Space does not permit me here to dwell with any detail on the dozen most brilliant poets of the eighth/fourteenth century. But I do need to mention a few. Khwājū Kirmānī was born in Kerman in 689/1290 at the same time that Sa‘dī was dying in Shīrāz. Khwājū died in 753/1352, long before the death of the men who best illustrate Persian belles lettres in that century. These include the likes of Ibn Yamīn Fariyūmadī, who died in 769/1368, and ‘Ubayd-i Zākānī, who passed away in 772/1371, which was just before the death of ‘Imād al-Dīn Faqīh Kirmānī in 773/1372. Salmān Sāvajī died a few years later in 778/1376, followed by Kamāl Khujandī in 803/1400. Between the latter two, Ḥāfiẓ died around 792/1390. Maghribī passed away in 810/1408 and Shāh Ni‘matu’llāh Valī died in 834/1431.
Here, it will be directly relevant to the concern of this study if we focus on one of these poets, ‘Imād Faqīh Kirmānī. Despite the geographical distance between Kirmān and Yazd, and between Shīrāz and Tabrīz or Baghdād, it is hard to imagine that ‘Imād was unknown to his contemporaries, or that he would have been ignorant of them. ‘Imād Faqīh possessed the most stable social position amongst all these poets. In his native Kirmān, he was protected by the princes of his time and occupied the highest position in the local religious hierarchy. Grand Master of a Sufi Khānaqāh in Kirmān, a position he had inherited from his father, he was also a Doctor of Law (faqīh), well-versed in jurisprudence. Besides holding these ranks, he was also the chief Qāḍī (judge) of his city, which conferred to him special influence, and in his youth Shāh Shujā‘ Muẓaffarī (reg. 759/1358–786/ 1384) had him as a tutor. Shāh Shujā‘ venerated ‘Imād thereafter, and visited him almost every year. Shujā‘’s father, Mubāriz al-Dīn Muḥammad Muẓaffarī (reg. 754/1353–759/1357), the founder of the Muẓaffarīd dynasty, also had great esteem for him and tried to foster his religious and charitable undertakings in every way. In return, ‘Imād Faqīh reciprocated his gratitude and voiced his high esteem of him – and this was during the very years when Ḥāfiẓ was satirizing and parodying Mubāriz al-Dīn as a strict Censor morum and Officer of the Vice-squad (muḥtasib) in Shīrāz.
Unlike Ḥāfiẓ, ‘Imād Faqīh Kirmānī spoke clearly about the events that had an impact on his personal life. He also dated his writings and has left accounts of people with whom he dealt. Hence, by examining the dates he has given, one can follow the progression of his work and trace the gradual development of his thought as a poet, religious judge (Qāḍī) and Sufi shaykh. His entire oeuvre consists of poetry composed in the pure Persian tradition, featuring all the literary genres current during his age. Apart from a rich Dīvān composed over the course of his life, five mathnawī poems from him are also extant. The first of these is a debate (munāẓira) between various lovers and beloveds. The second is a treatise on good manners and proper conduct (adab), addressed to ten people with well-defined characters. In 756/1355, he wrote a treatise in mathnawī verse on Sufism called the ‘Book of the Way’ (Ṭarīqat-nāma), with a preface dedicated affectionately to Prince Mubāriz al-Dīn, who had been ruler of Shīrāz since 754/1353. The poem constitutes a sort of manifesto of the sacred alliance between piety and political power. ‘Imād’s fourth mathnawī is a bit of a mixture, compounded of seven poems of desolation, some lengthy counsel addressed to the prince, the story of the foundation of a Sufi meeting house (khānaqāh) in Kirmān, ranged alongside the poet’s own dreams and visions. A fifth poem contains ten letters, modelled on the epistolary genre. In such works one can admire once again ‘Imād Faqīh’s poetic finesse, his sensitivity, his strength of soul, as well as his attention to the realities of life in Kirmān and the very personal way in which he incarnated the continuity of the grand tradition of classical Persian poetry.
As stated above, ‘Imād’s Book of the Way (Ṭarīqat-nāma) was a treatise on Sufism in the form of a poem. Written to instruct disciples, chapter by chapter it summarizes in a beautiful manner the Miṣbāḥ al-hidāyat, or ‘The Lamp of the Guidance’, which ‘Izz al-Dīn Maḥmūd Kāshānī (d. 735/1334) had composed in Natanz. This great book of Persian prose was the fruit of immense knowledge in which Kāshānī aspired to encompass and express all the Islamic lore on Sufism of his time to the highest degree of perfection. It was also influenced by the famous ode (Qaṣīda) on the ecstasy of love by Ibn al-Fāriḍ (d. 633/1235), and modelled after the ‘Awārif al-ma‘ārif, the most celebrated and exhaustive manual of Sufi discipline, doctrine and practice ever composed. The latter work, completed some time before 612/1215, was penned by the supreme founder of the Suhrawardī Sufi Order – Shihāb al-Dīn Abū Ḥafṣ ‘Umar Suhrawardī (d. 632/1234).
Underlying this transmission of Sufi knowledge by books and teaching, we can also see the transmission of the living practice of the Sufis from master to disciple. One may clearly discern a direct line that connects the supreme master ‘Umar Suhrawardī to one of his disciples, Najīb al-Dīn ‘Alī (son of Najīb al-Dīn Buzghūsh, d. 678/1279, an eminent Shīrāzi Sufi master), who founded a Sufi order, and transmitted his knowledge down to his son and disciple Ẓāhir al-Dīn, as well as on to another disciple, Nūr al-Dīn Iṣfahānī. The latter in turn had important disciples, such as the above-mentioned Maḥmūd Kāshānī, as well as the celebrated ‘Abd al-Razzāq Kāshānī (d. 730/1329). Our ‘Imād Faqīh Kirmānī traced his initiatic affiliation to ‘Umar Suhrawardī through his father, himself a disciple of a certain Zayn al-Dīn Kāmū’ī, who was a disciple of Suhrawardī, but who had also founded his own Sufi order (ṭarīqa). It is interesting to note that ‘Imād advised his own disciples to read several pages from ‘Umar Suhrawardī’s ‘Awārif al-ma‘ārif ‘every morning’,5 and also recommended they regularly study Muḥammad Ghazālī’s monumental Revivification of the Sciences of Religion (Iḥyā’ ‘ulūm al-dīn).
Here, then, is a rough sketch of the Sufi world in which Ḥāfiẓ had to situate himself – a real world, where the influence of Sufism was the dominant factor, in Shīrāz as well as in Kirmān, in which ‘Imād Faqīh Kirmānī occupied a position that can hardly be underestimated. Already well-known as poet when Mubāriz al-Dīn was still only a governor in the service of the last Mongol emperor Abū Sa‘īd (reg. 717/1317–736/1335), ‘Imād was attached to the last of the princes of the Īnjūid dynasty and to the most celebrated of the Muẓaffarids. While he had a spiritual and moral influence on these princes and their aristocratic circles, he also acted as a protector of the poor and downtrodden against the interests of ‘the powerful and the rich’.6 Just as much as he was a panegyrist who composed much adulatory verse for those in power, he also acted as a Sufi shaykh to several generations of faithful disciples in his monastery (khānaqāh) in Kirmān. He was a profoundly religious personality whose faith is evident from numerous exquisite supplications (munājāt) and lovely prayers imbued with sincerity. In summary, the person and the life of ‘Imād Faqīh Kirmānī bring to mind the great model of collegial Sufism, Shaykh Shihāb al-Dīn Abū Ḥafṣ ‘Umar Suhrawardī (539/1144–632/1234), who inhabited the highest echelon of Baghdad society, where he was politically attached to the Abbasid Caliph Al-Nāṣir Bi’llāh (575/1180–622/1225), as is well-known.
Before dealing with Ḥāfiẓ’s views on Sufism, one must ask how the masters of intellectual thought in that age classified human beings. From studying their works, we are led to understand that they did so in proportion to their respective degrees of perfection. Thus, in his Ṭarīqat-nāma,7 condensing for his disciples what ‘Izz al-Dīn Kāshānī had elaborated in his Miṣbāḥ al-hidāyat,8 which in turn had been extracted from the ‘Awārif of ‘Umar Suhrawardī, ‘Imād Faqīh Kirmānī explained that human beings (mardum) can be subdivided into three levels. On the first level are those perfect human beings, who have already arrived at the divine goal ordained by God. On the second level are those who walk on the road to perfection. The lowest level is called ‘the terrain of insufficiency’, which is inhabited by inferior types of human beings. The perfect human beings who are favo
ured by God are recipients of primordial divine grace: ‘Such wayfarers are the just, companions of the Right. Those who tarry on the way are rebels, companions of the Left Hand.’9
Those who have arrived at the end of the Way (wāṣilān) are of three groups. First and foremost of them are the Prophets, who God sends back amongst humankind after they attain perfection so as to guide those who are still imperfect. Next come the Sufi masters (mashāyikh-i ṣūfiyya), who ‘have attained the station of divine union [wuṣūl] by means of their perfect obedience and following of the Prophet. Afterwards, they have been authorized and commissioned to come back amongst men in order to bid them to follow the Path of the Prophet.’ This second group, states Kāshānī,
are perfect men who are capable of bringing others to perfection [kāmilān-i mukammal]. This is because by eternal Providence’s overflowing grace, after having been immersed in the source of union [‘ayn al-jam‘] and drowned in the abyss of divine Unity, they have been brought forth from the belly of the whale of Annihilation and cast upon the shores of Separation [tafriqa] where they are granted godly subsistence and vouchsafed salvation in order to guide men to salvation and to higher degrees [of perfection].10
Finally come those who, having reached the stage of perfection, have immersed themselves in the ocean of Union and have refused the task of perfecting other human beings.
Those that fare the Sufi way (ahl-i sulūk), however, are of two kinds. The first are those who exclusively long to contemplate the divine visage and pursue the highest degree, which is the Face of God (wajh Allāh). The second are seekers of paradise who are desirous of rewards in the realm hereafter.
The former in turn are divided into two categories: Sufic mystics (mutaṣawwifa) and those who incur blame (malāmatiyya). The mutaṣawwifa have acquired certain qualities of the Sufis, yet they ‘still remain enmeshed in certain attributes of their carnal souls’.11 The malāmatiyya, for their part, form a completely different category from the Sufis. Lengthy expositions have been consecrated by doctrinarians of Sufism over the centuries in an effort to categorize these blame-seekers, as can be seen from the ‘Awārif of Suhrawardī and the works of his descendants – indeed, as is visible in Sufi texts composed long before him. Space does not permit us to dwell on this august company here. Admired for their virtues of total devotion (ikhlāṣ) and perfect sincerity (ṣidq), they are nonetheless placed in a lower rank than the Sufis, for they still look at themselves, making an effort to hide their virtue, while the Sufi has freed himself definitely from any attention to and concern for himself. Whereas ‘the partisans of self-blame’ (malāmatiyya) are characterized as being ‘totally devoted’ (mukhliṣān), the Sufis ‘are pure and emancipated from all taint and alloy’ (mukhlaṣān).12 We know that Ibn al-‘Arabī ‘places the Sufis in an intermediary category, above the ascetics [zuhhād] to be sure, but below the Blameworthy [malāmiyya], who are also called the Realizers [muḥaḳḳiḳūn]’.13 According to ‘Izz al-Dīn, human beings who naught but seek the life of the next world are divided up, with regard to their respective pursuit of perfection, between the ascetics (zuhhād), the spiritually poor (fuqarā’), the servants (khuddām) and the devotees (‘ubbād), categories that he endeavours to define.14 But this is not the place to elaborate further on this spiritual typology.
These few remarks, however, do serve to underline the fact that the intelligentsia in the society of Shīrāz, Kirmān and other provincial capitals had a good overall grasp of the doctrinal framework of Sufism. This framework, with its particular mode of thinking, espoused the existence of a definite hierarchy of human beings, along with the notion of their respective degrees of religious perfection and, therefore, of various ranks of moral perfection, and, finally, of their life within society.
Ḥāfiẓ and the Sufi
suḥbat-i ‘āfiyatat gar chih khwūs uftād ay dil
jānib-i ‘ishq ‘azīz ast, furū magdhārash.
Although consorting with what’s safe and sound
Seems, dear heart, to be a joy and a delight,
Love too has much grace and chic and charm,
And her side too must not be forsworn.15
Ḥāfiẓ treats the figure of the Sufi harshly. In order for this to be understood, the force of the expressions which he uses against him must be shown. His impatience was the result of his exacting and rigorous demands, for it offended him to the core that a Sufi should use craftiness and deception whilst pursuing the way to perfection. On the contrary, Ḥāfiẓ knew all too well how to expound to a sincere Sufi exactly what this exacting spiritual ideal of perfection entailed. Amongst the Sufis with whom he was acquainted, the very notion of perfection seemed to have become utterly devalued, and hence his lament:
It’s quite fit if waves of blood froth forth
From the ruby’s heart by this fraud
And deceit – through which a broken shard
Had made the ruby’s market crash.16
There are 12 different instances in his Dīvān where Ḥāfiẓ cites the technical term Perfection (kamāl). In ten of these, Perfection is attributed to the person he loves – that is, to her justice, the games she plays with her eyes and, above all, her beauty. In the other two instances, he employs the notion of Perfection vis-à-vis himself. In one verse, he describes himself as being in a state of ‘perfect’ bewilderment (ḥayrat) in which he is in union with his Beloved.17 In another, he states that ‘despite my perfect love for you, I live in utter deficiency just like a candle [bā kamāl-i ‘ishq-i tu dar ‘ayn-i nuqṣānam chū sham‘]’,18 referring here to the idea that his own love, however complete, is still like a candle – snuffed out before the radiance of the Beloved’s sun. Elsewhere, he expresses the same idea slightly differently, declaring that ‘nothingness is the final end of every perfect thing that is’ (kay nīstī’st sar-anjām har kamāl kay hast).19
The portrait that Ḥāfiẓ paints of the Sufis is quite a sombre one. He admits that he would have had far more tales to tell of them had not his master bid him to hold his tongue.20 In outer appearance they seem to be simple spiritual mendicants, but in reality their grasping hands betray what they have up their sleeves.21 They remind one, he says, of the piety of the cat: once its prayers and orisons are over, it is always ready to devour the partridge within its grasp.22 Even the greatest among them, ‘the royal falcons of the Spiritual Path’, as he calls them, lack all stature and dignity, having contented themselves to assume the rank of flies.23 Standing at their head is a man who surpasses them all as a votary of the Antichrist and a kind of atheist – a cipher for Tamerlane.24
The false piety of the Sufi is his first and foremost defect. On the one hand, one may find him suddenly transported in the throes of mystic rapture, uttering paradoxes and giving voice to words beyond the scope of ordinary reason – but these turn out to be nothing but nonsensical drivel.25 If ecstasy moves him to dance, it is only a sleight of hand; it would seem as if by his trickery he aspires to outwit the conjuring heavens themselves.26
The second defect of the Sufi concerns his penchant for wine. Indeed, while he does drink ‘wine’ and imbibe from a ‘cup’, he is utterly ignorant of the spiritual purport of such terms. While at dawn he may receive some rapture and intoxication from the recitation of his litanies – just look at the way he ends up drunk in the evening!27 While the Sufi sips from the beaker, Ḥāfiẓ guards himself from the carboy.28
The third defect of the Sufi – and the most subtly hidden – is his failure to comprehend the suffering of love (dard).29 Suffering love-passion is the sure mark of spiritual authenticity. A century before Ḥāfiẓ, Sa‘dī had opened his chapter on love, in his Būstān, by treating this same subject.30 Ḥāfiẓ, for his part, never refrained from designating the suffering of such love-passion as a sign indicative of true love. But the Sufi does not show any sign of love at all. In fact, he knows nothing more of love than does the angel. Under the Sufi’s cassock (khirqa) lies hidden many a stain and fault, and so he advis
es that one should flee from those who sport such robes.31 Indeed, such a Sufi is nothing but an ‘animal well provided with fodder’.32
And yet, despite these strictures, Ḥāfiẓ declares the path of Sufism to be a good one, on one condition, however – that it lead beyond itself. As a way composed of rules, the Sufi Path should lead to where no rule exists save the Rule of Love. And there, the entire hierarchy of perfection is abolished.
Ḥāfiẓ indeed claimed for himself the title of Sufi. He belonged to the Sufis, he sighs, but ‘has become infamous among them’.33 And since he recognized that his Sufi cloak merely served to conceal his blemishes and faults, acting as a girdle for his hidden heresy (zunnār), to strip himself of it alone shall not do.34 He decides therefore to take the further step of changing his status, setting aside ‘the years of honour and repute enjoyed by illustrious ancestors’, exchanging these for ‘a cup of wine and the cup-bearer with a moonlike face’.35 And yet, is this really a matter of his own free choice? On the contrary, he admits that ‘it was the Sufi who took me to the Tavern [maykada] by means of the Way of Love [ṭarīq-i ‘ishq]’.36 So it was, in fact, Sufism that enabled Ḥāfiẓ to go beyond and to enter that higher Path of inspired libertinism (rindī):
From the hierocosmic heaven I’ve come – a Sufi who’s doomed
To dwell down here in the temple with the Magians.37
In this lower realm where the Master of the Tavern also dwells, Ḥāfiẓ has become Love’s ‘libertine’, liberated from all laws and solely driven by the force of love, thus realizing a spiritual state beyond even that of the high-ranking Sufi. At this juncture, he turns to the Sufi, and remarks:
Hafiz and the Religion of Love in Classical Persian Poetry Page 27