Hafiz: Ghazal 367: “Wine, Human Beings, and Song” / خواجه شمس‌‌الدین محمد حافظ شیرازی

Autumn maple leaves_Toronto_November 6th 2015

…..

Hafiz (1325-1389, Shiraz, Iran)
Ghazal 367: “Wine, Human Beings, and Song”
Translated from the Persian by A.Z. Foreman (July 2015)
.
Come so that we can scatter flowers
and fill the glass to brim with wine,
Split heaven’s ceiling with our powers
and try a wholly new design.
When armies march to spill the blood
of lovers’ hearts with Sorrow’s pike
The serving boy and I destroy
their camp in one drunk counterstrike.
Here, put rosewater in the wine
and sugar in the censer there
To sweeten up the scent we sense
upon the incense-bearing air.
A fine-tuned lute is in your hand
so play a fine and tuneful song.
We’ll stamp our feet, carouse in dance,
clap to the beat and sing along.
O dawn wind, bear my being’s dust
unto that threshold great and high.
Perhaps I’ll glimpse His majesty
and see His beauty, eye to eye.
One boasts of his great intellect
Another of the spells he binds.
Put it before the Judge. Let Him
settle the question and our minds.
If you want Eden’s Garden, come
and join me in the drunkards’ bar.
I’ll tip you from a cask of wine
into the waters of Kawsar*.
Hafiz, the arts of verse and song
are out of fashion in Shiraz.
Go, seek a more receptive realm,
a court more loving in its laws.

. . .
Note:
*Kawsar is a stream found in Paradise.

. . .

The Persian original:

.

بیا تا گل برافشانیم و می در ساغر اندازیم
فلک را سقف بشکافیم و طرحی نو دراندازیم
اگر غم لشکر انگیزد که خون عاشقان ریزد
من و ساقی به هم تازیم و بنیادش براندازیم
شراب ارغوانی را گلاب اندر قدح ریزیم
نسیم عطرگردان را شِکَر در مجمر اندازیم
چو در دست است رودی خوش بزن مطرب سرودی خوش
که دست افشان غزل خوانیم و پاکوبان سر اندازیم
صبا خاک وجود ما بدان عالی جناب انداز
بود کان شاه خوبان را نظر بر منظر اندازیم
یکی از عقل می‌لافد یکی طامات می‌بافد
بیا کاین داوری‌ها را به پیش داور اندازیم
بهشت عدن اگر خواهی بیا با ما به میخانه
که از پای خمت روزی به حوض کوثر اندازیم
سخندانیّ و خوشخوانی نمی‌ورزند در شیراز
بیا حافظ که تا خود را به ملکی دیگر اندازیم
. . .

Romanization of the poem:

.

Biyā tā gul barafšānēm
o may dar sāɣar andāzēm
Falakrā saqf biškāfēm
o tarhē naw darandāzēm
Agar ɣam laškar angēzad
ki xūn-i ‘āšiqān rēzad
Man o sāqī ba ham tāzēm
o bunyādaš barandāzēm
Šurāb-i arɣawānīrā
gulāb andar qadah rēzēm
Nasīm-i ‘atrgardānrā
šikar dar mijmar andāzēm
Ču dar dastast rōdē xwaš
bizan mutrib surōdē xwaš
Ki dastafšān ɣazal xwānēm
o pākōbān sar andāzēm
Sabā xāk-i wujūd-i mā
badān ‘ālī janāb andāz
Buwad k-ān šāh-i xūbānrā
nazar bar manzar andāzēm.
Yakē az ‘aql mēlāfad
yakē tāmāt mēbāfad
Biyā k-īn dāwarīhārā
ba pēš-i dāwar andāzēm
Bihišt-i ‘adn agar xwāhī
biyā bā mā ba mayxāna
Ki az pāy-i xumat rōzē
ba hawz-i kawsar andāzēm
Suxandānī o xwašxwānī
namēwarzand dar šērāz
Biyā hāfiz ki tā xwadrā
ba mulkē dīgar andāzēm.
. . . . .


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

Wards Island sunflower and bee_August 21st 2015

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/

. . . . .


“Bright Horizon” by Ahmad Shamlu احمد شاملو

ZP_Untitled, Doves_painting by Skip Noah

ZP_Untitled, Doves_painting by Skip Noah

احمد شاملو

Ahmad Shamlu (1925-2000, Tehran, Iran)

Ahmad Shamlu_Bright Horizon part 1Ahmad Shamlu_Bright Horizon part 2Ahmad Shamlu_Bright Horizon part 3

ZP_Doves of Peace Quartet by Asbjorn Lonvig

ZP_Doves of Peace Quartet by Asbjorn Lonvig

Ahmad Shamlu (1925-2000, Tehran, Iran)

“Bright Horizon”

.

Bright horizon

Some day we will find our doves

Kindness will take Beauty by the hand

.

That day – the least song will be a kiss

and every human being be brother to

every other human being

.

That day – house doors will not be shut

Locks will be but legends

And the Heart be enough for Living

.

The day – that the meaning of all speech is loving

so one won’t have to search for meaning down to the last word

The day – that the melody of every word be Life

and I won’t be suffering to find the right rhythm for every last poem

.

That day – when every lip is a song

and the least song will be a kiss

That day – when you come – when you’ll come forever –

and Kindness be equal to Beauty

.

The day – that we toss seeds to the doves…

and I await that day

even if upon that day I myself no longer be.

.     .     .     .     .

We are grateful to Hassan H. Faramarz for the Persian-to-English translation of “Bright Horizon”.


“But the blooming words declare the storm with bravery”: Five 21st-century Iranian women poets

“A Rush”  by Sylvana Salmanpour

With soft words

I draw a childhood dream

on a nascent memory.

I write in peace

so that the silky dream of the notebook

will not tear apart.

But the blooming words declare

the storm with bravery.

“Those Days”  by Fereshteh Sari

Those days

Poetry

was my room

and wherever I felt unsafe

I gravitated into its eternal sanctuary.

These days

there aren’t any rooms

that can harbour me against the crowd

and behind every window

inside and outside every room

a two-faced clown sneers.

“The Stone I become”  by Nasrin Ranjbar Irani

I do not grow or nurture

the stone, I become

the stone

I mask the spring’s mouth

I do not cry or distress others

The Rock, I become

The Rock

that intrudes into the peaceful pond

Neither do I laugh nor do I want others to laugh

The stone, I become

the stone and I shatter the mirrors.

To poetry

I vow, to joy, to dew,

that I will be a stone again

an undeniable slash across the brow

But before these all

I want to be

the glass

the flame

the mirror

Ah!  A crystal ball

and the spring rain…

Once and Only Once

To be in love, in love, in love

in this lifetime,

Once and Only Once!

“Neither a Satellite nor the Internet”  by Pegah Ahmadi

A poem ambles across the wall

forever and a day

In the heart of the kitchen it spins,

spins on the porch

And when it returns

It utters:

Neither a Satellite nor the Internet

I am not the universal Media

Nothing but a new leaf on this arid plant

Or the thought of a rendezvous

Makes me rejoice

I am only a poem to brush your hair

A poem to pass through you!

“A Day without You”  by Nasrin Behjati

And I commenced my day

Without you or your name

I spilled you out of my tea

Out of my breakfast

From the kitchen

And I didn’t nurture the plants…

so that I could witness your rage,

Your name from autumn

The autumn from the field

And the field from the poems,  I

removed

I heaved you out of my memories and

the seasons and I walked to the mirror

To cut short the locks you loved so,

Alas!   In the mirror a sunflower reflected

Your unkind frame,

Outlined my face forevermore,

I had become you!

_____

The poems featured here from five Iranian women poets were translated

from Persian (Farsi) into English by Sheema Kalbasi.

Visit her literary site:  http://www.sheemakalbasi.com


Quatrains that Question: 20th-century Iranian poets: Mohammad Mehdi Fulâdvand, Abdulhosayn Nosrat, Mohammad-Taqi Bahar

It is better that the world be a mystery for us,

Better that a hundred voices be in the assembly of the wise.

If the veil drops from the face of the mysterious Belovéd,

What more need will there be for supplication, glorification, and pride?

*

The world is like a bubble.   What kind of bubble?

A bubble, not on water, but on the surface of a mirage.

A mirage which is seen in a dream.

A dream which is seen by someone who is dead-drunk.

*

Our freedom is the principle of our development,

Which is the purpose intended by God.

Live freely, but be careful not to allow

Your freedom to be the brigand* of others’ freedom.

_

*brigand = bandit, plunderer, robber

_____

Translations from Persian (Farsi) into English:  © Reza Saberi


Isfahâni, Sabzvâri, Behizâd, Sarvi: رباعیات

I do not do anything except with a pure and sincere heart.

I do not care for anyone’s approval or disapproval.

Even if I am hurt by the whole world,

I want no one to be hurt by me.

*

If you wish to step onto the road of love,

You must first have the mind for love, then the heart for it.

Think not of the comforts and difficulties of love.

Take to the sea and ask not where the shore is.

*

O moon-like Sâqi*, give me wine in this month of fasting.

For fasting became forbidden to me now.

Let me break my fast – for my eyes saw the crescent moon

Of your eyebrow and the full moon of your face.

_

(*Sâqi – the cupbearer / wine-servant, in a tavern –

often a handsome youth;  in Sufism, Sâqi is a spiritual master)

_

*

The spirit is intoxicated when it sees the belovéd’s face.

Any nonbeing becomes being – by his existence.

Alas, alas, this exhilarating wine of union

Goes from one hand to another in the feast of life.

*

I have drunk the water of life from my belovéd’s lip.

I have drunk the wine of spirit from the cup of unity.

I know neither disbelief nor belief.

I have tied belief and disbelief with the knot of love.

_____

20th-century Persian Rubáiyát (“Quatrains”) by Saghir Isfahâni  (#1 and #3), Hamid Sabzvâri (#2),

Jalâl Behizâd (#4), Hushang Hekmati (Sarvi) (#5).

Translations from Persian (Farsi)  into English:  © Reza Saberi


Perfect Poems: the Mediaeval Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám / ‏ عمر خیام

In the sphere of the sky, whose depth is invisible,

There is a cup from which everyone must drink in turn.

When your turn comes, do not sigh.

Drink it happily, for it is your turn to drink.

*

Time is ashamed of that person

Who sits lonely and grieves over days now past.

Drink wine from a glass to the sound of a harp

Before the glass smashes into a rock.

*

Yesterday I saw a jug-maker in the bazaar,

Who was treading a lump of clay, repeatedly,

While that clay told him in its own language:

“I used to be like you.  Treat me kindly!”

Why do you grieve over existence, my friend?

Why do you afflict your heart and soul with futile thoughts?

Live joyfully and spend your life happily in the world.

They did not consult you in the beginning anyway.

*

Some people are thoughtful about religion.

Others are suspicious of any conviction.

I am afraid one day a voice may call out:

” Oh ignorant ones,  the way is neither this nor that. “

*

From the nadir of the black mud to the zenith of Saturn,

I have solved all the major problems of being.

I untied many difficult knots, using many tricks.

Every knot I’ve opened, except the knot of death.

 

 

_____

 

 

Omar Khayyám (1048-1131) was born in Nishapur, Persia (contemporary Iran),

and is considered to be among the greatest of all the world’s poets.

He composed a thousand rubáiyát  (Persian-language quatrains) – brief poems in

four lines that touch upon Life’s big themes:  the love for the Belovéd (be it human and

amorous, or be it the love of God (Allah);   the meaning of Life;   Spirituality;

the mystery of Death.

Khayyám was a profoundly mystical thinker – Sufi and Muslim –

an astronomer and mathemetician who was also a poet.  People have interpreted

and mis-interpreted the meanings of his quatrains – 19th-century translator

Edmund FitzGerald most famously (yet beautifully) – but Khayyám’s voice – intelligent,

warm, vigorous, direct – speaks to all our human wonderings even now, 900 years

“down the road”.   The contemporary translations here, from Persian(Farsi) into English,

have been done with a simple, pleasing clarity by Reza Saberi.