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A Talk on the Poetry, Life & Times of Hafiz continued ... (page 2) While the poems Hafiz composed during the time of Abu Ishak could be called ‘spiritual romanticism’ and those under Muzaffar the dictator: protest poems, the poems of the following period had begun to break new ground, and he was creating an impressionistic way of writing that was completely new, fresh, vibrant and subtle. At this time Hafiz’s son died in mysterious circumstances and Hafiz mourns him in the following ghazal ... A nightingale drank the heart’s blood and gained a rose; The parrot was joyous from hoping for the sweet sugar; Forever your memory; my eyes freshness, heart’s fruit! O Cameldriver, my burden has fallen, a little more help; Don’t disregard my wet eyes or this my old dusty face; What a crying shame it is that the moon’s envious eye Hafiz, you forgot ‘king to castle’ and missed your move. But the period of Shuja’s reign was also not without problems for Hafiz. Shuja, who also knew the Koran by heart and considered himself something of a poet, grew jealous of Hafiz. Hafiz’s enemies, Shaikh Ali Kolah and the orthodox clergy and some other poets who were jealous of him, had made Shiraz an unsafe place by constantly slandering him and complaining about him to Shah Shuja, who was now completely under their sway for Haji Kivam was no longer at court to protect him. Hafiz was about to go into hiding but this proved to be unnecessary because early in 1363 Shuja’s brother Shah Mahmud who was the ruler of Abarguh and Isfahan took Shiraz. Shuja retaliated by invading Isfahan and this produced a treaty between the two brothers. But this was not to last, for in the next year Mahmud with the help of Uvays the ruler of Baghdad since 1355, attacked Shiraz and after eleven months of fierce fighting he entered the city. The enemies of Hafiz, wary of the new ruler, refrained from their persecution of him. His popularity with the citizens of Shiraz, who called him ‘The Tongue of the Hidden’ and ‘The Interpreter of Mysteries’ had grown, and by now had spread over all of Persia. By 1368 Shah Shuja had returned to power but the danger in the situation due to the false Sufi Shaikh Ali Kolah became critical and Hafiz and his wife packed some provisions and late one night fled the city, taking the road Yazd. They were to spend the next four years there, and many of the poems written during this bitter time were full of homesickness for Shiraz, where Hafiz’s Master was, and where his friends, including Nabat, Princess Jahan and a dying Obeyd Zakani, waited for his return. May none be shattered like me by the woes of separation; Exiled stranger, lover, heartsick beggar, mind bewildered; If ever separation should fall into my hand I will kill it; Where to go, what to do, who to tell my heart’s state to? From the pain of separation not a moment’s peace is mine; By separation from Your Presence I’ll make separation sick, From where am I and from where are separation and grief? Therefore, at day and at night, branded by love, like Hafiz, Back in Shiraz, Shah Shuja had become embroiled in the bitter controversy over whether Hafiz should be allowed to end his exile and return to Shiraz. The people were calling for the return of their favourite poet and champion, and on the other side Hafiz’s enemies continued to slander him. Shuja had become wary and weary of the influence of Ali Kolah and the clergy upon him and decided to deal them a blow by allowing Hafiz to return, and by doing this, not only would he put them in their place, but again gain the love and respect of the common people. He sent a message to Yazd, asking Hafiz to come back to Shiraz. On returning he was once again re-instated to his position at the college and he resumed his old life and his relationship with his Master, Mahmud Attar. It was late in 1375 and Hafiz had been obeying his Master for 35 years and still he had not gained his heart’s desire. When he once again complained to Attar about this, Attar replied: ‘Patience is the key to Joy.’ One day in 1381 Hafiz went to visit Attar. Hafiz’s patience had come to an end. When he was alone with Attar he began to weep and when his Master asked him why he was weeping, Hafiz through desperation cried out: ‘What have I gained by being your obedient disciple for nearly forty years?’ Mahmud Attar replied: ‘Be patient and one day you will know.’ Hafiz cried: ‘I knew I would get that answer from you,’ and left the room. It was exactly forty days before the end of their forty-year relationship. Hafiz went home and entered a circle that he drew on the ground. Through love and desperation he had decided to enter self-imposed ‘Chehel-a-Nashmi,’ in which the lover of God sits within a circle for forty days and if the lover of God can succeed in this difficult practice, God will grant whatever he desires. The love and strength and bravery of Hafiz was so great that he succeeded in never leaving the circle, no matter what God had in store for him. On the fortieth night Attar again sent to him the form of the Angel Gabriel as he had done forty years earlier, who asked him what was his heart’s desire. Hafiz replied: ‘My only desire is to wait on the pleasure of my Master’s wish.’ Praise be to God what wonderful wealth’s given to me tonight; The moment I saw Beloved’s beautiful face I bowed in praise; The seed of my infinite patience has now blossomed this Union; My slumbering destiny has awakened and is finally approved; I’ve resolved that even if my head’s cut off it doesn’t matter ... removing the world’s veil, Secret shown by me will be tonight. My blood will write ‘I am The Truth’ (Anal Haq) on the earth, Beloved, You possess Divine Wealth, I’m beggar at Your door, All the time I’m frightened that Hafiz will be lost, obliterated, Before dawn appeared on the last day Hafiz left the circle and rushed towards the house of his Master, Mahmud Attar. Attar met him at the door and embraced him, and made him God-realized. Hafiz had finally attained his heart’s desire after forty long years. During the remaining ten years of his life, Hafiz composed half of his poems. He no longer wrote of his desire for the Beloved, for now he was the Beloved. He wrote of the Unity of God, of the temporality of the world and its works and of the stages of the Path to God-realization and he gave advice to others how to best avoid the traps of the Path. The poems written after Realization are written from the Authority of Divine Knowledge and have a Perfect detachment and Merciful involvement that sets them apart from the other poems that were written from various stages on the road to the Truth. Quickly Hafiz gathered his disciples around him and began to teach them, using his poems to illustrate the various Spiritual points that he wanted them to understand. Because his fame had become so widespread and people were travelling from all parts of Persia and other countries to be in his presence, he had to seclude himself to a degree to be able to continue to teach his chosen disciples, and to write his ghazals that were eagerly awaited by his many devotees. It was early 1387 and in under three short years Hafiz’s time to leave his physical form would come. He continued to write, but now at a faster pace for he could see that his old body was preparing to blend with the dust of Shiraz. The poems that he wrote during this period are beautiful for their insight into the Nature of God, their compassion and understanding and their poignant love for the people of Shiraz and the whole world, and because of his knowledge of his impending death. The dictator Timur who had a month earlier killed the entire population of Isfahan and had built a gruesome pyramid of sculls outside the city entered Shiraz unopposed and all citizens had to pay a tax and Hafiz was the only one who did not oblige him. The following account from my novel-biography of Hafiz: HAFIZ OF SHIRAZ: A Novel/Biography (3 vols) Shiraz Books 2006-8 is almost a word for word account of their meeting from Timur’s daily biographer and apart from his poems is the only contemporary account apart from a few poems by other poets about him. Hafiz, head bent, is kneeling (and coughing) before the golden throne, his clothes are badly torn, his turban’s dishevelled, he squints and looks up to see the forty-two year-old Timur, thick-necked a stocky, strong looking bull of a man, bristling with anger and total power. Advisers and clerics stand behind him as his Court recorder writes down all that happens and all that is said in a book to be entitled ‘I am Timur, the World Conqueror’. He looks down at the old, famous and infamous poet, brought before him and shouts ... ‘I know of you Hafiz, any other poet here today I would not know from even Adam. Tell me, old man, did you compose this ... Last night I saw that on Winehouse door angels knocked, Inhabiting eternal harems, veiled and pure Angelic ones... Thank God, between us there is peace and contentment: No wonder a hundred harvests of fantasy led me astray, The heavens could not bear that Trust’s heavy burden ... That is no true fire that makes the candle’s flame dance, Pardon the seventy-two arguing sects, because unable to No one has like Hafiz torn the veil from Thought’s face, ‘Amir Timur, my eyes are very weak and I can hardly see you, but, your voice is clear and you recite my poem beautifully.’ ‘Hafiz. In this poem you are being blasphemous because in the second couplet you have said ... Inhabiting eternal harems, veiled and pure Angelic ones ... ‘Here, you have said that God has a harem. On top of this sacrilege you’ve brought disgrace on the Almighty for you’ve stated that His women have left His harem to be with you in the dust by the side of the road drinking wine and enjoying yourselves!’ Hafiz clears his throat and answers. ‘Amir Timur, I’ve uttered no blasphemy or disgraced the Almighty in that couplet. In the first line of that couplet I’ve said ... Inhabiting eternal harems, veiled and pure Angelic ones. The two words inhabiting eternal mean that the harem that I am talking about is not an ordinary harem but what I’m meaning is a mysterious ... a secret harem. I talk here of a harem which has a secret mystery that isn’t known ... a harem in which chastity ... purity is the rule. Also, I haven’t said that there are women in God’s harem ... as a matter of fact I haven’t mentioned women at all. I’ve talked about the ‘inhabitants of the harem’ and not the ‘women of the harem’. I haven’t talked about a worldly harem but about a harem that’s so sacred no stranger can enter. It was at midnight in spring that this poem came to me. It was beautiful weather and one could smell the flowers in the atmosphere. Ecstasy filled my heart and the nightingales were singing. While I composed this ghazal I was so full of ecstasy and joy that I could feel that I was involved in the essence of Creation. It seemed as though angels of paradise were alive inside me and I’d become an angel. While I was in that ecstatic state that ghazal came to me.’ Timur frowns. ‘In the second line of that couplet you state that angels of paradise have drunk wine with you, don’t you? Drinking wine is forbidden as you well know!’ ‘This ... er ... drinking of wine, is an expression of the Sufis and doesn’t mean the drinking of wine in any worldly sense. It refers to gaining knowledge from those who have achieved perfection. As with the drinking of ordinary wine (which is prohibited, which is the cause of intoxication) ... the gaining of true knowledge from the Perfect Master also causes a similar intoxication for that one who is seeking God. The Winehouse for the Sufi is that place where this divine type of wine is taken. The Winehouse is that place where true knowledge is gained. At midnight during that Springtime I became so full of ecstasy that (as I’ve already said), the presence of angels came, and they spoke to me. They seemed to be telling me the secrets of Creation. And so, when I say in that ghazal that they were drinking wine with me, I’m telling of my feelings at that time.’ Timur is fascinated now and leans forward and asks ... ‘Tell me, what were those secrets that they told to you, eh?’ ‘It was at midnight that the angels of Paradise revealed the secrets of the Universe into my creative imagination. But, you must understand that it was merely a feeling that was created by my imagination and as it was impossible for me to tell of those images in my mind, I told them, finally, in this poem. When a mystic on the Spiritual Path is deep in thought, he experiences some feelings that he cannot talk about feelings impossible to explain. One can’t tell in words these feelings, for one can only tell of coldness or softness or of something rough. When you talk of these sensations others can understand what you’re saying. Inner feelings and those of a Spiritual nature cannot be described in the same way. If one tries to describe these, even the fact that we’re trying to describe them will be questioned by the one who hears such an attempt. It’s my opinion that even one who’s on the Spiritual path when he hears late at night the song of a nightingale and the sound of the call to prayer when the atmosphere is full of the scent of flowers, that one has feelings that he can’t describe with words. So, this is why at that time I couldn’t tell what those angels of my creative imagination told me, and so, that is the reason why I can’t tell to you now what those secrets were that they were talking with me about. If this wasn’t so, I’d have also put all of that into the poem.’ ‘Hmmm, an answer to which I suppose there’s no argument, my clever poet. Now, there’s another matter that I wish to take up with you. I’ve saved this city with the agreement that each of its citizens pay a tax... and you are the only one not to pay that tax. For some time I’ve been waiting to catch up to you! ‘Are you not the poet who wrote those lines that are sung all over my kingdom, even by my own soldiers, who pay with their lives if I hear them singing them?’ ‘I’ve composed so much, it’s all a matter of taste! Amir, please, what is the poem?’ Timur scowls, leans forward, elbows on knees, then recites in his booming If that Turkish beloved of Shiraz, would take this heart in hand too, for that One’s Hinduish mole I’d barter Bokhara, Samarkand too. Timur, furious, jumps to his enormous, hairy feet again and limps over, sword raised. ‘With the blows of this scimitar I have conquered most of the known world. I have laid waste thousands of towns to enrich my twin capital cities of Bokhara and Samarkand and you ... you, who can’t even pay your tax ... you, you who would give them both away for the black mole on some loved one’s cheek!’ Hafiz blinks, then smiles as he opens his blood-stained chained hands and looks with a twinkle in his eye into those bloodshot eyes of the so-called master. The Perfect Master, Hafiz, quietly replies. ‘It’s because of such extravagant generosity you can see me in this state of poverty that I am in today!’ Timur’s mouth drops open in astonishment as do all the other mouths of those in attendance. Then Timur splutters, now his great chest begins to heave and finally it reaches his throat and he begins to roar with laughter! ‘Ah, I respect so much a fearless and witty man! Even if I’m not so appreciative of his poetry. Treasurer, fill his purse. We can’t have such an ‘infamous’ poet wandering the city totally poverty-stricken! Dismissed!’ The Perfect Master had outwitted the so-called master as he had outwitted kings, false Sufis and the clergy for nearly 50 years. By 1392, Hafiz’s body was racked with sickness. The form had served him well for 72 years and this old cloak that his soul wore, had been the vessel that had helped to steer him to the Realization of the Existence that has no beginning or end. The news rapidly spread through the city that their most loved (and hated) citizen had passed away. Thousands walked towards his home where he lay, surrounded by his closest disciples. Later, Hafiz’s body was carried towards the Muslim burial ground in the rose bower of Musalla, on the banks of the Ruknabad. The Ulama of Shiraz, with his fellow clergy, refused to allow for Hafiz’s body to be buried as a Muslim and claimed that his poetry was impious. The followers of Hafiz and the many citizens of Shiraz began to argue with those who followed the orthodox point of view, and in the heat of the argument, someone suggested that they should ask the poet himself for the solution. The clergy, by now afraid of the size and fervour of Hafiz’s supporters, reluctantly agreed to the suggestion of tearing up many of his poems into couplets and placing them into a large urn, and to call on a small boy in the crowd to select one couplet from it. The couplet that was selected was: Don’t you walk away from this grave-side of Hafiz, because Even after death, Hafiz had, with tongue in cheek, outwitted his bitter rivals, and this practice of consulting his Divan as an oracle has continued from this incident, down into this present age. I asked Hafiz if there was anything he wished to tell all you people here tonight and consulting my HAFIZ: THE ORACLE electronically I received this reply ... A MAGIC CHARM: For every subtlety I expressed in praise of such fine graces, ‘When will You show some mercy to this poor soul?’ I asked. At the Beginning, love and drunkenness seemed so easy; This subtlety, sweet singing Hallaj sang before decapitation: I’ve given my heart to a Friend, fair and bold and delicate, Once, like Your eye, I used to go straight into the corner; I’ve cried hundreds of thousands of tears like Noah’s flood; Sorrow’s mine: no entrance to that door Heartstealer gave: Beloved, Hafiz‘s hand is a magic charm against the evil eye: INTERPRETATION: Love is not a matter of fine words and subtle sayings, it is when everything is offered up for Love: all desires, even life itself. Love is Action, not just words. It is a dangerous path, where the heart takes precedence over the head. One cannot escape its Power no matter how hard you try. Love is magical and any help offered should be gratefully accepted. Accept the words and experience of Hafiz ... a Master of this Path. A SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY OF RECOMMENDED READING ABOUT HAFIZ AND HIS TIMES Divan of Hafiz English Version by Paul Smith Second Edition Shiraz Books 2007. Hafiz of Shiraz - A Novel/Biography by Paul Smith. 3 Vols. Shiraz Books. 2006-8. Shiraz; Persian City of Saints and Poets. A.J. Arberry. University of Oklahoma Press. 1960. Shiraz in the Age of Hafez: The Glory of a Medieval City by John Limbert. University of Washington Press. 2004. A Literary History of Persia By Edward G. Browne. Vol 3 The Tartar Dominion. Cambridge University Press. 1920, reprint 1969. The Divan of Sadi. Translated by Paul Smith. Shiraz Books 2006. (most of Sadi’s ghazals). Obeyd Zakani: The Dervish Jester. A Selection of his Poetry, Satire, Stories and Jokes - Translated by Paul Smith Shiraz Books 2006. Hafiz’s Friend: Jahan Malek Khatun. A Selection from her Divan. Translated by Paul Smith with Rezvaneh Pashai. Shiraz Books 2006. Copyright Paul Smith 2004. |
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