No lover is he without feet quick like the soul,
Who does not turn about the Moon like stars at night.
Listen to me- my speech is not vile nonsense:
No flag dances but by the longing of desire!
عاشق نبود انکه سبک چون جان نیست
شب همچو ستاره گرد مه گردان نیست
از من بشنو که این سخن بهتان نیست
بی باد هوا رقص ءلم امکان نیست
Without love, joy and mirth cannot increase,
And life cannot blush with beauty and grace.
A hundred clouds may rain upon the sea,
But by pain alone is drop by pearl encased.
Note: According to poetic tradition, pearls
are formed by oysters rising to the surface
of the sea at the full moon and receiving a
drop of rain.
بی عشق نشاط و طرب افزون نشود
بی عشق وجود خوب و موزون نشود
صد قطره ز ابر اگر بدریا بارد
بی جنبش عشق در مکنون نشود
Beloved Archives, aka Nosh Anzar, has recently advertised an occasion for Beloved Archives to pray to Meher Baba on behalf of prayer requests. This event is referred to as “The Beloved’s Day of Prayer”.
A request to “please contribute to Beloved Archives”, with a big fat “Donate” button, also graces the advertisement.
Anzar appears to have a big fat head about all this. This “Day of Prayer” has nothing to do with Meher Baba. Baba expressly disavowed any and all such attempts to approach him in such a manner. And for a Baba lover to ask for money in promoting such rogue behavior is quite astonishing!
What has happened to Nosh Anzar?
My best guess is that Anzar is besotted by the artifacts and relics that he has amassed at what he calls “The House of the Beloved”, and that all this stockpiled baraka makes him feel very special indeed.
Let it be remembered that Anzar is a notorious “raider of relics“: he took artifacts and relics belonging to UK Baba Lovers from behind their backs, and then paraded this fact as some kind of glorious triumph for Beloved Archives. And all this in defiance of Mehera’s express wish. Vomit.
This man cannot be trusted.
The only prayer of the heart is the Master’s name:
To beg this or that from him is a twisted game.
To pay another to petition the Ancient One,
Is to forego his embrace and presence shun.
No relic compares to the spiritual power
Of the heart repeating his name at all hours.
Light a candle in the niche of your remembrance,
And let his name rise and resound with pure cadence.
The wolf in sheep’s clothing ba-ba’s for another,
As the lambs are led on and on to their slaughter.
The Master has said: surrender your bloody mind
At my feet, not to huckster halfwits glib and blind!
Darvish enjoys his conversations with the Friend;
Would he have a hack compose his ghazals for him?
The fire of digestion is God’s gift to proud man;
Without a good shit, man lives his life on the can.
Prometheus stole the fire that bound him to rock;
Daily, the eagle tears his liver and courage mocks.
To digest experience is the human condition:
To not crap it out- the most foul and original sin!
Think of your friends who suffer from constipation:
How many of them confide about such with elation?
The root of honesty is never to strain for the truth.
It should be smooth and easy, never hard or uncouth.
Agni is a precious fire that must be well tended;
Neglect it, and your bowels will be terribly offended.
This present age is a time of unnatural behavior:
The toilet has become our throne and holy savior!
Darvish praises the god of culture for his sacrifice:
To squat and take a perfect shit- is worth the price!
No man lives the anguish of living without love
And survives. He leaps off a bridge without a shove.
We cry and cry to feel a loving hand in ours;
No man wants to die alone in his last hour.
The name of God is the Friend present here and now;
His sweet breath revives the waking dead with ciao!
The friendliness of beloved God is miraculous:
The blind upon seeing his Beauty are incredulous.
The Lord appears in our heart when called with feeling;
Recalled at length the Beloved remains compelling.
We must believe in the sincerity of our anguish-
Sooner or later, we will in any case perish!
Darvish is afraid of heights and can barely swim;
The Master is a monster ocean waiting for him.
The eagle’s claw of fate
Carries away all squawk
And strut. Men meditate
On how to make their mark.
In memory of Seamus Heaney
I am digging, digging today
To find the late poet at play
In my heart: his spirit exclaims
Dig, O dig ’till you find the way.
© 2010-2026 darvish khan writes All Rights Reserved -- Copyright notice by BLOGFORM
