We begin the blog with an Arab bedouin poem from the 6th C. by 'Antara, because the Arabs originated the ghazal and the qasida and the meters. These pre-Islamic poems so provoked and challenged the poets of greater Khorasan that they took up the Arabic meters, formats, genres, tropes,and then out-performed the Arabs at their own game. The Turks were not far behind. After the poem by 'Antara there are 20 poems of Mohammad Shams-u-Din Hafiz 'Hafiz Shirazi.' (c. 1320/807). We have a proposal for a Central Asia Literary Rediscovery Initiative - funding literary prizes in Central Asia, including Iran. Find it on to http://centralasialawreview.blogspot.com, at the front, 'Our Parthian Shot: Giving Back to Afghans Their Own Literature.'
Friday, June 22, 2012
Monday, August 2, 2010
`
'ANTARA the BLACK KNIGHT
Make war on me, O ye vicissitudes of the night,
Now on my left hand, now on my right.
And strive to oppose me. At every step thwart me.
By God, you have never captured my attention.
For I have an aspiration harder and more firm
Than that which anchors the mountain ranges;
And a sword blade which, whenever I swing it,
The useless spear-tips fall away before it;
And a spear-point which, when I am lost in the night,
Guides me and returns me from straying;
And a spirited stead which never gallops without
Lightning trailing behind its striking horseshoes.
Deep dark is the horse's color as it cracks the gloom
With its white blaze between the eyes like the moon.
It sacrifices its life for my life – and I for its -
On the day of battle, losing my possessions.
Whenever they set up the market of spiritual war,
When the square flashes with stone-whetted blades,
Then I am the market's broker, my spear a merchant
Snatching up precious souls when they are unaware.
O ye beasts of the wilderness, run and follow
Me out from these barren empty wastes.
Follow me and you will see the blood of our enemies
Streaming down from between the hills and dunes.
Then come back here after, and thank me.
And remember what you observed of my actions.
And take sustenance from the skulls of the people,
For your little ones, and those in your care.
Translated from the Arabic by John Paul Maynard
Note: 'Antara lived some 90 years before Muhammad. An Abyssinian, he reportedly lived in a castle.
'ANTARA the BLACK KNIGHT
Make war on me, O ye vicissitudes of the night,
Now on my left hand, now on my right.
And strive to oppose me. At every step thwart me.
By God, you have never captured my attention.
For I have an aspiration harder and more firm
Than that which anchors the mountain ranges;
And a sword blade which, whenever I swing it,
The useless spear-tips fall away before it;
And a spear-point which, when I am lost in the night,
Guides me and returns me from straying;
And a spirited stead which never gallops without
Lightning trailing behind its striking horseshoes.
Deep dark is the horse's color as it cracks the gloom
With its white blaze between the eyes like the moon.
It sacrifices its life for my life – and I for its -
On the day of battle, losing my possessions.
Whenever they set up the market of spiritual war,
When the square flashes with stone-whetted blades,
Then I am the market's broker, my spear a merchant
Snatching up precious souls when they are unaware.
O ye beasts of the wilderness, run and follow
Me out from these barren empty wastes.
Follow me and you will see the blood of our enemies
Streaming down from between the hills and dunes.
Then come back here after, and thank me.
And remember what you observed of my actions.
And take sustenance from the skulls of the people,
For your little ones, and those in your care.
Translated from the Arabic by John Paul Maynard
Note: 'Antara lived some 90 years before Muhammad. An Abyssinian, he reportedly lived in a castle.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Hafiz-e-Shirazi, Persian Poet par excellance
HAFIZ 1
If that Turk from Shiraz ever gets my heart in her hands,
I’ll give Samarqand and Bukhara for the mole on her chin.
Cupbearer, pour out what is left of the wine, because, in heaven,
I’ll not find the bank of the Ruknabad or the garden of Musalla.
Alas, that these chic ladies so sweet in work yet thrown into the terror
Of the city, do not take patience from the heart, just as the men
Of Turkestan take the tray of plunder.
The beauty of the Friend has no need for our incomplete love.
What need has a beautiful face for clarity, color, the mole or the
Crooked line of eyebrows?
From that beauty augmenting what Jakob possessed, he knew
That love of God would draw Zulaika out from behind the virgin veil.
You spoke ill of me but I am glad that God forgave you your Excellent discourse:
The bitter answer suits ruby lips like sucking sugar.
O Soul, heed the counsel of awakened humanity, because
For joyful youths, the advice of the wise man is dearer than the soul.
Tell us stories of music and wine and speak less of the Mystery
Of Time, because this enigma will never be solved by just thinking.
You did recite the poem, threading pearls on a string. Now come, Hafiz,
And joyfully sing so that, through the poetry, the sky might scatter
The stars of the Pleiades.
Translated by JPM
HAFIZ 2
The products of the workshop of being and place, all are nothing.
Break out the wine, for the causes behind the world, all are nothing.
With an exalted heart, and a pure soul, discourse with the Beloved.
That is the aim. This is the target. If not, then heart and soul are nothing.
For shade, suffer not the Tree of Life or the Tree of Paradise, because,
O cypress, when you look happy, all other trees are nothing.
Fortune is that which comes to the breast without the heart’s blood.
If it does not come, then effort, struggle and the Garden – all are nothing.
For five days we are delayed here at this way station:
Joyfully relax time, because time – all is nothing.
Cupbearer, we are waiting on the shores of no-thing-ness:
Seize the moment because from lip to mouth – all is nothing.
Zealous hermit, beware! Be not secure in the sport of pride.
The path from the cloister to the fire temple – is nothing.
Burned up by wailing and weeping, I am in pain. Externally,
The need for commentary and explanation – all this is nothing.
The name of Hafiz approved the writing of beautiful excellence, but
To the bums drunk with holiness, profit and loss are nothing.
-translated from the Persian by John Paul Maynard
HAFIZ 3
Into my prayer came, necessarily, the arch of your eyebrows.
Such a state came over me that this prayer arch cried out.
From now on, expect from me neither patience or an aware heart,
Because that endurance which you saw is now blowing in the wind.
The wine is pure, and the birds of the meadow are all drunk.
It is the season of the Beloved: the work has an ‘Essence’ foundation.
I smell the fragrance of well-being in the ways of the world:
The rose brought joy, the morning wind blew joyfully.
O bride of high skill, don’t complain about fortune but embellish
The veil of the bridal chamber. For the bride has arrived.
The flowery heart-tricksters, they are all so stylishly dressed up:
Our heart-ravisher, wearing God’s beauty, has made the scene.
Beneath their load, the trees bend because they’re attached:
How happy is the cypress, now free of the burden of angst.
O Minstrel, sing a beautiful song about Hafiz’s poetry, so that
I might say that I remembered my own testament of joy.
-translated by JPM
HAFIZ 4
I fear that these tears of anguish will tear the veil,
That the sealed secret will become a worldly tale.
Given enough patience, a ruby will grow from mud.
But only if it is soaked in the liver’s blood.
I’ll go to the tavern, weeping and demanding justice.
Only there might I be free of this compulsive anguish.
From every corner I shot an arrow of heat-seeking prayer.
Out from where the arrows meet, steps an honest worker.
Unfold the story, step by step, to th’owner of the heart.
But don’t talk too much, lest Quiet Truth depart.
Through an alchemy of mercy, my face turned to gold.
Yes, from the joy of thy Grace, dirt becomes gold.
Bewildered by the Watcher’s pomp, and the spectacle,
The homeless beggar has somehow become respectable.
Aside from beauty, a subtle finesse is required if one
Is to conform to the ways of the One with Vision.
The crown of your cypress a light-cut gem does hold.
But at your doorstep, human heads are so much mould.
If you can smell Her tresses in your hand’s palm,
Then take a deep breath and try to stay calm.
-translated by John Paul Maynard
HAFIZ 6
Sufi, come. The mirror is unsullied, like this goblet.
As soon as you look, the wine becomes clear, like a ruby.
Since this mental state is not known by zealots in high offices,
Ask the drunken bums about the veil’s mystery.
Magic Bird is not like those caught in the hawk’s dive.
In any case, wind is always on hand to blow away delusions.
At the banquet, drink one or two for good luck, then go.
Don’t be greedy thinking this blessed Union will continue.
Alas that the young heart has left. Now don’t eat mud. And
Don’t be an old man thinking that honors denotes skill.
Regarding sustenance, struggle to pay as you drink.
Adam knows no paradise except the garden of peace.
For us God is a servant, waiting at the doorstep.
O master, look again. Pity the poor boy slave.
Hafiz wants a glass of wine. Fetch it, gentle breeze,
And liberate all slaves by your crystal looking glass.
-translated by J.P.M.
HAFIZ 12
Ushered in by servants of the Sultan upon invocation,
These moments of seeing are like beggars facing the king.
Wail now, you who defend your mental states before God.
Surrender to the flaming Mind assisting all that is higher.
If those black eyebrows beckon me in my own bloodstream,
I’ll give up my fraudulence, and will not err when looking.
Just as the cheek blushes, so burn your world-worried hearts.
How ash-black you look because you are not humble.
Every night I am hoping that the soft morning breeze
Shall waft over water the recognition of old friends.
What destiny awaits souls who exhibit to their lovers
Cheeks made rosy through the self-sacrifice of the Seeing One.
By God, pour a final cup of wine and give it to Hafiz,
Since his invocations are a soft breeze from the east.
HAFIZ 12
Ushered in by servants of the Sultan upon invocation,
These moments of seeing are like beggars facing the king.
Wail now, you who defend your mental states before God.
Surrender to the flaming Mind assisting all that is higher.
If those black eyebrows beckon me in my own bloodstream,
I’ll give up my fraudulence, and will not err when looking.
Just as the cheek blushes, so burn your world-worried hearts.
How ash-black you look because you are not humble.
Every night I am hoping that the soft morning breeze
Shall waft over water the recognition of old friends.
What destiny awaits souls who exhibit to their lovers
Cheeks made rosy through the self-sacrifice of the Seeing One.
By God, pour a final cup of wine and give it to Hafiz,
Since his invocations are a soft breeze from the east.
-translated by J.P.M.
HAFIZ 104
What heart-felt joy that the wine never leaves our sight.
Look, in every stall they’re singing so as to not pass out.
Mere lust for hot sweet lips will not make you number one.
Better to be like a fly with its feet stuck in syrup.
May the heart never be so frivolous and so scattered,
That some work or act happens without the brain’s skill.
Those perfect circles inside the eyes are not drunk because
The arch of the eyebrows upholds divine law.
I stand like a weeping cypress, begging alertness.
I’ll not let go your belt except for silver and gold.
Your grace distinguishes you from all worldly virtues.
My oath’s sincerity is rooted in remembrance.
Scent of self has no sorrow, but is like an eastern breeze
Destroying me as it strokes the tips of your tresses.
I don’t see anyone quite so utterly wretched as myself.
In this state, my pen is just smoke from the heart.
Don’t wear the hoopoo’s crown while on the road because
The white falcon makes short work of its prey.
Bring in more wine and give it first to Hafiz –
On condition that he does not cease this babbling.
-trans. From the Persian by J.P.M.
HAFIZ 126
Right after I grab the skirt of that lofty cypress, I’ll soar
When the tree bends straight, lifted off my root and base.
There is no need for wine and music. Throw open the veil:
The fire of your face makes me dance like so much mustard seed.
What face could possibly suit the mirror of Fortune’s
Bridal canopy except that face which they rub on the hoof the stallion
I said: “Whatever the secrets of your anguish say ‘Let it be.’
I’ve no more patience. What should I do. Till when? For how long?
Do not kill the musk deer, O hunter. Find some shame
In that dark eye of the higher self. Don’t tie that eye up with a noose.
Dusty, I cannot rise above the step of the door.
How do I kiss the lip of such a lofty citadel?
Again, don’t snatch the heart from that musk deer, Hafiz.
Seeing the crazy one is at its best when in chains.
-translated from the Persian by John Paul Maynard
HAFIZ 193
Till I stumble bloody from the tavern, there's an obsession with name and show.
At times, however, my mind is the dirt on the path of Zoroastrian magi.
From the end of eternity my ears hear whispers from the Inner Circle.
We are together because we once were together and will be so in the future.
So, when the fervor of passion subsides, let us sit on our tombs,
Because the place of pilgrimage, at this point, is the world.
Together your eyes and my eyes see the seeing of the Self.
The mystery of the Veil is hidden and will remain hidden.
Today, drunk, the beloved carries me out and drops me outside,
So that another kind of blood will flow from these red eyes.
At that moment, my eyes leap from the marketplace to the sepulcher
Wherein my bones will be placed. I find Destiny observing everything.
Hafiz’s good fortune lays in being assisted. As for the tresses of
The beloved, they are in the hands of someone else.
-translated from the Persian by JPM
HAFIZ 194
In a dream the beloved’s face lit up like a flare
So close to me that it touched grief-scorched heart.
Draw the lover’s portrait - her manners - in a city of terror
Drape and sew a garment on her upright statue.
The spirit of the beloved has wild rue on her cheeks,
And the fire of her complexion stems from that herb.
She said I would die of sighs if I saw her. Her appearance -
And my seeing - together kindle the fire in the heart.
The heart smeared blood over the hands, but the blood poured out,
Saying “God, God” So self must be destroyed to acquire self.
The friend spreads out the carpet – the earth. But takes no profit.
Joseph was sold into slavery on receipt of counterfeit money.
The beloved says: “OK, Hafiz, put on your tattered sufi cloak.”
O Lord, you know his heart to be one who had finally learned.
-translated from the Persian by J.P.M.
HAFIZ 213
Not every heart whose face blazes forth fire
Knows the heart’s discrete method.
Not everyone who polishes the mirror knows
The labor of an Alexander.
Not every one whose hat’s askew, who sits upright,
Knows the Heart’s Work and its measuring devices.
Don’t enter slavery for wages but be like beggars.
The Friend knows how to nurture and cherish His slaves.
The bum’s enthusiasm incinerates his own security.
Since he is a beggar, he comes to know alchemy.
Loyalty oaths can be trusted if from one who has learned.
But if not, then everyone one encounters is an oppressor.
I wagered, I bet, my crazy heart, though I knew it not:
Mankind is the child of the fairies’ coquetry.
Here can be seen a thousand points thinner than hairs
But not everyone who shaves his head is an inspired wanderer.
For me, the center of vision is the mole on your cheek.
He who cuts the gem must know its qualities.
All the selves being kings of goodly folk would
Inherit the earth if they only knew justice.
Aware of the heart-wrenching poetry of Hafiz, we admit
The subtlety of his nature as well as his Persian.
-translated from the Persian by JPM
HAFIZ 276
O Lord, enfolded in these new flower blossoms is Your way:
I gather them in my eyes out of envy for your meadow.
Though this is a dead-end street, a hundred caravan stations lie ahead.
To the mind/body contrivance, the cosmic wind is malefic.
If the breeze from the east meets the breeze from the south,
At that time old age will mean maturity, as far as I see it.
Open to the exotic perfume and find therein those black tresses
As well as a place of rest for those torn,afflicted hearts.
Just as my heart knows the truth of faith, so also do your mole
And wrinkles betoken my respect for those curly ringlets.
In my position, I am compelled to taste her lips:
The drunken spectator is inferior in self-knowledge.
At the door of the tavern, don’t bring all your stuff in.
Whoever drinks this water throws possessions to the sea.
It’s not right to fear love because of the vexing anxiety:
My head and her feet are like my lips and her mouth.
Every foot of Hafiz’s poetry is seeking hidden Truth:
Praise this heart-torn person and the subtlety of his speech.
-translated by JPM
HAFIZ 301
A thousand evil demons intent on my destruction
But still, I’m not afraid, when you are my friend.
As for me, I hope to keep alive this union with you;
And if not, I’ll fear separation at every moment.
Breath follows breath. If I cannot smell you, then,
Over time, the rose will break my collar of angst.
Thanks to your image, I never sleep with both eyes closed.
God forbid: I can’t be patient when I’m cut off from you.
Your wounding me is better than another’s bandaging.
Your poisoning me is better than any other’s antidote.
My slaughter, by thy sword, is everlasting life.
My soul is truly happy only when sacrificed to thee.
Don’t twist the reins but let the sword fall on my head
For I have made it a shield. Strap me to the saddle.
Such as Thou art, seeing cannot see Thee.
The extent of your vision is your understanding.
-translated by JPM
HAFIZ 302
Stiff breeze from the north, bearing true information for us.
How fitting that you arrive at a time of spiritual reunion.
The story of love, however, is not to be interrupted.
Here, the speech of states-of-mind is interrupted.
Where is the Silmi tree except in Zu Salam.
Where are our neighbors, and how are they doing?
Too much security and the village fades away.
Today the ruins ask about their former splendor.
Some hope comes from the sheer beauty of perfection.
God pays for it with a perfect wound in his perfect eye.
O messenger coming down from the lofty branches,
God protects you, so come in and take your high perch.
See that the court of the banquet hall remains empty:
There are no companions, no glasses of wine.
The night of separation casts its long shadow so that those
Who are used to the night continue living lurid nightmares.
O, our saucy Beloved, She notices no one.
O what arrogance! What pride! What disdain!
Hafiz, how much of this love and patience can you take?
The wailing of lovers is pleasant, so go ahead, cry.
Translated from the Persian by JPM
HAFIZ 447
A struggle to gladden the heart prompts spring.
Myriads of flowers - again you are blooming.
I cannot tell with whom I sit and drink
Because you know yourself, if you have intelligence.
Your counsels are talons ripping the curtain.
Only then is the warning darkened by being clever.
Every leaf of every tree is in a different state.
He who neglects his work is in an oppressive state.
Bear life as a payment. Don’t be angry at the world.
You are part of a strange narrative, be it night or day.
We are friends, though terror lurk on the path, departing
Would be easy if the High Awakened One came down.
O Hafiz, if there is any duration of high fortune
You just might be the prey of that all-seeing virtue.
-translated from the Persian by JPM
HAFIZ 498
O King of Excellence, you who gives mercy and redress from grievous isolation,
Without You, my puny heart managed with no soul.. Now You return.
Flowers from this garden will last if moisture is extracted:
Out of futility and weakness comes the Time of Power.
Last night I was wrapped in her tresses’ laments
But She says “False”, so I omit these black thoughts.
A hundred eastern breezes dance in a chain. As long as
You cannot measure the wind of the compass, I will guide you.
Ravished by love and abandoned, see how, from the hand of the
Beloved, Patience springs like a dove.
Lord, You aptly state: “This is it, this point of the world.”
Being Lord of All Places, you’ve no need to show face.
Cupbearer, the meadow has no color without your face.
Make the Tall Tree walk till the garden is arrayed in bloom..
On infirmities’ bed, Your pain is my remedy.
In my lonely corner, remembering you consoles.
We are the very point on the Compass of Destiny.
Grace is whatever you think, order whatever you order.
Circle of azure sky, pour me jasper wine colored like a liver
So that I can, in the blues of the goblet’s crystal, solve this puzzle.
The night of separation passes, Hafiz. So welcome the fragrance
Of Union. O lover, being distraught, your joy is auspicious.
-translated from the Persian by John Paul Maynard
from the Siberian Chulym Turkic
If that Turk from Shiraz ever gets my heart in her hands,
I’ll give Samarqand and Bukhara for the mole on her chin.
Cupbearer, pour out what is left of the wine, because, in heaven,
I’ll not find the bank of the Ruknabad or the garden of Musalla.
Alas, that these chic ladies so sweet in work yet thrown into the terror
Of the city, do not take patience from the heart, just as the men
Of Turkestan take the tray of plunder.
The beauty of the Friend has no need for our incomplete love.
What need has a beautiful face for clarity, color, the mole or the
Crooked line of eyebrows?
From that beauty augmenting what Jakob possessed, he knew
That love of God would draw Zulaika out from behind the virgin veil.
You spoke ill of me but I am glad that God forgave you your Excellent discourse:
The bitter answer suits ruby lips like sucking sugar.
O Soul, heed the counsel of awakened humanity, because
For joyful youths, the advice of the wise man is dearer than the soul.
Tell us stories of music and wine and speak less of the Mystery
Of Time, because this enigma will never be solved by just thinking.
You did recite the poem, threading pearls on a string. Now come, Hafiz,
And joyfully sing so that, through the poetry, the sky might scatter
The stars of the Pleiades.
Translated by JPM
HAFIZ 2
The products of the workshop of being and place, all are nothing.
Break out the wine, for the causes behind the world, all are nothing.
With an exalted heart, and a pure soul, discourse with the Beloved.
That is the aim. This is the target. If not, then heart and soul are nothing.
For shade, suffer not the Tree of Life or the Tree of Paradise, because,
O cypress, when you look happy, all other trees are nothing.
Fortune is that which comes to the breast without the heart’s blood.
If it does not come, then effort, struggle and the Garden – all are nothing.
For five days we are delayed here at this way station:
Joyfully relax time, because time – all is nothing.
Cupbearer, we are waiting on the shores of no-thing-ness:
Seize the moment because from lip to mouth – all is nothing.
Zealous hermit, beware! Be not secure in the sport of pride.
The path from the cloister to the fire temple – is nothing.
Burned up by wailing and weeping, I am in pain. Externally,
The need for commentary and explanation – all this is nothing.
The name of Hafiz approved the writing of beautiful excellence, but
To the bums drunk with holiness, profit and loss are nothing.
-translated from the Persian by John Paul Maynard
HAFIZ 3
Into my prayer came, necessarily, the arch of your eyebrows.
Such a state came over me that this prayer arch cried out.
From now on, expect from me neither patience or an aware heart,
Because that endurance which you saw is now blowing in the wind.
The wine is pure, and the birds of the meadow are all drunk.
It is the season of the Beloved: the work has an ‘Essence’ foundation.
I smell the fragrance of well-being in the ways of the world:
The rose brought joy, the morning wind blew joyfully.
O bride of high skill, don’t complain about fortune but embellish
The veil of the bridal chamber. For the bride has arrived.
The flowery heart-tricksters, they are all so stylishly dressed up:
Our heart-ravisher, wearing God’s beauty, has made the scene.
Beneath their load, the trees bend because they’re attached:
How happy is the cypress, now free of the burden of angst.
O Minstrel, sing a beautiful song about Hafiz’s poetry, so that
I might say that I remembered my own testament of joy.
-translated by JPM
HAFIZ 4
I fear that these tears of anguish will tear the veil,
That the sealed secret will become a worldly tale.
Given enough patience, a ruby will grow from mud.
But only if it is soaked in the liver’s blood.
I’ll go to the tavern, weeping and demanding justice.
Only there might I be free of this compulsive anguish.
From every corner I shot an arrow of heat-seeking prayer.
Out from where the arrows meet, steps an honest worker.
Unfold the story, step by step, to th’owner of the heart.
But don’t talk too much, lest Quiet Truth depart.
Through an alchemy of mercy, my face turned to gold.
Yes, from the joy of thy Grace, dirt becomes gold.
Bewildered by the Watcher’s pomp, and the spectacle,
The homeless beggar has somehow become respectable.
Aside from beauty, a subtle finesse is required if one
Is to conform to the ways of the One with Vision.
The crown of your cypress a light-cut gem does hold.
But at your doorstep, human heads are so much mould.
If you can smell Her tresses in your hand’s palm,
Then take a deep breath and try to stay calm.
-translated by John Paul Maynard
HAFIZ 6
Sufi, come. The mirror is unsullied, like this goblet.
As soon as you look, the wine becomes clear, like a ruby.
Since this mental state is not known by zealots in high offices,
Ask the drunken bums about the veil’s mystery.
Magic Bird is not like those caught in the hawk’s dive.
In any case, wind is always on hand to blow away delusions.
At the banquet, drink one or two for good luck, then go.
Don’t be greedy thinking this blessed Union will continue.
Alas that the young heart has left. Now don’t eat mud. And
Don’t be an old man thinking that honors denotes skill.
Regarding sustenance, struggle to pay as you drink.
Adam knows no paradise except the garden of peace.
For us God is a servant, waiting at the doorstep.
O master, look again. Pity the poor boy slave.
Hafiz wants a glass of wine. Fetch it, gentle breeze,
And liberate all slaves by your crystal looking glass.
-translated by J.P.M.
HAFIZ 12
Ushered in by servants of the Sultan upon invocation,
These moments of seeing are like beggars facing the king.
Wail now, you who defend your mental states before God.
Surrender to the flaming Mind assisting all that is higher.
If those black eyebrows beckon me in my own bloodstream,
I’ll give up my fraudulence, and will not err when looking.
Just as the cheek blushes, so burn your world-worried hearts.
How ash-black you look because you are not humble.
Every night I am hoping that the soft morning breeze
Shall waft over water the recognition of old friends.
What destiny awaits souls who exhibit to their lovers
Cheeks made rosy through the self-sacrifice of the Seeing One.
By God, pour a final cup of wine and give it to Hafiz,
Since his invocations are a soft breeze from the east.
-translated by J.P.M.
HAFIZ 12
Ushered in by servants of the Sultan upon invocation,
These moments of seeing are like beggars facing the king.
Wail now, you who defend your mental states before God.
Surrender to the flaming Mind assisting all that is higher.
If those black eyebrows beckon me in my own bloodstream,
I’ll give up my fraudulence, and will not err when looking.
Just as the cheek blushes, so burn your world-worried hearts.
How ash-black you look because you are not humble.
Every night I am hoping that the soft morning breeze
Shall waft over water the recognition of old friends.
What destiny awaits souls who exhibit to their lovers
Cheeks made rosy through the self-sacrifice of the Seeing One.
By God, pour a final cup of wine and give it to Hafiz,
Since his invocations are a soft breeze from the east.
-translated by J.P.M.
HAFIZ 104
What heart-felt joy that the wine never leaves our sight.
Look, in every stall they’re singing so as to not pass out.
Mere lust for hot sweet lips will not make you number one.
Better to be like a fly with its feet stuck in syrup.
May the heart never be so frivolous and so scattered,
That some work or act happens without the brain’s skill.
Those perfect circles inside the eyes are not drunk because
The arch of the eyebrows upholds divine law.
I stand like a weeping cypress, begging alertness.
I’ll not let go your belt except for silver and gold.
Your grace distinguishes you from all worldly virtues.
My oath’s sincerity is rooted in remembrance.
Scent of self has no sorrow, but is like an eastern breeze
Destroying me as it strokes the tips of your tresses.
I don’t see anyone quite so utterly wretched as myself.
In this state, my pen is just smoke from the heart.
Don’t wear the hoopoo’s crown while on the road because
The white falcon makes short work of its prey.
Bring in more wine and give it first to Hafiz –
On condition that he does not cease this babbling.
-trans. From the Persian by J.P.M.
HAFIZ 126
Right after I grab the skirt of that lofty cypress, I’ll soar
When the tree bends straight, lifted off my root and base.
There is no need for wine and music. Throw open the veil:
The fire of your face makes me dance like so much mustard seed.
What face could possibly suit the mirror of Fortune’s
Bridal canopy except that face which they rub on the hoof the stallion
I said: “Whatever the secrets of your anguish say ‘Let it be.’
I’ve no more patience. What should I do. Till when? For how long?
Do not kill the musk deer, O hunter. Find some shame
In that dark eye of the higher self. Don’t tie that eye up with a noose.
Dusty, I cannot rise above the step of the door.
How do I kiss the lip of such a lofty citadel?
Again, don’t snatch the heart from that musk deer, Hafiz.
Seeing the crazy one is at its best when in chains.
-translated from the Persian by John Paul Maynard
HAFIZ 193
Till I stumble bloody from the tavern, there's an obsession with name and show.
At times, however, my mind is the dirt on the path of Zoroastrian magi.
From the end of eternity my ears hear whispers from the Inner Circle.
We are together because we once were together and will be so in the future.
So, when the fervor of passion subsides, let us sit on our tombs,
Because the place of pilgrimage, at this point, is the world.
Together your eyes and my eyes see the seeing of the Self.
The mystery of the Veil is hidden and will remain hidden.
Today, drunk, the beloved carries me out and drops me outside,
So that another kind of blood will flow from these red eyes.
At that moment, my eyes leap from the marketplace to the sepulcher
Wherein my bones will be placed. I find Destiny observing everything.
Hafiz’s good fortune lays in being assisted. As for the tresses of
The beloved, they are in the hands of someone else.
-translated from the Persian by JPM
HAFIZ 194
In a dream the beloved’s face lit up like a flare
So close to me that it touched grief-scorched heart.
Draw the lover’s portrait - her manners - in a city of terror
Drape and sew a garment on her upright statue.
The spirit of the beloved has wild rue on her cheeks,
And the fire of her complexion stems from that herb.
She said I would die of sighs if I saw her. Her appearance -
And my seeing - together kindle the fire in the heart.
The heart smeared blood over the hands, but the blood poured out,
Saying “God, God” So self must be destroyed to acquire self.
The friend spreads out the carpet – the earth. But takes no profit.
Joseph was sold into slavery on receipt of counterfeit money.
The beloved says: “OK, Hafiz, put on your tattered sufi cloak.”
O Lord, you know his heart to be one who had finally learned.
-translated from the Persian by J.P.M.
HAFIZ 213
Not every heart whose face blazes forth fire
Knows the heart’s discrete method.
Not everyone who polishes the mirror knows
The labor of an Alexander.
Not every one whose hat’s askew, who sits upright,
Knows the Heart’s Work and its measuring devices.
Don’t enter slavery for wages but be like beggars.
The Friend knows how to nurture and cherish His slaves.
The bum’s enthusiasm incinerates his own security.
Since he is a beggar, he comes to know alchemy.
Loyalty oaths can be trusted if from one who has learned.
But if not, then everyone one encounters is an oppressor.
I wagered, I bet, my crazy heart, though I knew it not:
Mankind is the child of the fairies’ coquetry.
Here can be seen a thousand points thinner than hairs
But not everyone who shaves his head is an inspired wanderer.
For me, the center of vision is the mole on your cheek.
He who cuts the gem must know its qualities.
All the selves being kings of goodly folk would
Inherit the earth if they only knew justice.
Aware of the heart-wrenching poetry of Hafiz, we admit
The subtlety of his nature as well as his Persian.
-translated from the Persian by JPM
HAFIZ 276
O Lord, enfolded in these new flower blossoms is Your way:
I gather them in my eyes out of envy for your meadow.
Though this is a dead-end street, a hundred caravan stations lie ahead.
To the mind/body contrivance, the cosmic wind is malefic.
If the breeze from the east meets the breeze from the south,
At that time old age will mean maturity, as far as I see it.
Open to the exotic perfume and find therein those black tresses
As well as a place of rest for those torn,afflicted hearts.
Just as my heart knows the truth of faith, so also do your mole
And wrinkles betoken my respect for those curly ringlets.
In my position, I am compelled to taste her lips:
The drunken spectator is inferior in self-knowledge.
At the door of the tavern, don’t bring all your stuff in.
Whoever drinks this water throws possessions to the sea.
It’s not right to fear love because of the vexing anxiety:
My head and her feet are like my lips and her mouth.
Every foot of Hafiz’s poetry is seeking hidden Truth:
Praise this heart-torn person and the subtlety of his speech.
-translated by JPM
HAFIZ 301
A thousand evil demons intent on my destruction
But still, I’m not afraid, when you are my friend.
As for me, I hope to keep alive this union with you;
And if not, I’ll fear separation at every moment.
Breath follows breath. If I cannot smell you, then,
Over time, the rose will break my collar of angst.
Thanks to your image, I never sleep with both eyes closed.
God forbid: I can’t be patient when I’m cut off from you.
Your wounding me is better than another’s bandaging.
Your poisoning me is better than any other’s antidote.
My slaughter, by thy sword, is everlasting life.
My soul is truly happy only when sacrificed to thee.
Don’t twist the reins but let the sword fall on my head
For I have made it a shield. Strap me to the saddle.
Such as Thou art, seeing cannot see Thee.
The extent of your vision is your understanding.
-translated by JPM
HAFIZ 302
Stiff breeze from the north, bearing true information for us.
How fitting that you arrive at a time of spiritual reunion.
The story of love, however, is not to be interrupted.
Here, the speech of states-of-mind is interrupted.
Where is the Silmi tree except in Zu Salam.
Where are our neighbors, and how are they doing?
Too much security and the village fades away.
Today the ruins ask about their former splendor.
Some hope comes from the sheer beauty of perfection.
God pays for it with a perfect wound in his perfect eye.
O messenger coming down from the lofty branches,
God protects you, so come in and take your high perch.
See that the court of the banquet hall remains empty:
There are no companions, no glasses of wine.
The night of separation casts its long shadow so that those
Who are used to the night continue living lurid nightmares.
O, our saucy Beloved, She notices no one.
O what arrogance! What pride! What disdain!
Hafiz, how much of this love and patience can you take?
The wailing of lovers is pleasant, so go ahead, cry.
Translated from the Persian by JPM
HAFIZ 447
A struggle to gladden the heart prompts spring.
Myriads of flowers - again you are blooming.
I cannot tell with whom I sit and drink
Because you know yourself, if you have intelligence.
Your counsels are talons ripping the curtain.
Only then is the warning darkened by being clever.
Every leaf of every tree is in a different state.
He who neglects his work is in an oppressive state.
Bear life as a payment. Don’t be angry at the world.
You are part of a strange narrative, be it night or day.
We are friends, though terror lurk on the path, departing
Would be easy if the High Awakened One came down.
O Hafiz, if there is any duration of high fortune
You just might be the prey of that all-seeing virtue.
-translated from the Persian by JPM
HAFIZ 498
O King of Excellence, you who gives mercy and redress from grievous isolation,
Without You, my puny heart managed with no soul.. Now You return.
Flowers from this garden will last if moisture is extracted:
Out of futility and weakness comes the Time of Power.
Last night I was wrapped in her tresses’ laments
But She says “False”, so I omit these black thoughts.
A hundred eastern breezes dance in a chain. As long as
You cannot measure the wind of the compass, I will guide you.
Ravished by love and abandoned, see how, from the hand of the
Beloved, Patience springs like a dove.
Lord, You aptly state: “This is it, this point of the world.”
Being Lord of All Places, you’ve no need to show face.
Cupbearer, the meadow has no color without your face.
Make the Tall Tree walk till the garden is arrayed in bloom..
On infirmities’ bed, Your pain is my remedy.
In my lonely corner, remembering you consoles.
We are the very point on the Compass of Destiny.
Grace is whatever you think, order whatever you order.
Circle of azure sky, pour me jasper wine colored like a liver
So that I can, in the blues of the goblet’s crystal, solve this puzzle.
The night of separation passes, Hafiz. So welcome the fragrance
Of Union. O lover, being distraught, your joy is auspicious.
-translated from the Persian by John Paul Maynard
from the Siberian Chulym Turkic
Bear as
Shaman, Meets People
It happened right here, right in this
place.
With me was none other than Vasilij
Yudich -
Once proud hunter, a now proud
politician.
Also there was Petrushka and myself. All
nine
Of us were riding together on the bank of
River Oz when Yudich said “There's a bear
here.”
Not seeing, I asked “What kind of bear?”
I looked more closely and indeed, there
was
A poor bear, standing on two feet,
looking at us.”
Is it a big bear?” asked Petrushka.
“It is small” answered Yudich.
“Come, shoot it now!” exclaimed Yudich.
Did he really say that? Yudich fires
And the bear falls. “Let us say
That the bear attacked Yudich” he says.
Just then his horse bolted, leaving proud
Yudich clinging to his saddle:
If he doesn't hold fast, he'll die.
“What kind of bear, was it?” we asked,
When Yudich came back, smarting.
“That was some foolish bear!” he said.
Translated from the Chulym Turkic by JPM
from a Turkic transcription made in 2003 in Siberia by Greg Anderson and K.
David Harrison. Chulym is now a extinct language, with no written texts, till
now.
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