The Conference of the Birds (Penguin)

by Farid al-Din Attar

  No complete translation of the poem has previously been made into English. This translation is of the whole poem with the exception of the invocation and the epilogue. The invocation, a traditional prelude to long narrative poems in Persian, consists of praise of God, of the Prophet and of the founders of Islam. Attar cleverly weaves the introduction of his birds into the list of prophets, and it is at this point that the poem proper starts and our translation opens. The epilogue, again a traditional feature of such poems, consists largely of self-praise and is a distinct anticlimax after a poem devoted to the notion of passing beyond the Self.

  Previous translations have been made into English by Edward FitzGerald, Masani and C. S. Nott. Of these, FitzGerald’s is the most interesting, though it also takes the most liberties with the text. FitzGerald translates about a fifth of the poem (into heroic couplets); he rearranges the stories, sometimes bowdlerizes them and often translates very freely indeed (as he does in his versions of Khayyam). But, as with the Khayyam poems, he frequently succeeds in capturing much of the tone and feeling of the original. Masani’s translation, of around half the poem, is into adequate prose. Nott’s prose was prepared from Garcin de Tassy’s nineteenth-century French translation; unfortunately the intervention of another language between Nott and the Persian has meant that many of the stories have become blurred in the process. Frequently the point Attar is making is obscured or simply changed; this is especially true in the section where the hoopoe tells anecdotes about sufis who quarrel with God. A fair number of stories are omitted, including the important last story; quite a lot of the commentary is also omitted, and this has rendered the poem’s structure very elusive. Attar’s tone shifts from the exalted to the sarcastic, from the witty to the indignant; Nott’s tone, perhaps because he is translating from an intervening language, is consistently ‘reverent’, and this makes the poem seem much less lively than it in fact is.

  DICK DAVIS

  ‘This translation has been made from the edition of Attar’s Manteq at-Tair prepared by Dr Sadegh Gouharin (Tehran, 1978), and the notes to his edition have been consulted in the preparation of the Biographical Index which follows the poem. Line numbers of the Persian text are given on each page. Other books to which we are particularly indebted, apart from those cited in the introduction, are The Encyclopaedia of Islam and A. J. Arberry’s translation of episodes from Attar’s Tadh-kirat al-Auliya (London, 1966). We are grateful to the British Institute of Persian Studies for generous financial assistance and to those friends who have read the manuscript through, entirely or in part, and made many valuable suggestions.

  lines 616–36

  Dear hoopoe, welcome! You will be our guide;

  It was on you King Solomon relied

  To carry secret messages between

  His court and distant Sheba’s lovely queen.

  He knew your language and you knew his heart –

  As his close confidant you learnt the art

  Of holding demons captive underground,

  And for these valiant exploits you were crowned.

  And you are welcome, finch! Rise up and play

  Those liquid notes that steal men’s hearts away;

  Like Moses you have seen the flames burn high

  On Sinai’s slopes and there you long to fly,

  Like him avoid cruel Pharaoh’s hand, and seek

  Your promised home on Sinai’s mountain peak.

  There you will understand unspoken words

  Too subtle for the ears of mortal birds.

  And welcome, parrot, perched in paradise!

  Your splendid plumage bears a strange device,

  A necklace of bright fire about the throat;

  Though heaven’s bliss is promised by your coat,

  This circle stands for hell; if you can flee

  Like Abraham from Nimrod’s enmity,

  Despise these flames – uninjured you will tread

  Through fire if first you cut off Nimrod’s head,

  And when the fear of him has died put on

  Your gorgeous coat; your collar’s strength has gone!

  Welcome, dear partridge – how you strut with pride

  Along the slopes of wisdom’s mountain-side;

  Let laughter ring out where your feet have trod,

  Then strike with all your strength the door of God;

  Destroy the mountain of the Self, and here

  From ruined rocks a camel will appear;

  Beside its new-born noble hooves, a stream

  Of honey mingled with white milk will gleam –

  Drive on this beast and at your journey’s end

  Saleh will greet you as a long-lost friend.

  Rare falcon, welcome! How long will you be

  lines 637–52

  So fiercely jealous of your liberty?

  Your lure is love, and when the jess is tied,

  Submit, and be for ever satisfied.

  Give up the intellect for love and see

  In one brief moment all eternity;

  Break nature’s frame, be resolute and brave,

  Then rest at peace in Unity’s black cave.

  Rejoice in that close, undisturbed dark air –

  The Prophet will be your companion there.*

  And welcome, francolin! Since once you heard

  And answered God’s first all-commanding word,

  Since love has spoken in your soul, reject

  The Self, that whirlpool where our lives are wrecked;

  As Jesus rode his donkey, ride on it;

  Your stubborn Self must bear you and submit –

  Then burn this Self and purify your soul;

  Let Jesus’ spotless spirit be your goal.

  Destroy this burden, and before your eyes

  The Holy Ghost in glory will arise.

  Welcome, dear nightingale – from your sweet throat

  Pour out the pain of lovers note by note.

  Like David in love’s garden gently sigh;

  There sing the songs that make men long to die,

  O, sing as David did, and with your song

  Guide home man’s suffering and deluded throng.

  The Self is like a mail coat – melt this steel

  To pliant wax with David’s holy zeal,

  And when its metal melts, like David you

  Will melt with love and bid the Self adieu.

  And welcome, peacock – once of paradise,

  Who let the venomous, smooth snake entice

  Your instincts to its master’s evil way,

  And suffered exile for that fateful day;

  lines 653–72

  He blackened your untutored heart and made

  A tangled darkness of the orchard’s shade –

  Until you crush this snake, how can you be

  A pilgrim worthy of our mystery?

  Destroy its ugly charm and Adam then

  Will welcome you to paradise again.

  Cock pheasant, welcome! With your piercing sight,

  Look up and see the heart’s source drowned in light;

  You are imprisoned in your filthy well,

  A dark and noisome, unremitting hell –

  Rise from this well as Joseph did and gain

  The throne of Egypt’s fabulous domain,

  Where you and Joseph will together reign.

  Dear pigeon, welcome – with what joy you yearn

  To fly away, how sadly you return!

  Your heart is wrung with grief, you share the gaol

  That Jonah knew, the belly of a whale –

  The Self has swallowed you for its delight;

  How long will you endure its mindless spite?

  Cut off its head, seek out the moon, and fly

  Beyond the utmost limits of the sky;

  Escape this monster and become the friend

  Of Jonah in that ocean without end.

  Welcome, sweet turtle-dove, and softly coo

  Until the heavens scatter jewels on
you –

  But what ingratitude you show! Around

  Your neck a ring of loyalty is bound,

  But while you live you blithely acquiesce

  From head to claw in smug ungratefulness;

  Abandon such self-love and you will see

  The Way that leads us to Reality.

  There knowledge is your guide, and Khezr will bring

  Clear water drawn from life’s eternal spring.

  And welcome, hawk! Your flight is high and proud,

  But you return with head politely bowed –

  In blood and in affliction you must drown,

  And I suggest you keep your head bent down!

  lines 673–92

  What are you here? Mere carrion, rotten flesh,

  Withheld from Truth by this world’s clumsy mesh;

  Outsoar both this world and the next, and there,

  Released from both, take off the hood you wear –

  When you have turned from both worlds you will land

  On Zulgharnin’s outstretched and welcome hand.

  And little goldfinch, welcome! May your fire

  Be an external sign of fierce desire.

  Whatever happens, burn in those bright flames,

  And shut your eyes and soul to earthly claims.

  Then, as you burn, whatever pain you feel,

  Remember God will recompense your zeal;

  When you perceive His hidden secrets, give

  Your life to God’s affairs and truly live –

  At last, made perfect in Reality,

  You will be gone, and only God will be.

  The birds assemble and the hoopoe tells them of the Simorgh

  The world’s birds gathered for their conference

  And said: ‘Our constitution makes no sense.

  All nations in the world require a king;

  How is it we alone have no such thing?

  Only a kingdom can be justly run;

  We need a king and must inquire for one.’

  They argued how to set about their quest.

  The hoopoe fluttered forward; on his breast

  There shone the symbol of the Spirit’s Way

  And on his head Truth’s crown, a feathered spray.

  Discerning, righteous and intelligent,

  He spoke: ‘My purposes are heaven-sent;

  I keep God’s secrets, mundane and divine,

  In proof of which behold the holy sign

  Bismillah* etched for ever on my beak.

  lines 693–716

  No one can share the grief with which I seek

  Our longed-for Lord, and quickened by my haste

  My wits find water in the trackless waste.

  I come as Solomon’s close friend and claim

  The matchless wisdom of that mighty name

  (He never asked for those who quit his court,

  But when I left him once alone he sought

  With anxious vigilance for my return –

  Measure my worth by this great king’s concern!).

  I bore his letters – back again I flew –

  Whatever secrets he divined I knew;

  A prophet loved me; God has trusted me;

  What other bird has won such dignity?

  For years I travelled over many lands,

  Past oceans, mountains, valleys, desert sands,

  And when the Deluge rose I flew around

  The world itself and never glimpsed dry ground;

  With Solomon I set out to explore

  The limits of the earth from shore to shore.

  I know our king – but how can I alone

  Endure the journey to His distant throne?

  Join me, and when at last we end our quest

  Our king will greet you as His honoured guest.

  How long will you persist in blasphemy?

  Escape your self-hood’s vicious tyranny –

  Whoever can evade the Self transcends

  This world and as a lover he ascends.

  Set free your soul; impatient of delay,

  Step out along our sovereign’s royal Way:

  We have a king; beyond Kaf’s mountain peak

  The Simorgh lives, the sovereign whom you seek,

  And He is always near to us, though we

  Live far from His transcendent majesty.

  A hundred thousand veils of dark and light

  Withdraw His presence from our mortal sight,

  And in both worlds no being shares the throne

  That marks the Simorgh’s power and His alone –

  lines 717–37

  He reigns in undisturbed omnipotence,

  Bathed in the light of His magnificence –

  No mind, no intellect can penetrate

  The mystery of His unending state:

  How many countless hundred thousands pray

  For patience and true knowledge of the Way

  That leads to Him whom reason cannot claim,

  Nor mortal purity describe or name;

  There soul and mind bewildered miss the mark

  And, faced by Him, like dazzled eyes, are dark –

  No sage could understand His perfect grace,

  Nor seer discern the beauty of His face.

  His creatures strive to find a path to Him,

  Deluded by each new, deceitful whim,

  But fancy cannot work as she would wish;

  You cannot weigh the moon like so much fish!

  How many search for Him whose heads are sent

  Like polo-balls in some great tournament

  From side to giddy side – how many cries,

  How many countless groans assail the skies!

  Do not imagine that the Way is short;

  Vast seas and deserts lie before His court.

  Consider carefully before you start;

  The journey asks of you a lion’s heart.

  The road is long, the sea is deep – one flies

  First buffeted by joy and then by sighs;

  If you desire this quest, give up your soul

  And make our sovereign’s court your only goal.

  First wash your hands of life if you would say:

  “I am a pilgrim of our sovereign’s Way”;

  Renounce your soul for love; He you pursue

  Will sacrifice His inmost soul for you.

  It was in China, late one moonless night,

  The Simorgh first appeared to mortal sight –

  He let a feather float down through the air,

  And rumours of its fame spread everywhere;

  lines 738–54

  Throughout the world men separately conceived

  An image of its shape, and all believed

  Their private fantasies uniquely true!

  (In China still this feather is on view,

  Whence comes the saying you have heard, no doubt,

  “Seek knowledge, unto China seek it out.”)

  If this same feather had not floated down,

  The world would not be filled with His renown –

  It is a sign of Him, and in each heart

  There lies this feather’s hidden counterpart.

  But since no words suffice, what use are mine

  To represent or to describe this sign?

  Whoever wishes to explore the Way,

  Let him set out – what more is there to say?’

  The hoopoe finished, and at once the birds

  Effusively responded to his words.

  All praised the splendour of their distant king;

  All rose impatient to be on the wing;

  Each would renounce the Self and be the friend

  Of his companions till the journey’s end.

  But when they pondered on the journey’s length,

  They hesitated; their ambitious strength

  Dissolved: each bird, according to his kind,

  Felt flattered but reluctantly declined.

  The nightingale’s excuse

  T
he nightingale made his excuses first.

  His pleading notes described the lover’s thirst,

  And through the crowd hushed silence spread as he

  Descanted on love’s scope and mystery.

  ‘The secrets of all love are known to me,’

  He crooned. ‘Throughout the darkest night my song

  Resounds, and to my retinue belong

  The sweet notes of the melancholy lute,

  lines 755–75

  The plaintive wailing of the love-sick flute;

  When love speaks in the soul my voice replies

  In accents plangent as the ocean’s sighs.

  The man who hears this song spurns reason’s rule;

  Grey wisdom is content to be love’s fool.

  My love is for the rose; I bow to her;

  From her dear presence I could never stir.

  If she should disappear the nightingale

  Would lose his reason and his song would fail,

  And though my grief is one that no bird knows,

  One being understands my heart – the rose.

  I am so drowned in love that I can find

  No thought of my existence in my mind.

  Her worship is sufficient life for me;

  The quest for her is my reality

  (And nightingales are not robust or strong;

  The path to find the Simorgh is too long).

  My love is here; the journey you propose

  Cannot beguile me from my life – the rose.

  It is for me she flowers; what greater bliss

  Could life provide me – anywhere – than this?

  Her buds are mine; she blossoms in my sight –

  How could I leave her for a single night?’

  The hoopoe answers him

  The hoopoe answered him: ‘Dear nightingale,

  This superficial love which makes you quail

  Is only for the outward show of things.