by Unknown
Mahsati was said to be from Ganjeh, in what is now independent Azerbaijan, and to have sought employment as a scribe at the court of the Seljuk king Sanjar, who ruled from 1118 to 1157. She became known as the writer of a considerable number of short poems, and it is likely that many otherwise anonymous poems from the medieval period that seemed to be by women became attributed to her.
*
As wounded, and caught in your snare—there’s no one like me
As driven by you to despair—there’s no one like me
So many, so eagerly, vie for your love . . .
As steadfastly faithful I swear—there’s no one like me.
*
If you’re a hypocrite, and bow your face in prayer—what use is that?
Once poison’s reached into your soul, remedial care—what use is that?
Showing yourself to everyone as though you’re virtuous and moral,
If you’re all filth within, the spotless cloak you wear—what use is that?
*
Love makes a lion cower in its lair—
It is a sea of wonders, strange and rare;
At times its kindly ways delight our souls
At times the smell of blood is in the air.
*
O son of Ganjeh’s preacher, my advice to you2
Is: “Take the wine glass in your hand, give joy its due . . .”
Your piety and heresy don’t interest God—
Seek pleasure in this world now, while you’re able to.
*
Come, I’ve prepared a private room where we can meet,
With precious cloths laid there, to make a snug retreat;
I’ve grilled kebabs and wine I want to share with you—
The wine is from my eyes, my anguished heart’s the meat.3
*
I wish I were a shining thumb-ring,
Such as our archers wear!
Each time he came to shoot an arrow
He’d lean to me with care,
And as the bow-string reached his teeth,
I’d steal such kisses there!
*
You think you’d like to sleep with me?
That’s an impossibility!
No dream of yours could bring about
This idiotic fantasy;
What makes you think you might? Even
The winds of heaven can’t get to me.
*
Great king, the heavens have saddled Glory for you—
More than all other monarchs, they adore you!
To keep your horse’s golden horseshoes spotless
They’ve spread a silver carpet out before you.4
*
I said, “Quick, bring some wine.” He said, “Look here,
It’s Friday’s eve; shouldn’t you sleep, my dear?”*
I said, “Each week there’ll be another Friday—
The roses bloom for us but once a year . . .”
*
Those nights when I so sweetly slept with you—they’ve gone.
Those pearl-like tears my lashes wept with you—they’ve gone.
You were my heart’s peace and my soul’s dear friend—you went,
And all the promises I kept with you—they’ve gone.
*
I knew your promises were feeble-hearted,
I knew you’d break them, long before we parted;
And all the nasty things you did at last—
My friend, I had foreseen them when we started.
*
We’re drunkards, ne’er-do-wells, but kind and civil—
We’re not the men for prayers and all that drivel.
Our judge thinks wine’s a sin; we’re petty thieves,
He filches orphans’ wealth . . . so who’s more evil?
*
The judge’s wife was pregnant, he was furious,
“I’m old,” he cried, “and this is more than curious!
That whore’s no Virgin Mary, and my prick can’t stir—5
So whose child is it then that’s grown so big in her?”
*
I’m drunk, and drunkards are the crowd I follow—
Ascetics’ claims I find absurd and hollow;
I love that moment when the server says,
“One more . . .?” and one more’s more than I can swallow.
*
That handsome cobbler when he sews a shoe
Kisses the leather as he bites his thread—
A shoe that’s kissed by such sweet ruby lips
Deserves to crown the sun-in-heaven’s head.
*
It seems, my boy, you went out drinking wine last night
And thought that kissing someone else would be all right,
But in response, or so I hear, she scratched your face—
When do I get to see what must be quite a sight?
*
An old man says we must remain here—
we can’t be kept locked up
In this sad chamber, wracked with pain here,
we can’t be kept locked up
That woman whose tempestuous hair
is like a wild beast’s mane,
Stuck in the house, held by a chain here,
she can’t be kept locked up
*
Go, tell the bath-house owner that he needn’t keep
His fire alight tonight, that he can go and sleep,
And in the morning I’ll be there—my burning heart
Will be the fire, the water all the tears I’ll weep.
*
I saw, dead drunk and stretched out in the lane, a man I know—
I lent a hand and helped him to his feet, and watched him go;
Today it seems he can’t remember this, and looks as though
He means to say, “Do I know you?” It happened, even so.
*
His face is envied by both jessamine and rose,
His flirting charms both sexes everywhere he goes—
Lissome as flowing water, I saw him walking once . . .
And still within my eyes that gentle water flows.6
*
I wish I had the heart
to write a letter and complain;
I wish I had the soul
to find the right words for my pain—
I’m so distracted, crazed
with wretchedness, I pick my pen
And paper up . . . and start to cry . . .
and throw them down again.
*
Dear, dry your pointless tears, tears don’t suit you—
I’m sad enough, you needn’t be sad too;
Look, you’re the loved one, crying’s not your role—
Let me do what the lover has to do!
*
You’re no great intellect, and men like you don’t know
The usual kindnesses a lover ought to show—
My flighty friend, I’m glad I’m with you here tonight,
I hope I don’t regret it in the morning though . . .
*
Although we don’t get on in any way
I’ll be polite to you still, come what may.
“What have I done?” you ask. Just tell me what
You haven’t done! My dear, what can I say?
*
The one your beauty’s overthrown
has come back home;
The one who thirsts for you alone
has come back home;
Prepare the cage again, scatter your seeds
of kindness there—
Look, broken-winged, the bird you own
/> has come back home.
*
A rose that’s celebrated everywhere—that’s something
A youngster’s shirt disfigured by a tear—that’s something
Sweating profusely, crimson-faced, confused with shame
A mouth that’s stuffed with golden coins, I swear—that’s something7
Anonymous
Twelfth century or earlier
Nothing is known about this poet, though her poem indicates that she was probably a female musician/entertainer.
*
Brought to this town’s bazaar today, I’ll be
The best “companion” here—so who will hire me?
Though I don’t care for those who want to have me,
And those I like the look of don’t desire me.8
Motrebeh
Twelfth century
Motrebeh is a description of her profession, as it means “a female musician,” rather than her actual name, which is unknown. She was a member of the household of Toghan Shah, the ruler of Nayshapur, who died in 1185 or 1186.
*
I said, “My heart would like a kiss from you.”
“A kiss from me will cost your soul,” he said.
Immediately my heart poked at my side
And whispered, “That’s dirt cheap, dear, go ahead!”
Daughter of Salar
Early thirteenth century
Referred to as bint Esfahanieh (“the woman from Esfahan”), the poet’s given name is unknown. She became famous for a now lost panegyric she wrote to the Seljuk soltan Kay Kavus I, who ruled in Asia Minor in the first quarter of the thirteenth century, and this gives us the approximate period in which she lived. Her panegyric received this encomium: “The daughter of Hesamaddin Salar sent to his Majesty from Mosul this panegyric, which outdoes the gentle breeze of spring in its graciousness and the waters of Paradise in its flowing limpidity. His majesty gave instructions that she was to be paid a hundred dinars of red gold for every line. As there were 72 lines, 7,200 dinars were dispatched to Mosul . . .”*
*
The more I search myself the more I see
That longing for your love has ruined me;
I gaze into the mirror of my heart,
And though it’s me who looks, it’s you I see.
Aysheh Samarqandi
Thirteenth century
This poet’s name is also given as Aysheh Moqrieh, “Moqrieh” meaning “a female singer.” Apart for the fact that she was from Samarqand and lived as a singer, nothing further is known about her.
*
I said, “Bright moon, give my heart back to me—
How long must I endure love’s agony?”
He spread a thousand hearts before my eyes
And said, “Take yours; which is it? You tell me.”
*
My eyes weep pearl-like tears that glisten9
Like shining earrings in my ears—
So take these earrings, since the world
Says you’re the owner of my tears.
*
Night’s secrets in your arms have just begun
And night is over . . . here’s the rising sun;
But still, I wouldn’t take a hundred lives
In place of such a night, so quickly gone.
*
My hated love, last night, and all night too,
They—curse them—told me stories about you;
Their gossip was you break your promises;
And d’you know what? My heart said, “Yes, it’s true.”
Fatemeh Khorasani
Died 1246
The light-hearted frivolity of the few poems attributed to Fatemeh Khorasani is in stark contrast to the dramatic story of her life and death (recounted by the thirteenth-century historian of the Mongol empire, Jovayni). She had been captured as a slave during a Mongol raid on Khwarazm, and despite her lowly status became the trusted intimate of the Mongol queen Toregene, gradually replacing most of Toregene’s ministers in the process and making a great many enemies at court. When Toregene died under suspicious circumstances, Fatemeh’s enemies accused her of killing the queen by witchcraft. Tortured until she confessed to the crime, she was then drowned.
*
Kindness from you, and faithfulness, can’t be expected,
Without your presence all life’s pleasures are neglected . . .
Your being here’s the water of eternal life
But, like that sacred stream, as yet it’s undetected.
*
The blossoms return and the nightingales sing
Our wine-loving friends drink to welcome the spring
Without you our plans have all fallen apart
Just get yourself here, you’re the one missing thing
Padshah Khatun
1256–95
A member of the Mongol nobility that ruled Iran in the thirteenth century, Padshah Khatun was famous for her verses, her beauty, and her ruthlessness. She was married twice, first to Abaka Khan (the great-grandson of Genghis Khan), who became the country’s ruler in 1282 and died shortly afterward, and then to the crown prince, her stepson Gaykhatu, whom the fifteenth-century historian Mirkhond characterized as being too “addicted to wine, women, and sodomy” to rule, which meant that Padshah Khatun became the de facto head of state. As queen, she had her half-brother Suyurghatamish murdered, because he had forcibly taken over the rule of Kerman from Padshah Khatun’s mother. Gaykhatu was assassinated in 1295, and factions supporting Suyurghatamish’s widow had Padshah Khatun captured and killed.
*
I’m in my lover’s alley, but he’s gone—
On walls and doors his scent still lingers on
*
That apple you in secret sent to me
Gave with its scent eternal life to me—
My heart glows now like fire with happiness
That from your hand this gift was sent to me.
*
Possessed of untold sovereignty, beneath my veil10
I am a woman whose good deeds will never fail;
Even for breezes that the morning wafts to me
It’s hard to pass the curtain of my chastity—
I keep my shadowed beauty from the sun, whose light
Illumines towns, bazaars, and every common sight.
Not every woman with two yards of veil can reign,
Not every crowned head’s worthy of a king’s domain—
I am descended from great kings, if earthly powers
Belong to anyone they are assuredly ours.
*
Although I am the child of powerful kings,
A fruit upon the Mongols’ royal tree
Who’s lived her life in luxury and laughter,
My exile now brings only tears to me.11
Delshad Khatun
Fourteenth century
Delshad Khatun was a member of the Chupan family, who were descendants of the Mongol conquerors of Iran, and major contestants in the power struggles that engulfed much of Iran in the fourteenth century. “Khatun” is a female honorific, indicating royal status.
*
The drops of sorrow Heaven rains on me
Have sent me wandering over land and sea—
Ah, would that they could bring me to the place
That frees me from this being that is me.
*
Now every difficulty in my heart
Has been resolved . . . a good result!
Except for one, since to resolve love’s grief
Still proves to be too difficult.
Jahan Malek Khatun
c.1324–c.1382
An Inju princess, Jahan Khatun was the daughter of Masud Shah, the ruler o
f Shiraz and its environs from 1336 to 1339. Masud Shah was assassinated in 1342; his death was avenged by his brother (and Jahan Khatun’s uncle) Abu Es’haq, who ruled Shiraz from 1343 to 1353. The fourteenth-century traveler Ibn Battuta describes Abu Es’haq as “one of the best of Soltans, handsome and well-conducted, of generous character, humble but powerful and the ruler of a great kingdom . . .” He was a major patron of poets and it seems likely that he encouraged his niece’s poetic gifts. Jahan Khatun married her uncle’s nadim, his bosom friend and drinking companion; if her poems are to be believed, the marriage was not a happy one. She had a daughter who died while still a young child, and about whom she wrote twenty-three elegies. In 1353 Abu Es’haq was overthrown by the warlord Mobarez al-Din, who killed the male members of Jahan’s family; Jahan Khatun herself was imprisoned for a while and then driven into exile. With the accession to the throne of Mobarez al-Din’s son in 1358, Jahan Khatun returned to Shiraz, where she lived out the rest of her life. Her extensive divan (collected short poems), containing over 1,500 poems, has survived in two complete and two partial copies, which means that we have more poems by her than by any other pre-twentieth-century woman poet who wrote in Persian.
*
I swore I’d never look at him again,
I’d be a Sufi, deaf to sin’s temptations;
I saw my nature wouldn’t stand for it—
From now on I renounce renunciations.
*
You wandered through my garden, naked and alone
(The roses blenched to see their beauty overthrown).
My cheeky love, your body is the Fount of Youth
(But in your silver breast your heart is like a stone).
*
Last night, my love, my life, you lay with me,
I grasped your pretty chin, I fondled it,
And then I bit, and bit, your sweet lips till
I woke . . . It was my fingertip I bit.
*
My love’s an ache no ointments can allay now;
My soul’s on fire—how long you’ve been away now!
I said, “I will be patient while he’s gone.”
(But that’s impossible . . . it’s one whole day now . . .)
I told my heart, “I can’t endure this tyranny!
He’s nothing, no one! What’s this bully’s love to me?”
My little heart, you’re like a boundless sea, it seems;
And common sense? A splinter somewhere on that sea.