In the Bazaar of Love: The Selected Poetry of Amir Khusrau (Penguin Hardback Classics)
Page 9
of your friend, you slept like a friend
to strike our enemies blind.
One night,
you’ll recall, we were both in the garden:
me in the brambles and thorns,
you sleeping amidst flowers and roses.
A cause to celebrate! Khusrau
perceived you so fully that you slept
all night with him, arms around his neck.
48 Ghazal 1915: bi-khūbī hamchu mah-i tābanda bāshī
Dwelling in a ravishing realm,
you shine in beauty like the moon.
When I was destitute,
you put me out of my misery
with a glance. Long may you live—
O God!—for acting so nobly.
If you sit next to me, your slave,
I am free of the world’s sorrow.
The world burns caught in your gaze.
Sweetness pours from your smile.
Don’t be cruel. Avoid the shame
of facing your lovers on Judgement Day.
You have wrecked so many households,
teasing, reckless, flirting,
just as you have wrecked Khusrau
49 Ghazal 1968: man ashk-i bīdilān-rā khanda mīpandāshtam rūZī
Heartbroken tears—there was a day
I thought them a laugh. The seed I once
planted is now bearing fruit.
From the first day her black hair swept
before my eyes, my heart throbbed—
one day my morning will turn to night.
Don’t make a pretense of sobriety,
if you never drank from the goblet of love.
There was a day I fancied myself sober.
Having surrendered both my eyes to her,
I’ll set foot on her street, as if one day
I might fill these holes with dust from her door.
My heart melted from the old pain.
Consider the privation of my fate
as I looked clandestinely through my tears
at her door that day. If your heart is where
it belongs, if mine is not, don’t taunt me:
My heart was once like yours.
Treat burnt-out Khusrau with contempt.
It’s all fair payback, since he once maligned
those whom people treat with contempt.
Other Poems
MISCELLANEOUS PERSIAN POEMS
50 Praise for Nizāmuddīn Auliyā
These are two stanzas of a multi-stanza poem in the tarkīb-band form in praise of his pīr.
You are the friend to sorrowful hearts.
Imagination and intellect are lost in you.
Stars and heavens are in motion
in astonishment at your deeds.
The path to you is long, and on it
two worlds are like halves of a dust particle.
Many foolish men have boasted
about the vision of this dangerous path.
There—where perfection is without need,
a cloud came and covered up the chaff.
Make me turn away from the world
to reach your presence without fear.
Since the character of your slaves is pure
wouldn’t it be proper to call you pure?
Khusrau is prostrate before the pīrs,
and you are the absolute limit of his affairs.
In your goblet is love’s elixir.
Time and again the Friend’s message comes to you.
In the space between your footsteps,
one enters the unfolding union of both worlds.
You have codified the path of Farīd
and that’s why they call you the Code, the Nizām.
A hundred noble souls in heaven
have been melted down and stamped with your name.
Your court is the qibla and angels
fly to your roof like doves.
The tonic of your words soothes
the melancholia of those yearning for the Real.
The lowly Khusrau will have eternal life
now that he is enslaved by you for a thousand lives.
51 On Music and Poetry
Once a minstrel said to Khusrau, ‘Storehouse of verse,
which is nobler: the science of music or the art of poetry?
Music is a science that cannot be precisely noted
but poetry is an art that can be put on pen and paper.’
Khusrau answered, ‘I am an expert in both fields,
so it is proper that I be the judge in this matter.
I composed three books of poetry—
that, in fact, are three books of music.
I will describe the difference truly
for one who is a judge of such things.
Imagine poetry to be a complete science,
it needs no notes nor a minstrel’s voice.
A poem sung low or high makes no difference
to its meaning or to its words.
But if a minstrel utters random words as song,
without lyrics they have no sense or meaning.
Take the flute player who has his own voice and the flute,
but he still needs someone else for the lyrics.
Thus, both one with a voice and the listener
are in need of a master of words.
Music thus requires both voice and melody,
poetry needs a only a connoisseur of words.
Poetry is the bride and song her ornament, but
is there any harm if a beautiful bride has none?
One who knows this I consider to be human, if not
he should ask me, but if he doesn’t he is an ass.’
52 The Fine Lads of Delhi
This ghazal is from the poet’s larger narrative poem (masnavī), Qirān al-sa‘dain (The Conjunction of Two Auspicious Stars), which includes praises of Delhi’s buildings and inhabitants.
Delhi and its fine lads
with their turbans and twisted beards
openly drinking lovers’ blood
while secretly sipping wine.
Wilful and full of airs
they pay no heed to anyone.
So close to the heart, they rob
your soul and tuck it safely away.
When they are out for a stroll
rose bushes bloom in the street.
When the breeze strikes them from behind,
see how the turbans topple from their heads.
When they walk, the lovers follow,
blood gushing from their eyes.
Their heads puffed up with beauty’s pride,
their admirers’ hearts are gone with the wind.
These cheeky, simple Indian lads have made
Muslims into worshippers of the sun.
Those fair Hindu boys
have led me to drunken ruin.
Trapped in the coils of their curly locks
Khusrau is a dog on a leash.
53 Exchange between Two Lovers: Khusrau and Farhād
This selection is from the long narrative poem, Shīrīn and Khusrau. Rivals for the affections of the fair Shīrīn, Khusrau and Farhād embody two kinds of lovers. The form of a verse dialogue (munāzara) between two characters was often used effectively by Nizāmī.
Morning arose from long sweet slumber
clutching a goblet of milk in her hand.
Her distant movement roused heaven
and the goblet’s sweetness spilled over.
King Khusrau said, ‘My fortune seems bright;
I will go to visit the river of milk today.’
He removed his kingly garments
and emerged in a shepherd’s guise.
Making inquiries through dale and hill,
he came alone to the river of milk.
He gazed for a while on the bank of the stream
and saw all the rocks piled up in a heap.
He looked carefully at each cut
with an e
xpert eye and called out, ‘Bravo’.
When he saw the master craftsmanship,
he set off towards the master, designing a scheme.
He saw a young man built like a mountain
with kingly royal splendour about him.
That noble form was lost in thought,
like a full moon reduced to a crescent.
He had experienced such countless torments
that you could count his bones through his skin.
With a bloody face and dusty head to foot,
coated with dust and blood, he was sorrow itself.
Khusrau asked him,
‘Who are you? What are you making?’
Farhād replied,
‘I am a lover. I am smelting my soul.’
‘What is the mark of a lover?’
‘He knows to live and suffer.’
‘What do such lovers really want?’
‘To give their hearts and seek out pain.’
‘Why are their hearts not with them?’
‘Do the beautiful beloveds allow this?’
‘What is the beloved’s creed?’
‘They call it coquetry and deceit.’
‘What is her other occupation?’
‘To take life and give sorrow.’
‘Does sorrow’s bitterness ever decrease?’
‘It is sweeter than sorrow, so it’s fine.’
‘How do you fare with this distance from her?’
‘I am dying away so far from her face.’
‘Does her radiance sometimes fall on you?’
‘Yes, but from afar, like the moon.’
‘Don’t look at her as long as you live.’
‘Death would be better than that life.’
‘She will put your life in danger.’
‘My life is cheap, I have no fear.’
‘Keep your distance from that friend.’
‘That is not friendship’s way.’
‘She is untried and nothing but trouble.’
‘How does that pertain to love?’
‘How long will you suffer for her?’
‘All my life and in death as well too.’
‘And if you die from this passion?’
‘I will pray for her in annihilation.’
‘And if she should chop off your head?’
‘It will look towards her from beneath the earth.’
‘And if she were to spill your blood?’
‘I will die longing for her.’
‘Isn’t bloodshed a heinous crime?’
‘It is lawful when shed by the friend.’
‘If she were to suddenly pass before you?’
‘My eyes would sweep the way before her.’
‘If she lays her foot on your eyes?’
‘There’s room in my eyes and heart.’
‘If you see her form in a dream?’
‘I will not wake up until Judgement Day.’
‘Do you ever dream of this?’
‘Indeed, if ever I manage to sleep.’
‘If she asks you to dig through stone with your nails?’
‘I would even use my eyelashes for miles.’
‘Live long in your sorrow for your friend.’
‘How can I live when she is my life?’
‘Love has put your life in danger.’
‘What have lovers to fear from this?’
Whatever the great monarch said to him,
Farhād answered him back as a lover should.
The king was impressed by the passion
and perseverance in such a true and tried lover.
MACARONIC AND SHORT PERSIAN POEMS
54 Don’t Be Heedless of My Sorry State
This poem in mixed Persian and Hindavi is not found in the standard collections of Khusrau’s Persian poetry, but has been attributed to him in oral and vernacular traditions.
Don’t be heedless of my sorry state,
He rolls his eyes, he makes excuses.
For I cannot bear this separation.
Why won’t he take me in his arms?
Nights of separation are as long as tresses,
And the days of union as short as life.
Girl, if I don’t see my lover,
how will I get through the dark night?
In a flash, two enchanting eyes seduced
my heart and robbed me of my peace of mind.
Who cares for me enough
to take my message to my love?
Blazing like a candle, flitting like a mote of dust,
continually weeping in love for that beauty.
Sleepless eyes, restless limbs
he doesn’t come, he doesn’t send word.
In hopes for the day of union
with my trickster lover, Khusrau,
I will keep myself prepared,
ready to go to his abode.
55 The Goldsmith
I lost my senses when I saw the goldsmith.
The lad caught me by the ear and enslaved me.
I went to complain about my aching ear,
but he put his lips on mine and silenced me.
56 The Pān-seller
Last night my pān-seller was up to his tricks
as he slowly prepared pān leaves in his shop.
As he gave the people in his shop their leaves,
in return they surrendered to him their lives.
57 The Jogi
The young jogī boy was sitting in the dust,
face pretty as Lailā’s, mind mad as Majnūn’s.
His beauty was really enhanced by the dust:
a mirror is brighter when polished with grit.
58 The Elephant Driver
Seated on an elephant, kajak in hand,
his chain-like tresses shattered all hearts.
Seldom has anyone anywhere seen such a rare sight:
The sun high in the sky, with crescent in hand.
59 The Flower-seller
The rose prefers no other beauty to yours.
That’s why it always laughs at everyone else.
My Hindu flower-seller, cover your face.
It’s your fault the rose seems to wear a sacred thread.1
60 The Cobbler
Cobbler, don’t ask me for my heart and my faith.
Don’t make the full moon wane before your beauty.
Your awl stitches my shoe and sews up my soul.
My life seems to end—stop repairing these shoes!
61 The Curd-seller
Gujrī, you shine bright in your charm and beauty,
that curd pot on your head, a royal parasol.
Sweet sugar seems to trickle from your two lips
whenever you shout, ‘Curds for sale, buy my curds.’
62 The Barber Boy
The graceful barber boy
was a mirror of beauty.
I said, ‘Darling, embrace me.’
He cried, ‘Nāi, nāi,’ a barber-ous no.2
63 The Hindu Idol
I grew pale before the Hindu idol.
Alas, he had no idea of my distress.
I told him, ‘I want to kiss your lips.’
He laughed and said, ‘Nahi nahi,’ a proscriptive no.3
64 The Hindu Lass
One day I was strolling by a stream
when I saw a Hindu lass on the bank.
I asked, ‘My pretty, how much for your hair?’
She cried, ‘A pearl for every strand,’
or ‘Get lost, you wretch’ in the Hindavi sense.
HINDAVI POEMS
65 Come Colour Me in Your Own Hue
Colourful, come colour me in your own hue.
You are my lord, Beloved of God.
My veil and my lover’s turban,
colour them both with spring.
You are my lord, Beloved of God.
As the price you demand for the pigment,
accept the payment of my flowering youth.
You are my lord, Beloved of
God.
I have arrived at your threshold,
protect my honour.
You are my lord, Beloved of God.
Nizāmuddīn Auliyiā is my pīr,
be my companion in love.
You are my lord, Beloved of God.
66 Nizām, I Am Ready to Die for You
Nizām, I am ready to die for you.
Ready to die, Nizām—let me be sacrificed.
Among all the women,
my veil is besmirched,
everyone sneers.
This spring, dye my veil.
My honour is in your hands.
Nizām, I am ready to die for you.
Others fight with their in-laws,
but I have you—this everyone knows.
My honour is in your hands.
Nizām, I am ready to die for you.
Qutb and Farīd come in the wedding party
and Khusrau is the bride.4
Nizām, I am ready to die for you.
67 Mother, Today There Is Colour
Mother, today there is colour
in my beloved’s home:
colour in his courtyard,
a happy meeting with my lover.
Mother, there is colour.
I found a pīr, Nizāmuddīn Auliyā—
Whenever I look he is with me.
Mother, there is colour.
Nizāmuddīn Auliyā, he brightens the world.
He is with me whenever I look.
Mother, there is colour.
68 The Path to the Well Is Very Rough
The path to the well is very rough—
how can I fill my pitcher,
my fine beloved Nizām?
Tell me, beloved Nizām.
When I went to fill my pitcher with water
he ran up and broke it.
Nizāmuddīn Auliyā, I am ready to die for you.
Save the honour of my veil.
69 When Our Eyes Met