Khayyam was a poet as well as a mathematician. He discovered a geometrical method to solve cubic equations by intersecting a parabola with a circle.
17:31 گرينويچ - چهارشنبه 20 ژوئيه 2005
عکس از شاهرخ گلستان، خط از نصرالله افجه ای، ترجمه از کريم امامی
برگزيده هايی از شراب نيشابور
روزی است خوش و هوا نه گرم است و نه سرد
ابر از رخ گلزار همی شويد گرد
بلبل به زبان پهلوی با گل زرد
فرياد همی کند که می بايد خورد
It's a lovely day, neither too hot nor too cold
Clouds regularly refresh the flowers in the field
And the Nightingle calls out in secret Pahlavi to the Yellow Rose
Carousing time! It's crousing time
خيام اگر ز باده مستی خوش باش
با لاله رخی اگر نشستی خوش باش
چون عاقبت کار جهان نيستی است
انگار که نيستی چو هستی خوش باش
Have a good time Khayyam, if you are merry with wine
And if you are with a tulip-cheeked companion
As death and destruction are in the cards for everyone
Imagine that you are now dead; enjoy yourself while you can
بنگر ز صبا دامن گل چاک شده است
بلبل ز جمال گل طربناک شده است
در سايه گل نشين که بسيار اين گل
از خاک برآمده است و در خاک شده است
Look how the morning breeze has helped the rosebud bloom
And how at the sight of the rose the nightingle swoons
Come sit in the shade of the rosebush for such a rose
Has often grown out of the soil to fall dawn again
در هر دشتی که لاله زاری بوده است
از سرخی خون شهرياری بوده است
هر شاخ بنفشه کز زمين می رويد
خالی است که بر رخ نگاری بوده است
Whereve you find flowers and tulips galore
A prince's blood has given the petals their red hue
Each violet that you see blooming in the field
Has been a mole on the cheek of a princess too
دوری که در او آمدن و رفتن ماست
او را نه نهايت نه بدايت پيداست
کس می نزند دمی در اين معنی راست
کاين آمدن از کجا و رفتن به کجاست
The cycle that encompasses our entrance and exit
Has niether a beginnig nor an end in sight
No one speaks for a moment the truth about it
As to whence is our entrance and whereto our exit
بيست و هشتم ارديبهشت به نام حکيم عمر خيام نيشابوری، شاعر، منجم و رياضی دان ايرانی نامگذاری شده است و هرسال در اين روز ياد و خاطره اين حکيم بزرگ در ايران گرامی داشته می شود.
در تاريخ و تاريخ ادبيات ايران از عمر خيام با عناوينی چون دانشمند، فيلسوف، رياضی دان، منجم، حکيم و شاعر نام برده شده است. در کتاب های قديمی هم شاعر بودن او ناديده گرفته شده است. مثلا نظامی عروضی در چهار مقاله از خيام به عنوان منجم ياد کرده و ابوالحسن بيهقی در تاريخ بيهقی و تتمه صوان الحکمة عناوين او را دستور، فيلسوف و حجة الحق ذکر کرده است.
امسال برای نخستين بار همايشی برای بزرگداشت عمر خيام در کنار مزار اين فيلسوف و حکيم ايرانی در دوران جمهوری اسلامی برگزار شده است. اين مراسم که روز ملی خيام نامگذاری شده روز دوشنبه 17 مه (28 ارديبهشت) در نيشابور برگزار شد و در آن پيام وزير فرهنگ و ارشاد اسلامی نيز قرائت شد.
دفيلم برداری ميراث بر افسانه عمر خيام در شهرهای سمرقند و بخارا ادامه دارد.
سايت هايي كه مي شه اشعار خيام و مطالبي در مورد اين بزرگمرد دين گريز خوش مشرب انديشمند شجاع يافت
Omar's life is dramatized in the 1957 film Omar Khayyam starring Cornel Wilde, Debra Page, Raymond Massey, Michael Rennie, and John Derek.
A lunar crater Omar Khayyam was named after him in 1970.
An asteroid 3095 Omarkhayyam was named after him in 1980.
"The Keeper: The Legend of Omar Khayyam".
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External links
The Rubaiyat
Os Rubaiyat de Omar Khayyam
On Omar's solutions to cubic equations
Khayyam, Umar. A biography by Professor Iraj Bashiri, University of Minnesota.
Biography by School of Mathematics and Statistics, University of St Andrews, Scotland
The Rubaiyat
Os Rubaiyat de Omar Khayyam
On Omar's solutions to cubic equations
Khayyam, Umar. A biography by Professor Iraj Bashiri, University of Minnesota.
Biography by School of Mathematics and Statistics, University of St Andrews, Scotland
Omar Khayyam Encyclopædia Britannica Article
born May 18, 1048, Neyshabur [also spelled Nishapur], Khorasan [now Iran]died December 4, 1131, Neyshabur
born May 18, 1048, Neyshabur [also spelled Nishapur], Khorasan [now Iran]died December 4, 1131, Neyshabur
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
http://www.okonlife.com/
http://www.okonlife.com/
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Samples of the Ruba'iyyat of Omar Khayyam
Written by
Omar Khayyam (d. 1123)
Translated by
Edward FitzGerald
http://www.angelfire.com/rnb/bashiri/Poets/Khayyam.html
Wake! For the Sun who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried:
'When all the Temple is prepared within.
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted: 'Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more.'
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with 'Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!' - the Nightingale cries to the Rose,
That sallow cheek of her's to incarnadine.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter and the Bird is on the Wing.
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or Bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say:
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you.
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
* * * * * *
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destin'd Hour, and went his way.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regret and future Fears:
To-morrow! Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Oursleves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend-ourselves to make a Couch-for whom?
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend:
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and -sans End!
Alike for those who for To-DAY prepare,
And those that after some To-MORROW stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries:
'Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.'
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely-they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd:
'I came like Water, and like Wind I go.'
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence , like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of its, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither , willy-nilly blowing.
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence ?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE
There was-and then no more of THEE and ME.
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, will all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
Then of the THEE IN ME who works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without: 'THE ME WITHIN THEE BLIND!'
* * * * * *
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Wer't not a Shame-wer't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more:
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
* * * * * *
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd: 'I Myself am Heav'n and Hell':
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerg'd from, shall so soon expire.
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumin'd Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, the checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes:
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all-HE knows-HE knows!
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help-for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
* * * * * *
O Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestin'd Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
* * * * * *
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits-and then
Remould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
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