Ghalib, Iqbal, Hafiz: new translations from Persian by A.Z. Foreman

A.Z. Foreman continues his exploration of world literature with these new (June 2015) translations from Persian…

The poet Mīrzā Asadullāh Khān Ghālib was born in Agra in 1796, and spent his life in Delhi, attached to Bahādur Shāh II, the last of the Mughal emperors. He is today more famous for his Urdu poetry, though he himself was much prouder of his Persian compositions. Much ink has been spilled regarding the relative merit of his Urdu and his Persian work. I am not qualified to pass judgement on the matter, and can only say that those Urdu poems of his which I have managed to make my way through seem considerably different in temperament from his Persian work.
This particular poem has languished, beloved and half-understood, in my queue for years. Today I finally, and quite suddenly, feel I have a handle on it enough to translate it with at least some semblance of artistic fidelity.
. . .

Mirza Ghalib (1796-1869)
I Daresay I Dare Not Say
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

.

I dare not say my heart is hers though she stole it from me.
I cannot call her tyrant though I see her cruelty.
Hers is the battleground where men bear neither blade nor bow
Hers is the banquet-hall with neither wine nor revelry.
Your courage will not help you here, the lightning flame bolts fast.
Die as the moth. No living salamander can you be.
We journey in love’s heat and seek not water nor the shade
So do not speak of Kausar’s running stream nor Tuba’s tree.
Life’s tribulation ends, so why complain of tyranny?
You suffer, and it is God’s will. Let pain that will be, be.
The word held secret in my breast cannot be preached. I’ll speak it
Not from the pulpit but from high upon the gallows-tree.
O strange it feels to deal with one so singularly mad.
For Ghalib’s love is not Islam, nor infidelity.
. . .

The Original:

دل برد و حق آنست كه دلبر نتوان گفت　　بيداد توان ديد و ستمگر نتوان گفت
در رزمگهش ناچخ و خنجر نتوان برد　　در بزمگهش باده و ساغر نتوان گفت
از حوصله يارى مطلب صاعقه تيز است　　پروانه شو اين جا ز سمندر نتوان گفت
هنگامه سرآمد، چه زنى لاف تظلم؟　　گر خود ستمى رفت، بمحشر نتوان گفت
در گرم روى سايه و سرچشمه نجوييم　　با ما سخن از طوبى و كوثر نتوان گفت
آن راز كه در سينه نهانست و نه وعظست　　بر دار توان گفت و بمنبر نتوان گفت.
كارى عجب افتاد بدين شيفته مارا
مؤمن نبود غالب و كافر نتوان گفت.
. . .
Romanization:

Dil burd o haq ānast ki dilbar natawān guft
Bēdād tawān dīd o sitamgar natawān guft
Dar razmgahaš nāčax o xanjar natawān burd
Dar bazmgahaš bāda o sāɣar natawān guft
Az hawsala yārī matalab sā’iqa tēzast
Parwāna šaw īnjā zi samandar natawān guft
Hangāma sarāmad či zanī lāf-i tazallum
Gar xwad sitamī raft ba mahšar natawān guft
Dar garm-i rūy-i sāyah o sarčašma najōyēm
Bā mā suxan az tūbā o kawsar natawān guft
Ān rāz ki dar sīna nahānast o na wa’zast
Bar dār tawān guft o ba minbar natawān guft
Kārē ajab uftād badīn šēfta mārā
Mu’min nabuwad ɣālib o kāfar natawān guft.

. . .

This singular poem by Muhammad Iqbal, the last of the Indo-Persian poets, written presumably in the early 1920s, is from the Payām-i Mašriq, a collection of Persian poems in which the poet addressed himself to the West, in response to Goethe’s West-Östlicher Divan. Though Iqbal loathed Hāfiz (as Plato loathed all poets) for being too distractingly beautiful, much of the final half of this poem is a skillful and interesting muˁāraḍa or contrafactum riffing off (and responding to) one of Hāfiz’ most famous ghazals.
. . .

Muhammad Iqbāl (1877-1938)
Song of the Hireling Worker
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
.
The worker, clad in cotton, toils to make
the silken robe the idle rich man wears.
Gems in my master’s ring are my brow’s sweat.
The rubies of his reins are my child’s tears.
The Church is fat from leeching on my blood.
My arm is the muscle of a kingdom’s heirs.
My tears bid deserts bloom as dawn wind blows
and my heart’s blood is glistening in the rose.
.
Come, for the harp of time is tense with song!
Pour a wine strong enough to melt the glass.
Let’s give new order to the tavern-masters
and burn the olden tavern down at last.
Avenge the flower on all who razed the garden,
and seek for rose and bud a better cast.
How long shall we be moths that fall for flame?
How long shall we forget ourselves in shame?

. . .
The Original:

نوای مزدور
محمد اقبال

ز مزد بندۂ کرپاس پوش محنت کش　　نصیب خواجۂ ناکردہ کار رخت حریر
ز خوی فشانی من لعل خاتم والی　　ز اشک کودک من گوہر ستام امیر
ز خون من چو زلو فربہی کلیسا را　　بزور بازوی من دست سلطنت ہمہ گیر
خرابہ رشک گلستان ز گریۂ سحرم
شباب لالہ و گل از طراوت جگرم
بیا کہ تازہ نوا می تراود از رگ ساز　　مئی کہ شیشہ گدازد بہ ساغر اندازیم
مغان و دیر مغان را نظام تازہ دہیم　　بنای میکدہ ہای کہن بر اندازیم
ز رہزنان چمن انتقام لالہ کشیم　　بہ بزم غنچہ و گل طرح دیگر اندازیم
بہ طوف شمع چو پروانہ زیستن تا کی؟
ز خویش اینہمہ بیگانہ زیستن تا کی؟

. . .

Romanization:

Zi muzd-i banda-i kirpāspōš-i mihnatkaš
Nasīb-i xwāja-i nākardakār raxt-i harīr
Zi xōy-i fašānī-i man la’l-i xātim-i wālī
Zi ašk-i kōdak-i man gawhar-i sitām-i amīr
Zi xūn-i man ču zalū farbihī Kalīsārā
Bizōr-i bāzō-i man dast-i saltanat hamagīr
Xarāba rašk-i gulistān zi girya-i saharam
Šabāb-i lāla o gul az tarāwat-i jigaram
Biyā ki tāza nawā mētarāwad az rag-i sāz
Maī ki šīša gudāzad ba sāɣar andāzēm
Muɣān o dēr-i muɣānrā nizām-i tāza dahēm
Banāy-i maykadahā-i kuhan bar andāzēm
Zi rahzanān-i čaman intiqām-i lāla kašēm
Ba bazm-i ɣunča o gul tarh-i dīgar andāzēm
Ba tawf-i šam’ ču parwāna zīstan tā kay?
Zi xwēš īnhama bēgāna zīstan tā kay?

. . .

Hāfiz (1325-1389, Shiraz, Persia [now Iran])
Ghazal 220: “Aspirations”

Translated by A.Z. Foreman
.
Although our preacher will not like
to hear such honesty,
He’ll never be a Muslim while
he’s such a pharisee.
Learn to get drunk, be a gentleman
not some dumb animal
That cannot drink a drop of wine
or be a man at all.
The essence must be unalloyed
to make His grace our own,
Or from our clay no pearls will come
nor coral come from stone.
The Almighty shall fulfill His will.
rejoice, my heart! No con
Or devilry can turn a demon
into a Solomon.
Mine is the noble art of love.
I hope against belief
It won’t bring me, as others have,
despondency and grief.
Last night he said “Tomorrow I
will grant your heart’s desire”
God let him have no change of heart
nor let him be a liar.
May God add a good heart to all
your physical attraction
So you’ll no longer torment me
with harrowing distraction.
Hafiz! Unless a mote of dust
aspires to lofty height,
It is not drawn to the true fount
from which the sun draws light.
. . .

Prose paraphrase:

(1) Though the city preacher won’t find it easy to hear these words, as long as he practices sophistry and hypocrisy, he’ll never be a real Muslim. (2) Train yourself in dissolute drunkenness, and be a gentleman to others. For not so artful is the beast that does not drink wine, or become human. (3) There must be a pure-gemmed essence in order to be a vessel for holy grace, for without it stone and clay will not become pearl and coral. (4) He of the Greatest Name does his work – be glad O heart, for by no trick or fraud can a devil ever become Solomon. (5) I practice love, and hope that this noble art will not, as other arts have done, cause me chagrin. (6)  Last night he was saying “Tomorrow I will give you your heart’s desire.” Oh God, contrive to keep him from having compunction about doing so! (7) For my own sake I pray God include in your beauty a good disposition, so that my mind is no longer distraught and discombobulated. (8) So long as the dustmote lacks lofty aspiration and drive, Hafiz, it is not in quest for the source that is the resplendent sun’s own dayspring.

. . .
The Original:

گر چه بر واعظ شهر این سخن آسان نشود تا ریا ورزد و سالوس مسلمان نشود
رندی آموز و کرم کن که نه چندان هنر است حیوانی که ننوشد می و انسان نشود
گوهر پاک بباید که شود قابل فیض ور نه هر سنگ و گلی لوءلوء و مرجان نشود
اسم اعظم بکند کار خود ای دل خوش باش که به تلبیس و حیل دیو سليمان نشود
عشق می‌ورزم و امید که این فن شریف چون هنرهای دگر موجب حرمان نشود
دوش می‌گفت که فردا بدهم کام دلت سببی ساز خدایا که پشیمان نشود
حسن خلقی ز خدا می‌طلبم حسن ترا تا دگر خاطر ما از تو پریشان نشود
ذره را تا نبود همت عالی حافظ

طالب چشمه خورشید درخشان نشود

.     .     .

Romanization:

Gar či bar wā’iz-i šahr īn suxan āsān našawad
Tā riyā warzad o sālūs musalmān našawad
Rindī āmōz o karam kun ki na čandān hunarast
Hayawānē ki nanōšad may o insān našawad
Gawhar-i pāk bibāyad, ki šawad qābil-i fayz,
War na har sang o gilē lu’lu’ o marjān našawad.
Ism-i a’zam bukunad kār-i xwad ay dil, xwaš bāš
Ki ba talbīs o hayal dēw Sulaymān našawad
Išq mēwarzam o ummēd ki īn fan-i šarīf
Čūn hunarhā-i digar mawjib-i hirmān našawad
Dōš mēguft ki fardā bidiham kām-i dilat
Sababē sāz Xudāyā ki pišīmān našawad
Husn-i xulqē zi Xudā mētalabam husn-i turā
Tā digar xātar-i mā az to parēšān našawad
Zurrarā tā nabuwad himmat-i ‘ālī hāfiz
Tālib-i čašma-i xwaršēd-i duruxšān našawad.
. . .
Visit A.Z. Foreman’s poetry translation site:
http://poemsintranslation.blogspot.ca/

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