J Scott Wells

Who I'd like to meet:

He who created the firmament by the omnipotent might of his power, Gave breath to all living creatures and to man spirits celestial, Gave us the world to possess with all its unlimited varieties, And Kings ordained by Him, each in His own image O One God, who has created the form of every man's body, Assist us, give us strength, to conquer the wiles of Satan; Fill us with longing for love, endless, enduring to death! Lighten the load of sins we must bear to the world to come! I sing of the lion whom the use of lance, shield and sword adorns, Of Tamar, the Queen of Queens, the ruby-cheeked and jet-haired. How shall I dare pay tribute to her in praiseworthy verses, Whom to look upon is to feast upon the choicest of honey Tears of blood flow profusely as I exult our Queen Tamar Whose praises I have uttered forth in well-chosen words. For ink I have used a lake of jet and for pen, a pliant reed. My words, like jagged spears, will pierce the heart of the hearer. I was told to compose in her honour stately and sweet-sounding verses, To laud her eyebrows and lashes, her hair, her lips and her teeth- Badakhshan ruby and cut crystal arrayed in two even ranks. An anvil of lead can break even the hardest stone. Fire my mind and tongue with skill and power for utterance Which I need, 0 Lord, for the making of majestic and praiseworthy verses; Thus will the deeds of Tariel be remembered in eloquent language, And of the three star-like heroes who faithfully served one another. Come, let us sit together and weep with undrying tears for Tariel. There never breathed a man born under the same star as his. I, Rustaveli, whose heart is pierced through by his sorrows have threaded Like a necklace of pearls a tale told until now as a tale. I, who am maddened to frenzy by love, have composed these lines. She, whom vast armies call mistress has deprived me of life and reason. Thus sickened am I by love for which there exists no cure. She alone can cure me, or leave me to death and the grave. I have found this Persian tale, and have set it in Georgian verse Until now like a peerless pearl it was rolled on the palm of the hand. I have done this praiseworthy and disputable deed for her; Therefore let her who has robbed me of heart and of reason judge it. Though deprived of their light by gazing upon her yet my eyes long again To behold her for whom with love-laden heart I roam like a madman. Let her pray for and soothe my soul; it is enough that my body is burning. Eloquent must my verses be, majestic, melodious and sweet. Man, do not complain at fate. Be content and accept it. Let the warrior always be brave, let the worker enjoy his labour; So let the love-maddened man learn the meaning of love and know it. Disdain not the love of another nor let him disdain yours. Poetry is, first of all, a branch of divine wisdom, Conceived by and known by the godly edifying to all who hear it. It pleases the ear of the listener if he be a virtuous man. A poem uttered with surfeit of words lacks grace and excellence. A race on a course proves a horse's fire and mettle, A player's skill is seen when he strikes the ball at the goal. Even so it is with the poet who composes majestic poems: He must call forth all his skill when utterance is hard and fails him. Thus indeed, is the poet, and his poem is proof of his prowess. When at a loss of words and he cannot attain perfection He must seek for words that will not diminish the poem of its worth, But strike the ball and score the goal like a dexterous player. A verse or two composed by chance do not make a poet; Let him not think himself a poet on the level of great singers. Even though, now and then, he may write a few discordant verses; Yet if he says, "Truly, mine is the better", he is a stubborn mule. Then again there are poets who wish but are powerless to compose Verses capable of penetrating deep into one's heart. I may compare them to the bows and arrows of youthful hunters Who cannot bring down big beasts, but kill only small game. A third kind of poems is composed for mirth and revelry, For the lover, the joyous and merry, for the pleasures of boon companions. We may find some of them pleasing both to the heart and the ear, But remember, only he who writes majestic poetry is a poet. All the poet's endeavours must not be spent invain. He must be devoted to one whom he considers worthy of loving, And employ all his talents and skill In praising and glorifying her name. For her alone must he sing in sweet melodious measures. Hear all and know, I praise her whom I have hitherto praised! In this I have endless glory, in this I am bold and shameless. She, who is my life, is a beautiful merciless panther. I shall devote my skill hereafter to exalt her name. I speak of love's highest form-elevated, pure and heavenly, Eloquence weakens when the tongue attempts to speak of such love. It uplifts to heaven the soul of those who endure love's anguish. A lover, therefore, must know how to endure and bear these afflictions. Even a discerning mind cannot comprehend that love, Though the tongue grow tired or the ears of the hearer weary. I speak of the lower passions of man who when not lustfully kissing Strives to imitate love but only faints from afar. In the Arabic tongue a lover is called a madman Because of non-fulfilment and futile longing for her. Some, though exhausted, feel nearness to God as their souls soar upward. Others, prey to low passions, fly from one fair maidan to another. Beauty befits a lover like unto the sun on high. He must have youth and leisure, be generous, wealthy and wise, Patient, intelligent and eloquent, the mightiest among the mighty. If devoid of all these qualities a lover is not a true lover. Love is sacred and tender, hard to know or define. It is not kindred to lust; it is something beyond it - divine. Love is one thing, lust another; in no way do they mingle. Between true love and lust lies an impregnable boundary. He who loves should be constant, never lewd nor faithless. Absence from her he loves should wring sigh upon sigh from his heart. He must be true to her though she frown upon him in anger. I hate the lover who seeks only bugging and lusty kissing. A lover does not long for one today and another tomorrow. He ?annot endure love's parting or absence from her whom he worships. Such sport is shameful, base, more like the trifling of boys. The lover is he who suffers the whole world's woes and sorrows. There is a love - the noblest - which reveals not its woes but conceals them. The lover seeks solitude for when alone he bestows all his thoughts upon love. Thus his fainting, dying, burning, are all from afar; He may face the wrath of his beloved, yet must he fear and revere her. A lover must never reveal his love but keep it hidden, Nor should he basely sigh and put his loved one to shame; Nowhere should he show his love, nor reveal it to any man. Enduring woes and burning in fire for her sake should be joy. Only a madman would trust the man who noises his love abroad. By this he makes her suffer, by this he suffers himself. How can he glorify her if he shames her with a surfeit of words' That would only profane the love that she cherishes for him. It makes me wonder to think there are men who make a show of their love. Why add pain to a heart, already wounded by love? It they have no love for her then why do they hide their hatred? But an evil man loves an evil word more than his soul. Judge not severely the tears of a lover; tears are his due. Weeping and solitude befit him and the roaming of plains and forests. When absent from her his thoughts should be of her whom he worships, But when among men it is better he conceal his love within him