelliously upon his Lore; And soon with answers alternate we strove Whether beyond Death Life has any shore. "Come, fill the Cup," said he. "In the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling. The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter -- and the Bird is on the Wing." "The Bird of Time?" I answered. "Then shall I, Heavy with Wine, not fail to cross the Sky Unto Eternity upon his wings -- And failing fall into the Gulf and die?" "So for the Glories of this World sigh some And some for the Prophet's Paradise to come; But you, Friend, take the Cash -- the Credit leave, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!" "But idly at the garish noisy Show Spend all upon the Wine, the while I know A possible Tomorrow may bring Thirst For Drink but Credit then shall cause to flow?" "Yea, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust unto Dust, and under dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and -- sans End." "Into the Dust we shall descend -- we must. But may the Soul not leave the crumbling Crust In which it is engaged? To hope or to Despair it will -- which is more wise or just?" "The worldly hope men set their hearts upon Turns ashes -- or it prospers; and anon Like snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two -- is gone." "Like snow it comes, to cool one burning day; And like it goes -- for all our plea or sway. But Wine, not bitter Tears, can ever purge The vision it has brought to us away." "But to this world we come and Why not knowing Nor Whence, like water willy-nilly flowing; And out of it, as Wind along the waste, We know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing." "True, little do we know of Why or Whence, But is, forsooth, our Darkness evidence There is no Light? The worm may see no star Though Heaven with myriad multitudes be dense." "But, all unasked, we're hither hurried whence? And, all unasked, we're Whither hurried hence? O, many a cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that insolence." Forbidden it is not. Or if Forbid 'Tis only by the Soul within us hid That cries, 'Feed, feed me not on Wine alone, For to Sublimer Banquets I am bid.'" "Well oft I think that never blows so red The rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her lap from some once lovely Head." "If from the shapely Clay through with Life's throes More beautiful spring, Hyacinth and Rose, May the Great Gardener for the uprooted soul Not find use sweeter than -- useless Repose?" "We do not know -- so fill the cup that clears Today of past regret and future fears: Tomorrow! -- Why, Tomorrow we may be Ourselves with yesterday's seven thousand years." "There is no Cup to bring oblivion More during than Regret and Fear -- no, none! And Wine that's Wine today may often be Marah before tomorrow's Sands have run." "Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint and heard great argument About it and about; but ever more Came out by the same door wherein I went." "The doors of Argument may lead nowhither, Reason become a prison where may wither From sunless eyes the Infinite, from hearts All hope -- when their sojourn too long is thither." "Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate, And many a Knot unravelled by the Road -- But not the Master-knot of Human Fate." "The Master-knot knows but the Master-hand, That weaves or tangles many a Saturn-band On the wide air. No sure unravelling, This side of death, seems meant for us or planned." "Yet if the Soul can fling the Dust aside And naked on the air of heaven ride, Wer't not a shame -- wer't not a shame for it In this clay carcass crippled to abide?" "No, for a day bound in our Dust may teach More of the Saki's mind than we could reach Through aeons under any earthless Sky -- May open through all Mystery a breach." "You speak as if Existence closing your Account, and mine, should know the like no more; The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has poured Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour." "He will -- and prick them with the point of Death. But in each Bubble dwells there not His Breath That seems seeking to lift it toward the Sphere Where lofty and alone He wandereth?" "A Moment's Halt -- a momentary taste Of Being from the Well amid the Waste -- And Lo! -- the phantom Caravan has reached The Nothing it set out from -- Oh, make haste!" "To quaff one cup? though well aware that we Shall crave three million others -- then thrice three? If the Well has a Master, will He say 'Taste' -- then deprive us of it utterly?" "But see his Presence through Creation's Veins, Running quicksilver-like eludes your pains; Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and They change and perish all -- but He remains." "Not surely! For, lie down to sleep and lo The soul seems quenched in darkness -- is it so? Shall we not rather trust what seemeth not Of Death, until we know -- until we know?" "So wastes the hour -- gone in the vain pursuit Of This and That we strive o'er and dispute. Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, fruit." "Aye; but how often is a Shadow thrown Across our Cup -- the Shadow of the Unknown, So filling it with Night we cannot drink Or bide content with dim-lit earth alone." "Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close! The Nightingale that on the branches sang -- Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows?" "So does it seem -- no other joy like these! Yet Summer comes, and Autumn's honored ease, And Wintry Age oft feels the prescient sap Of a New Spring, whose verdure shall not cease." "Then well He who with pitfall and with gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Will He with stern Predestined Evil round Enmesh, and then impute my fall to sin?" "He will not. If one evil we endure To ultimate Debasing, oh be sure 'Tis not of Him predestined, and the sin Not His nor ours -- but Fate's He could not cure." So till the wan and early scent of day I strove, then silent turned at last away, Thinking how men in ages yet unborn Would ask and answer -- trust and doubt and pray. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IKON: THE HARROWING OF HELL by DENISE LEVERTOV LEEK STREET by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR UNABLE TO FIND by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR THE AFTERLIFE: LETTER TO STEPHEN DOBYNS 3 by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE AFTERLIFE: LETTER TO STEPHEN DOBYNS: 1 by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE AFTERLIFE: LETTER TO STEPHEN DOBYNS: 2 by HAYDEN CARRUTH WRITING IN THE AFTERLIFE by BILLY COLLINS A CHARM TO BRING CHILDREN (EGYPT, A.D. 100) by CALE YOUNG RICE |
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