Tears of Dew-Huseyn Abdullayev
Wilhelm August Lebrecht Amberg Art
On Joy and Sorrow
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
Kahlil Gibran
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises
was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being,
the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup
that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit,
the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous,look deep into your heart and
you shall find it is only that which has given you
sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart,
and you shall see that in truth you are weeping
for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say,"Joy is greater than sorrow,"
and others say,"Nay, sorrow is the greater."
But I say unto you,they are inseparable.
Together they come,and when one sits,alone with
you at your board,remember that the other is
asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your
sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and
his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
Happiness
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
BY JANE KENYON
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost,and take from its place the finest
garment,which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine,and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about,who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom,to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
Mecuro B Cotto Photography
The Happiness
There's a happiness,a joy
Jack Hirschman
in one soul,that's been
buried alive in everyone
and forgotten.
It isn't your barroom joke
or tender,intimate humor
or affections of friendliness
or big, bright pun.
They're the surviving survivors
of what happened when happiness
was buried alive,when
it no longer looked out
of today's eyes,and doesn't
even manifest when one
of us dies,we just walk away
from everything,alone
with what's left of us,
going on being human beings
without being human,
without that happiness.
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