Wonderful ghazal, wonderfully translated by Prof Nicholas Boylston:
Translation:
They say, “The king of love has no loyalty.”
It’s a lie.
They say, “The morning does not lead to eve.”
It’s a lie.
They say, “Why do you kill yourselves for the sake of love?
After the annihilation of the body nothing remains.”
It’s a lie.
They say, “Those tears you weep for love are pointless for
Once the eyes are closed there’s no reunion.”
It’s a lie.
They say that once we quit the wheel of time
Our soul will not continue on its way.
It’s a lie.
Thus say the ones not freed from fantasy,
“The stories of the prophets are all fantasy.”
It’s a lie.
Thus say the ones who travel not the righteous path,
“There’s no way the slave will ever reach the Lord.”
It’s a lie.
They say, “The One Who knows the secrets of all hearts
Never speaks the mysteries directly to His slave.”
It’s a lie.
They say, “The secret of the heart is never opened to the slave,
And grace will never lift the servant to the skies.”
It’s a lie.
They say, “The one whose clay was kneaded from the dust
Will never come to know the heavenly folk.”
It’s a lie.
They say that every mote of bad and good was not bestowed
By the Sun of Truth upon the people.
It’s a lie.
Be silent, and if anyone should tell you
There is no way to speak save sound and words…
It’s a lie.
Thanks to Serdar Kiliç for introducing me to this poem and translating it:
Translation
Why do you groan, O Watermill; For I’ve troubles, I groan
I fell in love with the Lord; For It do I groan
They found me on a mountain; My arms and wings they plucked
Saw me fit for a watermill; For I’ve troubles, I groan
From the mountain they cut my wood; My disparate order they ruined
But an unwearied poet I am; For I’ve troubles, I groan
I am The Troubled Watermill; My water flows, roaring and rumbling
Thus has God commanded; For I’ve troubles, I groan
I am but a mountain’s tree; Neither am I bitter, nor sweet
I am but a pleader to the Lord; For I’ve troubles, I groan
Yunus, whoever comes here will find no joy, will not reach his desire
Nobody stays in this fleeting abode; For I’ve troubles, I groan
Original:
Dolap niçin inilersin; Derdim vardır inilerim,
Ben Mevla’ya aşık oldum; Onun için inilerim,
Beni bir dağda buldular; Kolum kanadım yoldular,
Dolaba layık gördüler; Derdim vardır inilerim,
Dağdan kestiler hezenim; Bozuldu türlü düzenim,
Ben usanmaz bir ozanım; Derdim vardır inilerim,
Benim adım dertli dolap; Suyum akar yalap yalap,
Böyle emreylemiş Çalap; Derdim vardır inilerim,
Ben bir dağın ağacıyım; Ne tatlıyım ne acıyım,
Ben Mevlaya duacıyım; Derdim vardır inilerim,
Yunus bunda gelen gülmez; Kişi muradına ermez,
Bu fanide kimse kalmaz; Derdim vardır inilerim
I was recently introduced to this amazing 20th-century Urdu Sufi poet and scholar (he translated and Ibn al-‘Arabi’s Fuṣūṣ al-Hikam and Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya and al-Ḥallāj’s Kitāb al-Ṭawāsīn into Urdu) in these beautiful translations by Amer Latif from this article:
Latif, Amer. “Ẕahīn Shāh Tājī’s (d. 1978) Signs of Beauty (Āyāt-i Jamāl).” Journal of Sufi Studies 10, no. 1-2 (2021): 215-233.
One of Hafez’s Molamma’āt (mixed Persian and Arabic) ghazals illustrates not only the unique transformation of Arabic prosody in Persian poetry, but also Hafez’s unique gift for copying, transforming, and improving the verses from previous ghazals (in this case a ghazal by the seminal master of the ghazal, Sanā’ī):
Sana’ī
Translation:
Last night a letter arrived unexpectedly from my beloved.
She said: “My heart has seen the pangs of the resurrection in being
parted from you.”
I said: “Does your loving heart have some sign of suffering?”
She said: “Are not the tears in my eye enough of a sign for
you?”
She said: “What are you planning?” I said: “A journey.”
She said: “Go in health, happiness and safety?”
I said: “You are not trustworthy.” She said: “Test me!”
[I replied:] ” Whoever tests an experienced person will surely regret it.”
I said: “Farewell! You shall not come and conquer my breast.”
She said: “So you want union with me in secret? No, by grace!”
She said: “Take hold of my tresses!” I said: “Scandal will come”
She said: “Do you really not know about love and scandal?”
Original:
دی ناگه از نگارم اندر رسید نامه
قالت: رای فوادی من هجرک القیامه
گفتم که: عشق و دل را باشد علامتی هم
قالت: دموع عینی لم تکف بالعلامه
گفتا که: می چه سازی گفتم که مر سفر را
قالت: فمر صحیحا بالخیر و السلامه
گفتم: وفا نداری گفتا که: آزمودی
من جرب المجرب حلت به الندامه
گفتم: وداع نایی واندر برم نگیری
قالت: ترید وصلی سرا و لا کرامه
گفتا: بگیر زلفم گفتم: ملامت آید
قالت: الست تدری العشق و الملامه
Rumi
Translation:
I tested you a lot, but it did not help me
Whoever tries the experienced will come to regret it
Original:
بسيارت آزموذى امّا نبوذ سوذم من جرّب المجرّب حلّت به الندامة
Hafez
Translation:
From my heart’s grief I wrote a letter to my beloved.
For an age, from your absence, I have witnessed the resurrection
I have a hundred signs of separation in my eye
Are not the tears of these eyes of mine for us a sign?
However much I tried, she did not help me
Whoever tries the experienced will regret it
I asked a doctor about the state of my beloved. He said:
Suffering is in nearness to her, health is in distance from her.
I said: Will scandal come if I wander about your alley?.
By God! We have never seen a love without scandal.
Hafiz has come like one seeking a cup even at the price of his sweet soul,
that he might taste from it, a goblet of grace.
Original:
از خون دل نوشتم نزدیک دوست نامه
انی رایت دهرا من هجرک القیامه
دارم من از فراقش در دیده صد علامت
لیست دموع عینی هذا لنا العلامه
هر چند کآزمودم از وی نبود سودم
من جرّب المجرّب حلّت به الندامه
پرسیدم از طبیبی احوال دوست گفتا
فی بعدها عذاب فی قربها السلامه
گفتم ملامت آید گر گرد دوست گردم
و الله ما راینا حبا بلا ملامه
حافظ چو طالب آمد جامی به جان شیرین
حتی یذوق منه کاسا من الکرامه
From: François de Blois, “A Bilingual Poem by Ḥāfiẓ,” Oriente Moderno , 1996, Nuova serie, Anno 15 (76), Nr. 2, LA CIVILTÀ TIMURIDE COME FENOMENO INTERNAZIONALE. Volume II (Letteratura — Arte) (1996), pp. 379-384.
Amazing poem by Abdurehim Ötkür and performance by Abdurehim Heyit
Translation (thanks to Arthur Schechter for help):
At sunrise, I saw the Sultan of my eyes
I said: “Are you the Sultan?” She said: “No, no.”
His eyes are blazing, his hands are hennaed;
I said: “Are you Venus?” She said: “No, no.”
I said: “What’s your name?” She said: “It is Ayhan.”
I said: “Where’s your home?” She said: “Turfan.”
I said: “[What’s] On your head?” She said: “A sad farewell.”
I said: “Are you in love?” She said: “No, no”.
I said: “It looks like the moon.” She said: “My face?”
I said: “It’s like a star.” She said: “My eye?”
I said: “It blazes fire.” She said: “My word?”
I said: “Are you a volcano?” She said: “No, no.”
I said: “What is furrowed?” She said: “It’s my eyebrow.”
I said: “What is a black wave?” She said: “It’s my hair.”
I said: “What is fifteen?” She said: “It is my age.”
I said: “Are you the beloved?” She said: “No, no.”
I said: “What is the sea?” She said: “It is my heart.”
I said: “What is beautiful? She said: “It is my lip.”
I said: “What is sugar? She said: “It is my tongue.”
I said: “Give my mouth a taste?” She said: “No, no.”
I said: “The chain stops?” She said: “On my neck.”
I said: “Is there death?” She said: “On my way.”
I said: “Shackles?” She said: “On my wrists.”
I said: “Are you afraid?” She said: “No, no.”
I said: “Why aren’t you afraid?” She said: “I have God.”
I said: “Anything else?” She said: “I have my people.”
I said: “No more?” She said: “I have a soul.”
I said: “Are you grateful?” She said: “No, no.”
I said: “What is the request?” She said: “It is my rosy smile.”
I said: “What about war?” She said: “It is my way.”
I said: “What is Ötkür?” She said: “He is my servant/hand.”*
I said: “Will you sell him?” She said: “No, no.”
*The poet’s name Ötkür, means “sharp” so this line means also that the poet’s hand/pen is sharp.
Original:
Seher vakti gördüm, gözümün sultanını;
Dedim: “Sultan mısın?” O dedi: “Yok, yok.”
Gözleri ışıltılı, elleri kınalı;
Dedim: “Çolpan mısın?” O dedi: “Yok, yok.”
Dedim: “İsmin nedir?” Dedi: “Ayhan’dır.”
Dedim: “Yurdun neresi?” Dedi: “Turfan’dır.”
Dedim: “Başındaki?” Dedi: “Hicrandır.”
Dedim: “Hayran mısın?” O dedi: “Yok, yok”.
Dedim: “Aya benzer.” Dedi: “Yüzüm mü?”
Dedim: “Yıldız gibi.” Dedi: “Gözüm mü?”
Dedim: “Işık saçar.” Dedi: “Sözüm mü?”
Dedim: “Volkan mısın?” O dedi: “Yok, yok.”
Dedim: “Çatık nedir?” Dedi: “Kaşımdır.”
Dedim: “Dalga nedir?” Dedi: “Saçımdır.”
Dedim: “On beş nedir?” Dedi: “Yaşımdır.”
Dedim: “Canan mısın?” O dedi: “Yok, yok.”
Dedim: “Deniz nedir?” Dedi: “Kalbimdir.”
Dedim: “Güzel nedir? Dedi: “Dudağımdır.”
Dedim: “Şeker nedir? Dedi: “Dilimdir.”
Dedim: “Ver ağzıma?” O dedi: “Yok, yok.”
Dedim: “Zincir durur?” Dedi: “Boynumda.”
Dedim: “Ölüm vardır.” Dedi: “Yolumda.”
Dedim: “Bilezik?” Dedi: “Kolumda.”
Dedim: “Korkar mısın?” O dedi: “Yok, yok.”
Dedim: “Niçin korkmazsın?” Dedi: “Tanrım var.”
Dedim: “Başka?” Dedi: “Halkım var.”
Dedim: “Daha yok mu?” Dedi: “Ruhum var.”
Dedim: “Şükran mısın?” O dedi: “Yok, yok.”
Dedim: “İstek nedir?” Dedi: “Gülümdür.”
Dedim: “Ya mücadele?” Dedi: “Yolumdur.”
Dedim: “Ötkür neyindir?” Dedi: “Kulumdur.”
Dedim: “Satar mısın?” O dedi: “Yok, yok.”
Lovin’ you is easy, ’cause you’re beautiful
Makin’ love with you is all I wanna do
Lovin’ you is more than just a dream come true
And everything that I do is out of lovin’ you
No one else can make me feel the colors that you bring
Stay with me while we grow old, and we will live each day in springtime
‘Cause lovin’ you has made my life so beautiful
And every day of my life is filled with lovin’ you
Lovin’ you, I see your soul come shinin’ through
And every time that we-, ooh, I’m more in love with you
No one else can make me feel the colors that you bring
Stay with me while we grow old, and we will live each day in springtime
‘Cause lovin’ you is easy, ’cause you’re beautiful
And every day of my life is filled with lovin’ you
Lovin’ you, I see your soul come shinin’ through
And every time that we-, ooh, I’m more in love with you
I Am So Drunk From Thy Love That I No Longer Know Myself,
I Am In Wonderment In This Drunkenness And Yet Remain Silent.
Being Away From Thee Is Not Possible, Nor Is Thy Embrace Full Of Love,
Yet Bewildered Am I From The Perfume Of Thy Black Hair.
Unveil Thy Face, O Saki, For My Soul Is In Quest.
Give A Gulp Of That Wine That Will Remove My Breath And Mind.
In This Monastery Full Of Affliction I Have Accepted Much Suffering
With This Thought—That One Day I Would Drink The Wine Of Gnosis.
In This World I Have Thee, I Have Thee Alone.
Union With Thee Is The Goal Of My Life; I Continue To Strive On This Path.
The Fervor For Meeting Thee Burns Within Me Like Fire,
I Continue To Burn In This Fire Though I Am Annihilated And Silent.
We have seen the turning of thy face to heaven. And now verily We shall turn you toward a qibla [direction of prayer] which is dear to thee. So turn thy face toward the Inviolable Place of Worship, and ye, wheresoever ye may be, turn your faces toward it. Lo! Those who have received the Scripture know that is the Truth from their Lord. And Allah is not unaware of what they do.
Qur’an 10:87
We revealed to Moses and his brother, “Appoint houses for your people in Egypt and make your houses a qibla [direction of prayer], and establish worship. And give good news to the believers.”
Qur’an 2:155
To god belong the East and West, and wheresoever you turn, there is the face of God.
“Do you think my qibla is only here [before me]? By God, your bowing and prostrating are not concealed from me; I can see you even though you are behind my back.”
-Hadith
Rumi
Since the qibla of the soul has been hidden
everyone has turned his face to a different corner
(Masnavi 5:328-337)
Original:
قبله‌ی جان را چو پنهان کرده‌اند
هر کسی رو جانبی آورده‌اند
The Kaaba of Gabriel and the celestial spirits is a Lote-tree;
the glutton’s qibla is a cloth laden with dishes of food.
The qibla of the Knower is the light of union with God;
the qibla of the philosopher’s mind is fantasy.
The qibla of the ascetic is God, the Gracious;
the qibla of the flatterer is a purse of gold.
The qibla of the spiritual is patience and long-suffering;
the qiblah of form-worshippers is an image of stone.
The qibla of those who live in the inward is the Bounteous One;
the qibla of those who worship the outward is a woman’s face.
(Masanvi 6, 1896–1900)
Original:
کعبه‌ی جبریل و جانها سدره‌ای ** قبله‌ی عبدالبطون شد سفره‌ای
قبله‌ی عارف بود نور وصال ** قبله‌ی عقل مفلسف شد خیال
قبله‌ی زاهد بود یزدان بر ** قبله‌ی مطمع بود همیان زر
قبله‌ی معنی‌وران صبر و درنگ ** قبله‌ی صورت‌پرستان نقش سنگ
قبله‌ی باطن‌نشینان ذوالمنن ** قبله‌ی ظاهرپرستان روی زن
By virtue of that Light the calf becomes a qibla of grace;
without that Light the qibla becomes infidelity and an idol.
The licence that comes from self-will is error;
the licence that comes from God is perfection.
In that quarter where the illimitable Light has shone,
infidelity has become faith and the Devil has attained unto Islam.
Original:
عجل با آن نور شد قبله‌ی کرم ** قبله بی آن نور شد کفر و صنم
کفر ایمان گشت و دیو اسلام یافت ** آن طرف کان نور بی‌اندازه تافت
(Masnavi 6: 2073)
Within the Ka‘ba the rule of the qibla does not exist:
what matter if the diver has no snow-shoes?
Do not seek guidance from the drunken:
why dost thou order those whose garments are rent in pieces to mend them?
The religion of Love is apart from all religions:
for lovers, the (only) religion and sect is God.
Original:
در درون کعبه رسم قبله نیست ** چه غم ار غواص را پاچیله نیست
تو ز سر مستان قلاووزی مجو ** جامه چاکان را چه فرمایی رفو
تو ز سر مستان قلاووزی مجو ** جامه چاکان را چه فرمایی رفو
ملت عشق از همه دینها جداست ** عاشقان را ملت و مذهب خداست
(Masnavi 6:1768-1770)
Since the Hand of God has made the Qibla manifest,
henceforth deem searching to be disallowed.
Hark, avert your face and head from searching,
now that the Destination and Dwelling-place has come into view.
If you forget this Qibla for one moment, you will become in thrall to every worthless qibla (object of desire).
When you show ingratitude to him that gives you discernment, the thought that recognises the Qibla will dart away from you.
Original:
قبله را چون کرد دست حق عیان ** پس تحری بعد ازین مردود دان
هین بگردان از تحری رو و سر ** که پدید آمد معاد و مستقر
ک زمان زین قبله گر ذاهل شوی ** سخره‌ی هر قبله‌ی باطل شوی
چون شوی تمییزده را ناسپاس ** بجهد از تو خطرت قبله‌شناس
Amīr Khusrow
Every sect has a faith, a Qibla to which they turn,
I have turned my face towards the crooked cap (of Nizamudin Aulia)
The whole world worships something or the other,
Some look for God in Mecca, while some go to Kashi (Banaras),
So why can’t I, Oh wise people, fall into my beloved’s feet?
Every sect has a faith, a Qibla.
Original:
هر قوم راست راهي، ديني و قبله گاهي
من قبله راست كرديم ،بر سمت كج كلاهي
…
Transliteration:
Har qaum raast raahay, deen-e wa qibla gaahay,
Mun qibla raast kardam, bar samt kajkulaahay.
Sansaar har ko poojay, kul ko jagat sarahay,
Makkay mein koyi dhoondhay, Kaashi ko koi jaaye,
Guyyian main apnay pi kay payyan padun na kaahay.
Har qaum raast raahay, deen-e wa qibla gaahay…
Mirza Ghālib
The one to whom I bow is beyond senses’ boundaries
The qiblah itself’s a pointer for those who can see
Original:
ہے پرے سرحدِ ادراک سے اپنا مسجود
قبلے کو اہلِ نظر قبلہ نما کہتے ہیں
Ibn ‘Arabi:
Contemplate the house: for sanctified hearts,
its lights shine openly
They look at it through God, without a veil,
and its august and sublime secret appears to them.
and famously:
My heart has become receptive to every form
A meadow for gazelles, and a cloister for the monks
A house for the idols, and the pilgrim’s Ka’aba
The tablets of the Torah, pages of the Qur’an
My religion is love’s own and wheresoever turn
Her caravan, that love is my religion and my faith
We have an example in Bishr, lover of Hind and her sister,
The perhaps most obvious poetic lines to cite are Rūmī's:
The qibla of the glutton, that is the table-cloth. The qibla for the gnostic: the light of union with God, … The qibla of those who worship the form: an image of stone …
“”For my purposes, religion will mean orientation—orientation in the ultimate sense, that is, how one comes to terms with the ultimate significance of one’s place in the world.”
“Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship–be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles–is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It’s the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.
Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they’re evil or sinful, it’s that they’re unconscious. They are default settings.
They’re the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that’s what you’re doing.
And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving…. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.
That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.”
