The Time Before Death by Kabir, Translated by Robert Bly

I don't believe Robert Bly has taken great poetic license with his translation of this poem by Kabir.  I find his wording of the last line, the punch line, to be very rhythmically satisfying.

Friend, hope for the Guest while you are alive.
Jump into experience while you are alive!
Think... and think... while you are alive.
What you call "salvation" belongs to the time
     before death.

If you don't break your ropes while you're alive, do you think
ghosts will do it after?

The idea that the soul will rejoin with the ecstatic
just because the body is rotten--
that is all fantasy.
What is found now is found then.
If you find nothing now,
you will simply end up with an apartment in the
     City of Death.

If you make love with the divine now, in the next
     life you will have the face of satisfied desire.

So plunge into the truth, find out who the Teacher is,
     Believe in the Great Sound!

Kabir says this: When the Guest is being searched for,
     it is the intensity of the longing for the Guest that
     does all the work.
Look at me, and you will see a slave of that intensity.




This translation is available in The Kabir Book

The Time Before Death by Kabir, Translated by Rabindranath Tagore

As a youth, I read the Kurt Vonnegut novel Slaughterhouse-Five.  In this novel, there was a race of beings called Tralfamadorians, who perceived time in the same way as we perceived space.  When they looked at a human being, they saw a many-legged creature with a baby's legs at one end, and an old man's lets at the other end.  I mention this because this is the first part of another two-post exercise, giving a Kabir poem in the 1915 Rabindranath Tagore translation, and then giving it in the 1993 Robert Bly translation.  I consider such an exercise to be a Tralfamadorian presentation of the poem.

O FRIEND!  hope for Him whilst you live, know whilst you live, understand whilst you live: for in live deliverance abides.

If your bonds be not broken whilst living, what hope of deliverance in death?

It is but an empty dream, that the soul shall have union with Him, because it has passed from the body:

If He is found now, He is found then,

If not, we do but go to dwell in the City of Death.

If you have union now, you shall have it hereafter.

Bathe in the truth, know the true Guru, have faith in the true Name!

Kabir says: "It is the Spirit of the quest which helps; I am the slave of this Spirit of the quest."

Again, this poem can be found in the book Songs of Kabir, free from Amazon on Kindle.

Difficulties by Kabir, Translated by Robert Bly

I believe it is not unreasonable for the old poets to be newly translated with each generation.  As Rabindranath Tagore is the translator of Kabir for my grandfather's generation, Robert Bly is the translator for my generation, publishing The Kabir Book in 1993.

While this translation is in a different style of language than Tagore, I believe Kabir would say that the vibration of his poem has been faithfully reproduced for this time.

Friend, please tell me what I can do about this mud world
I keep spinning out of myself!

I gave up expensive clothes, and bought a robe
But I noticed one day the cloth was well-woven

So I bought some burlap, but I still
Throw it elegantly over my left shoulder.

I stopped being a sexual elephant,
And now I discover that I'm angry a lot.

I finally gave up anger, and now I notice
That I am greedy all day.

I worked hard at dissolving the greed,
And now I am proud of myself.

When the mind wants to break its link with the world,
It still holds on to one thing.

Kabir says: Listen, my friend,
There are very few that find the path!





I confess that most people with whom I share this poem are not prepared for the phrase "sexual elephant" ("You stopped being a what-what?!?").  It's definitely not a phrase I commonly use.  On the other hand, perhaps it's a tip of the hat to the poet's country.

Difficulties by Kabir, Translated by Rabindranath Tagore

With this poem, I am once again accepting Robert Bly's exercise of poetic license in giving this poem a title.  It is Chapter V of the book Songs of Kabir, (free on Kindle; get it now, I'll wait) published in 1915.

There are a couple of technical terms in this poem.  "Maya" is a term in Indian religions, frequently translated as "illusion," centered on the fact that we do not experience the environment itself but a projection of it, created by us.  We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are.

And the Sadhu whom Kabir addresses at the end of the poem is not someone's name, but rather a title for an ascetic, wandering monk, who is seeking the very thing Kabir is pondering in this poem.

Tell me, Brother, how can I renounce Maya?

When I gave up the tying of ribbons, still I tied my garment about me:
When I give up tying my garment, still I covered my body in its folds.
So, when I give up passion, I find that anger remains;
And when I renounce anger, greed is with me still;
And when greed is vanquished, pride and vainglory remain;
When the mind is detached and casts Maya away, it still clings to the letter.
Kabir says "Listen to me, dear Sadhu!  the true path is rarely found."

Music by Kabir, Translated by Robert Bly

Kabir is the one doing the weaving in this picture.  We know he was raised by a Muslim family who worked as weavers in the Indian city of Varanasi (also called Benares).

Robert Bly translated 44 of Kabir's poems in 1993.

Have you heard the music no fingers enter into?
Far inside the house
entangled music -
What is the sense of leaving your house?

Suppose you scrub your ethical skin
until it shines -
but inside there is no music,
then what?

Mohammad's son pores over words,
and points out this
and that
but if his chest is not soaked dark with love,
then what?

The Yogi comes along in his famous orange,
But if inside he is colorless,
then what?

Kabir says: Every instant that the sun is risen,
if I stand in the temple, or on a balcony,
in the hot fields, or in a walled garden,
my own Lord is making love with me.


I read this poem, and I cry out "Let the music play within me!"  I read this poem, and I cry out "Let my chest be soaked dark with love!"  I read this poem, and I cry out, "Let me be as colorful on the inside as the Yogi is on the outside!"



This poem can be found in The Kabir Book