I shall turn over a new leaf, and whatever
is better, that shall I make my minds aim.
The world of April - for instance -is an emblem of delight:
shall I not by contemplation make my heart fresh as Spring?
On the green lawns and beds of this my poetic Divan
I shall weave lines and feet into hyacinths and sweet basil,
meanings and allusions into ripe fruit and plum roses,
and grow great trees from tiny seeds of precise words.
Clouds make a deserts jaundiced face a garden -
thus shall I too rain gently on my books face
and in the assembly of debate, favour the wise
with fine subtle points like scattering of petals;
if dusty error greys one of my blooms Ill sprinkle
from a clear sky upon it my commentary.
My odes will raise a castle; in its vast court Ill build
a rose-garden surrounded by a veranda of couplets.
A landscape gardener, here Ill raise a scenic panorama,
there spread out a peaceful meadow, broad and smooth.
The gate (inlaid with all the rarest metres of prosody)
shall be guarded by a trustworthy poet -
and the foundation of this blessed edifice shall be
Virtuous and learned guests from every clime of earth
shall gather at my place, leaving no place
for the ignorant (did I build my home and garden
for idiots?!) And the table I spread for these sages
will groan and leave them in a poet-prandial stupor.
Poetry, or speech, is like a body for which
(following the example of Wisdom) one must weave
from precious conceits an inner soul.
Have you ever witnessed such vivification? Watch,
I shall create for you in words the human image.
From subtle metaphors and limpid narrative
I shall fashion curling locks and smiling lips;
significance shall be its face, which then Ill hide
beneath the veil or masquerade of simile.
Ill take up the word like a polo stick
and make it crack; and if in some line I find
my hearts grown dull, Ill polish it with
the sandpaper of meditation; if ignorance-rust
appears on my soul Ill rub it till it shines
with verses from the Quran. The worlds woes
shall vanish before my piety and obedience;
Ill wash my hands clean of Greeds grease
and raise my fingers from my vest-pocket
to the sphere of Saturn. Does my heart sleep
in the nightgown of ignorance? Then let me go nude
and let the alarm of devotion rouse this
sluggish and melancholic body of mine to the pitch
of self-sacrifice. If all my faults
originate within me, to whom should I complain?
No, I shall rise in Gods grace and mercy
and make earths rough ways smooth to my soul;
the good and evil within me I shall judge as if
my heart were a jewellers balance, each moment
adding to the scale of good grain, and from
the pan of evil subtracting a gramme, till
I have shifted the chains and yokes which Satan
forged for me, to the devils own limbs and shoulders!
My personal demon will not repent his viciousness;
its up to me to make amends - and even - if
Ill never be a Solomon in the caravan of devils
at least I can convert (by the threat of intellects sword)
my private imp to Islam. I shall fashion
my saddle and reins from words and deeds, a halter
from the wisdom of Luqman. You may take
your vacation wherever you wish - Ill head
for the Threshold of the Compassionate, turning my head
towards the Guide of Truth, like Salman,
to the Household of the Messenger, to become
there a humble slave, there where in the glory
of the Imam I shall make my name the frontispiece
of the Book of Fame. That Sun of gnosis
will brighten my heart like the moon in Cancer,
that ocean of grace will fill my heart
as a casket of pearls, sunken treasure and corals.
Now now, Nasir, let me give you some advice;
A talented fellow like you could go far - even
to the Emirs court. All you have to do is
give up these crackpot notions and listen to me . .
Avaunt thee! The vapours of asininity curl
round your brows. What can I do to cure you?
How could I ever toady to you in the hope
of filling my saddlebag with crusts? Ive had
Tartars for slaves in my time - how could I ever
enslave myself to a Tartar? You advise me
to be more like X the Miser or Y the pander -
I know your world is like a sick cat
which devours its own litter - why should I
bow before it? Whom could I consider lower
than myself if I were to mortgage my body
like a dog for a bit of bread? Where
could I leave my faith, virtue and knowledge
if I took up the profession you offer me:
Ghoul-in-Waiting?
I have honour enough in this:
that in two tongues I have ordered Wisdom
and transformed it into verse, for the single purpose
of praising the Prophets Family, following in spirit
now Rudaki the Persian, now Hasan the Arab,
weaving my Divan of figures and images better than all
the lost books of China, Rome and Isfahan,
logical, clear as sunlight, furnished with
sensible solution to all thorny problems, which
I have made the guards and shepherds of my verse.
The Pilgrims Position is one of my treasures in prose
and the book you are reading now, one in poetry.
This world is a prison for the believer - why else
should I take up residence in Yamgan
if I werent sure that on the Day of Reckoning
the raging fire will make the prison for those
who have set themselves against the Holy Household?