In Dust I Sing

In Dust I Sing By Francis Brabazon An Avatar Meher Baba Trust eBook May 2012 Copyright © 2012 Avatar’s Abode Trust, Queensland, Australia Source and short publication history: This eBook reproduces In Dust I Sing published by The Beguine Library (Berkeley, California) in 1974. eBooks at the Avatar Meher Baba Trust Web Site The Avatar Meher Baba Trust’s eBooks aspire to be textually exact though non-facsimile reproductions of published books, journals and articles. With the consent of the copyright holders, these online editions are being made available through the Avatar Meher Baba Trust’s web site, for the research needs of Meher Baba’s lovers and the general public around the world. Again, the eBooks reproduce the text, though not the exact visual likeness, of the original publications. They have been created through a process of scanning the original pages, running these scans through optical character recognition (OCR) software, reflowing the new text, and proofreading it. 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IN DUST I SING Other books by Francis Brabazon EARLY POEMS PROLETARIANS-TRANSITION JOURNEY WITH GOD 7 STARS TO MORNING CANTOS OF WANDERING SINGING THRESHOLD STAY WITH GOD LET US THE PEOPLE SING THE EAST-WEST GATHERING THREE TALKS THE WORD AT WORLD’S END IN DUST I SING Francis Brabazon THE BEGUINE LIBRARY BERKELEY © Copyright l974 by Francis Brabazon Avatar’s Abode Woombye, Queensland Australia. cover design: william ward Published by THE BEGUINE LIBRARY Berkeley, California 94701 To Avatar Meher Baba the Pulse of whose Poetry is the expanding universe and the Melodies of it are the yearnings of all hearts (ii) PREFACE The eternal Beloved, Avatar Meher Baba, over the years I was with him at Meherazad gave me the shape and content of these poems. The form is based on the Persian ghazal, perfected by Hafiz 600 years ago and carried down in the Urdu language to the present day. The content is the relationship between the Lover and the Beloved – a relationship that is never wholly fulfilled until the Lover ceases to exist in himself and passes away in the Beloved. This relationship has its root in the very nature of God, which is love. As Baba has explained it: God is Love. And Love must love. And to love there must be a Beloved. But since God is Existence infinite and eternal there is no one for Him to love but Himself. And in order to love Himself He must imagine Himself as the Beloved whom He as the Lover imagines He loves.* But besides making the ghazal, which was some 200 years old then, the ideal form for love poetry, Hafiz also used it as a vehicle for philosophy, teaching and general comment — for these are also part of the divine love game. The ghazals of Hafiz and his successors were the only poetry that Meher Baba really enjoyed. Although occasionally he would quote a verse of Tukaram or Kabir, with the ghazal writers he was the Wine Master filling our cups with the various types and vintages. Similarly, although he sometimes listened to Indian devotional songs and classical music and to Western popular songs and spirituals, he only really enjoyed ghazal singing and its more popular form, qwaali. (He listened to the others to please those who got pleasure from them because their love pleased him.) But when there was a really good ghazal singer — one whose heart was tuned to the cry of love and its courtesies of complaint and whose throat was a threshold to the Beloved’s presence — Baba would sit up all night listening, commenting, revealing the hidden treasure in the verses, until the dawn stole the Beloved’s rose garland and flung it across the sky as a sign that another day in the Beloved’s service was beginning. * See The Everything and the Nothing, p. 1. (iii) After some time I conceived the idea of an English ghazal. I wrote a few, and waiting a suitable time, told Baba about them. He had me fetch and read them to him. He seemed pleased and told me to continue writing in this new form and to read them to him in batches of four as they were done. Each reading brought the blessing of his embrace, and every embrace contained the seeds of the next pieces. In the years that followed Baba had them all re-read to him many times. Why Meher Baba put the idea of an English ghazal into my head can only be explained in terms of whim – that he had a whim for a new kind of poetry for his entertainment and time-pass, a poetry with its root in the perfection of Hafiz but contemporary in language and image, and which would be the ideal vehicle for the new dialogue of the Lover and the Beloved which will be the New Humanity. F. B. (iv) 1 We have waited all night for you, and now the dawn is come. From distant places we came---there can be no returning home. We know it is morning because of the dawn’s cool fingers Upon our hot eyelids, and we can hear her sweet singers. We cannot be sure now whether it was our own yearning That expected you, or you promised---it matters not in this burning. Neither have we your brightness, nor will we behold the new day--- We lost our eyes in the darkness and are adrift on tears’ waves’ way. Blind witless wretches whose song the wind carries with the seagull’s cry; Bold fellows brave enough to leave home, but not daring enough to die. Still, we are wrapped in a glory to all other men denied; We once touched the hem of your dress---this is our spirit’s pride. What is it to us that somewhere the world’s sun will presently rise--- Sometime this darkness of nowhere will be lit by the light of your eyes. 1 2 What God or gods or men will care to hear our tale--- Blind witless fellows on waves’ way who weep and rail? On land we neither cut our names in permanent stone, Nor scrawled them in dust for wind to whip into a tune. Neither our song stirred the hearts of men, nor washes Your beloved feet---but stains them where it splashes. We were foolish enough to think that from sin’s ore We could smelt gold for a ring which you would wear. We would gladly regress millions of years could our lips Become a pearl-shelled cup from which your lover sips. We would go back even to stone if we could trust That sometime your mercy did turn us into singing dust. Once we knew you, could see you---ah! love’s glad day. Now our eyelids feel the sting of seaspray. 2 3 Well have you called yourself the Ocean of Mercy--- For your shadow the sea has now rejected us, Flinging us up on this inhospitable beach Without even the ragged sail which protected us. We know that a thousand times we have disobeyed you, And a thousand times you have lovingly corrected us. But it was not that we willfully turned aside, But a sickle shape promising reaping that deflected us. Our greatest error, Beloved, was our presumption That out of this teeming world you had selected us To carry your message and sing your songs in the sun, And our secret desire that men respected us. How faithful to you is your shadow, even this sea; Impartially it has judged and rejected us. 3 4 Love loves not those whom love fattens, but makes destitute. From the orchard's winter ruin burgeons the summer fruit. If you are desiring well-being it is not your time For the twists and graces of inconsequential rhyme.

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