Back to FIELD
Night: shoreless shadowed stormwracked sea;
the sphere of Night: a desert of roses smeared with indigo.
Slopes, hillocks, high places stand still and silent
as terminal giants hunched in cureless melancholy.
Heaven has washed its face in tar and rests unmoving
as if God the Singular had never created it.
Wilderness, bewildered with sadness, grows no lighter
with the bilious dawn. Rays of light
cannot move from eyes to touch faces,
echoes cannot find their way to any ear
as if Earth the Sorcerer had taken existence away
from all things and left the whirling sky a lunatic.
The Empyrean grinds to a halt - one might think
in all the world no creature stirs or breathes.
Under the narrow ebon canopy of night I open my eye
- nothing. I close my eye upon no dream.
My physical eye looks upon night, the eye of my heart
looks upon the void, like a lonely sentinel
in the midst of the sleeping army. My physical eye
sees the stars as vigilant guards. The heart s eye
sees no one awake, no wiseman, no sage.
The stars: a paradise of black-eyed girls;
the clouds part and reveal their smiling eyes
like a bit of luck amidst the general bane -
Go, have a look: the Pleiades, cluster of white roses
shining in dark grass like lost gems of ancient kings;
Capella s bloodshot eye in the West, like a bersker
staring down in foe; Jupiter like Joseph
in the inky well, Venus pale and perplexed as Zulaikha;
the sky, Mary s jewel-encrusted tabernacle;
stars like monks, the Hyades a crucifix.
My eye, ear, heart, breathlessly wake, hoping
for a streak of dawn, a sound in that terrible stillness,
for if my soul forgets, my learned intellect recalls
that in all the Universe, nothing begins but comes to an end.
Night s raven crosses the boundary from Jabulsa to Jabulkqa,
dawn rises at last, a griffon from a ruby s heart,
legions of darkness flea before the ranks of morning
as error dissipated before Truth s face;
the stars blush like maidens in purdah
caught by their mothers without their veils,
and fall, fall headlong into the Sun, as in the end
all parts rejoin the Whole at last.
Ah, Nasir, you speak too much of stars and night;
look in your wisdom on the world s affairs;
the universe, a sea of eloquent pearls,
the Ocean of Time, men its frail ships.
Praise God, Who makes His ablutions and shakes
the water from His hands, which falls
into the heavens, each drop a star.
The constellations of good fortune are nothing
without the light of His face; the skies
have no breadth but in His Kingdom s expanse.
Such ranks He bestows on me in His generosity
no sage before me is wise, no prince sublime.
From this world I seek but fellowship in Faith,
companions such as never Heaven not earth have known.
I praise the peerless Lord, the Almighty Friend
from Whom all power flows. I have woven
a silk brocade and sewn it with Wisdom
such as never left the looms of Byzantium;
I have raised a tree, fresh and tall as the Ash of Paradise,
every leaf a gold word, every line sweet as a date.
That s its custom, the World: to vex and disturb us -
but whatever you do don t try to hit back!
It ll never leave off its swordplay, but the best
you can do is to make a shield of your intellect.
I see you wear the amulet of loyalty
to the world around your neck - take it off
quick, or your master will surely strangle you.
The generous man, accustomed to doing good
to people of faith and virtue, shins the mob
as if they were dogs, as if they were briny desert
where no wise farmer would think to sow a crop
or hope to fertilise it with irrigation.
Companionship with fools is but a thorn
to prick out the eye of faith and manliness -
don t give your heart to the world; no free
or noble man would sell himself to a tramp.
Never feel secure from the vicissitudes of Time
that serpent which devours even the elements;
if one day you manage to escape her tricks
tomorrow she ll back with something worse.
Mankind sees little mercy from this world
however much he begs and weeps and laments.
Look how she paints her face, the whore,
the husband-murderer, the witch who hides
away in her closet mixing poison with
his glass of wine - but worse, her lover, who takes
a cup of arsenic from this drab and thinks
it honey - how can he be reckoned a man
who falls in a woman s deceitful snare? Wisdom
is a magic potency bought with piety
and faith, which pours down its rain from the cloud
of language on the field of the intelligence.
He who makes Wisdom his master will see as clear
as day the banal machinations of
his foe, the World which mixes honey with gall -
he who has Wisdom in his head will never
dare to bed down with a demon of Hell !
O World, you may not have lasted more than
the usual fourscore and ten for anyone, but still
you are necessary. You may be as wretched as
a thorn on the eye, but essentially you are
as necessary as sight itself. You may have
broken, but you have mended as well.
Like a chameleon you take on the colour
of corruption from the corrupt, but to the pure
you are pure. To those who despise you
sayYou have not known me.
If you are modest and sedate you ll find me
modest and sedate as well. I gave you
righteousness but you sought from me
only ill. If you are wise you will be
saved from me. Why hate that from which
you ve been saved? God has given me
to you as a thoroughfare - why do you
loiter along the way? You are a branch
of the tree God planted for your sake -
if you grow up crooked, you will end up
in the fireplace - grow straight
and you will be saved. Yes, crookedness
will land you in the flames, and no one
will ask if you were almond or pistachio.
You are the arrow of God to His enemies -
why have cut yourself on your own point?
You yourself have gone astray from deliverance -
why complain to me that you have lost
and cannot find the way again?
The World knows the GAME -
don t cut yourself in.
Even swiftflying hawks
will fall in its snare.
I build a palace
the world pulls it down:
what do you call this
but Play?
What is it; Ludus?,
that from which nothing
is gained. But you
are mad for it.
In the claws of the worldhawk
your hair goes piebald grey;
now turn back
from this pointless Play.
Youth was a downward slope
- easy breathing, head held high -
now the upward climb of old age
and you hang your head.
Youth a descent
you rushed unchecked;
but now before the hill of age
you gape and yawn.
>When I was young
I did so-and-so
but now you ve grown old
why boast over nothing?
When you were so rich
why didn t you stash something
to tide you over now
you re down and out?
Yourstates are like
fish in the sea:
in the sea who owns them
mon brave?
World s face embroidered
with playfulness:
turn away and sew up
your own affairs.
Unless you turn body and soul
to gnosis and devotion
those two uncaring frauds
will cheat you blind.
Circling . . . circling -
close the circle - die.
If you do not start NOW
when will you start?
Screwing around, ballgames
injustice, backbiting, theft
lying, conning, putting it on,
pride, impudence and slander:
demongames
set-ups for the Fire -
get out of them
heave them overboard.
At school they force knowledge
down your throat;
ignorance sings harmonies with you
when you harmonise withNature@.
Why aren t you greedy
for knowledge? You re usually
voracious, a glutton for
whatever you don t have.
I heard you boasting of
your eloquent Arabic.
Idiot! Arabic - its only value
is to read the Qur an
the Treasury of Knowledge
for those who read it passionless -
and what enticed you to poetry
if not your passions?
Mine of Divine Mysteries
you scorn it
intimate playfellow
of lying devils.
If I m to be called
your fellow-religionist
you ll have to cut yourself
off from such friends.
O Nasir ! Cut yourself off indeed
O PROOF! From braggrats
and seekers of fame, for you
are a man of truth and piety.
It s enough of you can
escape from their clutches -
cut the story short and leave off
talking about the Persians.
For in your heart are
ambergris-scented rose-tinted
brocades with you
the perfumer, the draper
will offer to
the wise.
He will not spend the coin of his days on sleep and food
who knows the secrets of the Turquoise Wheel
- only the fool who s crushed beneath the disgrace of ignorance
will trust himself to the gourmandise of a drunken dragon.
Seduced by sweet repose and tasty victuals
you cannot feel the world gnawing away at your side;
eater of Dust, know in the end dust shall devour you.
The fruit of earth is mixed (by Nature s powers)
with salt, with fat or sugar to your taste -
without those herbs and spices do you think
the taste of dirt would please you half so well?
The earth is poison. Your enemy lurks in your stomach
and is fed up with your soul, no matter what
you feed him on - but if you neglect to pour
his ration of dirt down his throat, then how
he will howl and complain down there in your gut.
What magic furnace lies hid within a grain of wheat
that lets it alchemise dung and dirt into itself?
How does that headless toothless intestineless grain
devour dust, moistened by Spring rain?
He who does not marvel at such craftsmanship
must ne counted blind by those with wisdom.
Inside the grain the portions of the seed
have each their separate work and avocation
to carry on their labours for mankind -
but the sage, when he sees in each bit of corn
a creator, will not take it for his god,
and tiring of his scientific search among
these hidden artisans of Nature, will not raise
his sight in vain to higher things than intellect.
Let him sow seeds of gratitude in his eyes
who is lucky enough to receive from his Lord
such blessings as these, for if he should pay
for happiness with hurt, must he not be
hurt in return? The sage who s done a favour
will return it, for nothing flows from a jug
of vinegar but vinegar. Think and imagine
meditate and write of nothing but Good;
seek counsel from the wise, for they will pour
for you a beverage much to your liking,
pressing the heart s cluster with the hand
of the intellect. Are you sorrowful my brother
and find that religion brings you only grief?
Then read the poems of the PROOF, for they will scour
and polish this sorrow from your soul. But you
who are slain by ignorance, must come to him
if you desire the resurrection he provides
for your ignorance, he dare not come to you!
Winter flees, Spring returns new youth
to this aged world, the Azure pool
is filled with sparkling wine, the silver desert
set with emeralds, and the wind,
whipping the flags of February, now
in march takes on a hint of incense.
The poor naked willow now is clothed
in fine gray silk and ear-rings. The meadow
has washed its face, the flowers eyes
have opened, earth has regained awareness,
for the Morning Breeze has breathed upon it
the Messiah s revivifying incantations.
The garden grows fresh as the sky;
the narcissus sparks like the Pleiades.
The clouds - are they not Joseph s miracle?
For the desert has grown fair as the face
of Potiphar s wife. Tulips blush
like so many young girls, the narcissus
stares about like a frenzied lover.
Violets, released from the persecution
of winter snow, have donned the robes
of Christians. Crystal spools are shady,
the air clear, the raven slinks away,
the nightingale begins to practise his scales,
the garden is paradise, the tulip s cheeks
grow luminous as the skin of black-eyed
houris. The crow, like a conquered blackamoor
enslaves himself to the rose and nightingale -
a trellis of white rose-vines punctuates the air
like the silver mosaic of the heavens.
Winter bows to Spring like the enemies of Faith
before Ali; the raven cowers in fear
like the foes of the Imams - hypocrisy
is woven in its black robe, like the gowns
of the Abbasids. The Sun shines forth
like a Fatimid as it ascends the slope
from its winter exile, its rays as bright
as Zulfiqar, giving vigour to the rose
as to the pearl-white steed of Ali.
Reaching the battlefield of the Equinox, the Sun
declares war on the cold season - Day
increases like Faith, like the People of Friendship;
Night shrinks like unbelief and grows dark
with melancholy as the People of Hypocrisy.
The world like a heart which remembers
now swells with light, beneficence and virtue.
It was till now as gloomy as a forgetful soul,
but has grown bright as a wiseman,
now that the Lord of the Planets in the sign of the Ram
has grown powerful in justice, the principle
of all goodness (was not Chosroes known
throughout the world for his justice?)
Behold what marvels rise with the Sun
in the Vernal Equinox: how this rotten mire
has been transformed to rubies and ambergris.
He is saved who waxes eloquent of knowledge
and justice, wherein are all blessings; who fulfils
the intellect s desire (for the world was made
only for wisdom and equity). True beauty
is knowledge, not the world s false tinsel.
Be not deceived by noise: seek truth,
and not the world. Do not swell with pride
to hear you ve been appointed Judge
in Balkh or Bukhara - know that true knowledge
of religion is eclipsed when the affairs of Faith
are entrusted to the rabble. Close your ears
to the words of an ignoramus, even if
he s famous; seek the Why and How of things
lest the world constrict about you like
a shrinking ring. Try to convey your ideas
to your opponents, for unless it is tried
in the fire of debate, science cannot
be purified. (He who goes to a court
without judge, jury or counsel for the prosecution
will naturally bring back a verdict
pleasing to himself - but perhaps wrong!)
Imitate the truly great, and be humble
before those who have risen through knowledge:
look how the black earth, by obeying
the palmtree, is turned, bit by bit
into sweet dates. The truly rich have
gained their wealth through knowledge and patience -
imitate the noble, for a noble mind
is the alpha and omega of a lofty spirit.
How long have you praised the spring,when the dry stems
shall blossom and the almond bear fruit; when
the garden, like my beloved, shall blush
and its meadows grow fresh as her skin;
when dew shall polish the waxy petals
of the pomegranate, and the nightingale leave
his rose to fly and salute them. The songster
burns with love and haunts the garden
till the mournful raven comes to chase him away.
The rose rides upon its steed of ruby,
the tulip marches before, bearing its banner.
The garden was scattered with Winters white camphor
but now is strewn with Spring s pearls.
The moonfaced children of the rose,
with its uncles and cousins now join it for a picnic.
The willow signs a peace-treaty
with the boisterous wind, the tulip
embraces and kisses the narcissus. The garden
is a constellation from which Venus,
in the early dawn, peeps down upon earth . . .
Bah! Enough of such futile nonsense! Such blather
merely embarrasses me! Spring has returned
as my guest now sixty times - it will be the same
if I live to be six hundred. Those whom Fate
has stripped of all adornment can take no joy
in the garden s decorations; to me its loveliness,
this Spring of your, is but a daydream
concealing pain beneath its charming robes,
poison in its sugar, thorns in its roses.
The cheerful day will come after the sorrows
of stygian night - but when mad Winter
cannot drive away your bile, what use
are Spring and its blossoming meadows?
The changing seasons are but ravenous lions
which steal forth each night to stalk us -
whoever raises his head will have it
bitten off. These beasts are not filled even
with the blood of thousands of victims.
Yes, the world is a sweet place to fools
but to me disagreeable and hateful. Whatever
character of a man, the world offers him
the same portion. Everything s proper
in its proper place - wetness from water,
corrosion fro acid - and even the tasteless thorn
seem moist and toothsome to the mouth of
an ass. We must learn to compromise
with the habitual injustice of the world,
when evil always follows after good,
and (I suppose) good after evil - for they make
a pulpit and a gallows from the same tree.
Sometimes you need defences, a strong castle
with a dungeon and chains - but then again
you are blamed for being toosensitive !
One day the shrewd spheres raise an army
against you, the next they smile and pat you
on the back . .
Ah, now I have shocked you.
Go away you shout,you irreligious maniac
and just wait till Judgement Day!
But to me, my forelocks are blades of sweet basil
even if to you, coiled black rattlesnakes.
To the children of Fatimah I am a branch
laden with fruit, even if to you I seem
a sterile weeping willow. How can I take pride
in religion when you too claim to be a Muslim?
I choose the friendship of Ali, whose sword
brings dark night to his foes, bright day
to his Partisans. Light is far superior
to smoke, even if both come from fire.
A neighbour can never take the place
of a brother, even if he comes with you
to the mountains and caverns. Test gold and flint
with the same touchstone, they cannot posses
the same value. Islam is a palace built for all
to take rest therein, by the Prophet himself.
Ali and his children are its gates. Welcome, O you
who enter here, and hail to him who has rolled out
the red carpet of knowledge and action.
>Eloquent PROOF, open your book of poems or from the point
of your pen shower forth your pearls of speech.
Your verses are perhaps too long, too many - but
since I find them
sweet and instructive, I cannot have enough of them!
I ll write a panegyric on a king whose gifts are precious
even if he gives me so many of them I can t stagger away
under their weight! So refresh those words growth hoary,
give new life to old saws, rain down a cloud of gems
and ancient earth in Springtime. This book
which at first looked too heavy, has become a joy
for me, just as an old shirt looks elegant again
when it comes back fresh from the laundry.
Poems from a heart-full of knowledge must be sweet
as spring-water poured from clean clay jug.
What is the spice of speech? Meaning and metaphor -
and yours is a cook s garden of poetic herbs.
Repetitive? Yes, but one need not fear repetition
in poetry which can only improve the more we read.
God seasons the pot of earth with tastes, smells, colours -
apples, oranges, walnuts, quince and pomegranate;
the grapes of the vine never clog your palate
even if they taste the same as last year s or
the year before. To the intelligent reader
wisdom and knowledge are the seeds of literature;
come, Sage, sow these seeds in my heart,
leave behind you a harvest of verse which will keep
your memory fresh (on its own level) as that
of the Prophet himself. Was it not eloquence
which spread his Faith to Earth s four corners,
was it not by his words he raised himself
on Seventh Heaven?
Earth s creatures may be
conquered by Wisdom only because the Almighty Lord,
the Subduer, is also the All-Wise. Contemplate
your body, see the soul that hides within it:
how can it be, when this too too solid flesh
sinks to sleep, that something remains awake,
seeing, speaking, aware? This dead carrion lives
only by a magic jewel, the amulet of gnosis:
shame and speech, praise and blame belong to it alone,
and when it departs, your body s no more than a corpse
why do you value skin and bones, and despise the true
and only Lord of your body? You consort with slaves
but have not met the master; know both
as they are in REALITY, for in this knowledge
(all wisemen agree) all wisdom resides.
Old fellow, if you neglect your better half,
don t complain if wisemen refuse you the
title of MAN. Body ad soul are comrades
in knowledge and action, but you have neglected
the affairs of the older and better of the two.
You treat your soul as if it were a stranger,
your body a suspicious and inhospitable
town-dweller; the wanders the streets unhoused,
unfed. Is this the custom of the noble host?
How can you train your soul if it remains
unknown to you? Make its acquaintance,
treat it well; your soul goes naked while
your body is cosseted in silks and furs. Shame!
What a state of affairs! Weave a cloak
with meaning as warp and words as weft,
for the soul must clothed in the texture
of Wisdom. Wisdom is a citadel, just as
the Prophet was acity of knowledge and Ali
its worthyGate (this is a sound tradition,
recorded by honest men). The knowledge and advice
which have issued forth from this Gate
are too exalted even to be calledknowledge andadvice ;
they bear the same relation to the ordinary sense
of these words as a rose to a thorn.
If you find Wisdom something mean and hateful, no wonder!
Even the camel (gourmet of thorns) refuses to eat
your wormy flower. I offer you a clue, a way
to that House of Wisdom; keep it secret, guard it
from the frivolous. If you find the Gate and
enter the palace, you escape forever this
caravan of demons, you will learn at least
why the cosmic dance was begun, and what
shall be the end of its monotonous revolutions.
The Architect of the galactic dome has brought you
here for a certain task - why do you shun it?
Feed your soul till it s fat on wisdom -
don t let it end its prison days lean
as a boneyard cur. Everything s found is its
proper place - to reach elsewhere is to make
unnecessary trouble. The world cotains only
fraud and deceit; if you want Wisdom, listen to me
and seek it in religion. This upturned bowl,
this sky under which you sit (as you imagine)
so safe and secure, is really as ocean, about
to fall on your head. Watch out! God has
chained you up in this cave only to protect you
from Satan s marauding band - you will never
realise how lucky you are till a day comes
which is a thousand times worse. The world
is a bazar where you must shop as if
for an endless journey, before you return
to your empty house - for perhaps you may
fall ill, and never find the market again.
O noble reader, act according to my words,
for in the great BALANCE, your deeds
must measure up to what you say.
even if a life which lasts but one brief hour
must be lived in obedience to God.
Divine gifts are seeds, gratitude the fruit -
and these are not on permanent reduced sale.
If worship is the root of devotion, life
is the fountain of all nobility and blessings -
but if you don t think life is something
to be thankful for, you must think I m
a lunatic. A fellow with a pretty face
- the sages say - is an idol. Why?
Because he takes up space but isn t
worth a centavo. If you call himhuman
because he s rich, why then, the Emir s
horse is human too - it s draped in gold.
One really must pity, like a worn-out
beast of burden, the man who doesn t know
who Man is. His humanity hides so deep
within him, he appears to be a piece
of pottery. The wise identify the man with
his speech; the rest is a toy. Speech
is the only ticket, the only mode of transport
to the Kingdom. All men are equal - only
speech makes one more equal than the others.
The true man is God s Messenger - the rest
(the ones you call thereligious community )
are but pack-horses. The eloquent man
has a rapier, and the energy to use it.
Thetouche , theau point , the shield
and the due - these are his proof and demonstration,
his question and answer. A much more difficult
battle than your common warfare. After all
even a desert lion is the equal of a soldier;
it has its claws for a sword, its fangs
for arrows. But you, who desires theinner
Holy War , have words for arrows, your tongue
for a bow, and the wounds they make
are painful and incurable. In such conflict
the wiseman sees the unwise as naked.
No, do not turn away from speech and knowledge
- more precious than this world and the next.
The sage s greatest reward is to feed his soul
on good words. Don t despair; the star
of knowledge shall rise at last, even if now
it is dark and in decline. Don t worry if
the rabble strut their brief hour -
to the wiseman, an ass with a hundred
bags of gold is still a worthless ass.
Every finger may shine with diamonds like lamps -
he s still in darkness. Knowledge suffers no
deflation even in the land of fools. Why
should a lion repent of his lion-ness, even
when surrounded by a herd of lazy and undignified
camels? Good and evil, like day and night, follow
each other on the stage. One moment you rage
the next you smile - that s the way of the world.
One man s catastrophe is another s apotheosis.
Night follows in Day s wake, like bad luck.
Pigs arf repulsive, evil omens. Sheep are
nice and useful. The pig will never achieve
the status os a sheep - pigginess is written
in its horoscope. Fools think the devil
a capital fellow, a real fashion-plate -
stay away froma la mode like this!
Lawyers nowadays - the cleanest money they make
is from bribes. And as for the hermits
they slide about a mud like drunkards in April.
Love sings, farce and buffoonery are all the rage -
all the more reason for you to stay home
and pray. Vanity of vanities - cast it away!
The words of the PROOF should be proof enough
for the likes of you. And if you are not in need
of the PROOF, the PROOF is not in need of you
either.