The philosophy section contains 8 poems.
Almighty God, my Creator,
I thank Thee for Thy favours
for in my dotage I have no cure for grief
but such gratitude to Thee.
A hundred thanks that I have no work
but to compose these pious and devotional poems.
Help me not to sow in my heart
any seed but that of Thy good pleasure.
Thou knowest the secret of all souls
and that my hart ails within me
that here in Yamgan I am alone
weak, abandoned and afflicted.
The world venerates a happy drunkard, but I
a teetotaller, am sad and despised.
In fear of my oppressors I am helpless
and hide within my mountainous fort
condemned by them as a sinner
for my love of Thy Messenger;
in love of him and his Household
I remain in misery and trouble.
On the Day of Reckoning judge between me
and that herd of stray cows
with which I can never wander -
for I am not a donkey.
Even though for my sweet and virtuous words
I deserve to be compared
with the delicious fruit of the datepalm
the blind eyes of the rabble
see me as a despicable thorn.
O my God, I take refuge with Thee
from this herd of ravenous wolves.
I dare not be your friend
O friend of the Grape,
the harp and the jug,
for I do not love, I do not share your taste
for these three evil companions.
Drunkards need drunkards - why do you
quarrel with me because I am sober?
Go, follow your own caravan, for I
am not of your breed of camel.
Ride forth and seek the world, leave me
to canter on the steed of Reason.
You may be a king, but I
have the precious pearl of my words;
you may rule the realm of Balkh, but I
am a monarch in my own domain.
I shall never accept the burden of your rule
just for an ass-portion of hay.
My inner and outer natures are equally manifest:
sometimes I am soft, sometimes
sharp as a thorn - yes, to the ignorant and unwise
sharp as brambles; to the wise
soft and forbearing. I do not want you
any more than you want me.
I am unacquainted with perfidy: my warp and weft
are of the same thread.
If you re ready to apologise
I m ready to forgive and forget.
My tongue is clean of obscenity,
my trousers unstained by fornication;
I pay no attention to evil and cunning,
I do not churn the cream of falsehood.
I do not need to boast of my virtues -
others will point them out
while I, living as I do,
discharge my duties towards the virtuous.
In my past, I slept in ignorance
and the world seized me in its talons,
plundered me while it embraced me
and coo d in my ear.
One moment it promised the harvests of Autumn,
next the green pains of Spring,
and seeing that I was an easy prey to love
perfumed my face with roses and musk.
Today you see me enfeebled and bent
but in those times you would have thought me
straight as a pine. Ah, the stars
tugged gently at my bridle
like a camel to pasture. Robust and happy . . .
and today I tremble and lament,
my ruby red cheeks gone bilious
my jetblack hair grown white as a milk.
I drank so much wine those days
I m still breathing out fumes!
But when I learned the ways of the world
I grew grey and downcast;
I awoke from my slumber . . . .no -
it was my Lord Who woke me.
I soon polished the intelligence-rust
from my eyes, blew the mist from my brain,
washed the dust of wantonnes
from my face and cheeks,
uprooted the tree of ignorance and aberration
from my riverbank garden.
Many the battle I fought with the world
till I was saved,
till I became the chosen one of the
Imam of the Time
(since I had chosen faith and devotion
for myself).
Now, ask me a difficult question
and I will not scratch my head;
my ear is sharp, for knowledge
hangs from it like a ear-ring;
my eye is clear because I have gazed
on Truth and Certainty.
I will no more be prey in the hunt
of the falcons and panthers of this world.
In the old days I boasted of my ancestors
but today my ancestors, and indeed
all the world s inhabitants, boast of me.
Then I was worth no more
than a chamber-pot - today
I am gold.
You don t believe me?
Try it yourself
and test the worth of my poem -
read it and memorise it!
Seeking wisdom? Imitate the wise
who know how to make things easy for themselves:
their conversation, their economy is geared
to those same laws which the elements obey today,
the elements of the Cosmos, harmonised
with spheres and stars, and by their powers
moulded into to living things. The stars are fingers
which the artisan spheres use to animate
the unborn earth - hands of Heaven
which as willing slaves run errands
for galactic lords - eyes of the universe
who cast a glance at earth and spark to life
delicate corals and pearls. Behold the Throne,
the bearers of the Throne, and how they turn
rotating constantly; your Throne is Earth
and round it in celestial minuet
the stars in orbit dance. King of beasts
and green things are you and to your order
all life in obedience revolves,
genuflecting, prostrating to their lord.
Study their ways and do likewise. Contemplate
the creaturely signs of Truth and learn
the meaning of their allusions to the Divine.
Habituate yourself to benevolence
towards those beneath you, that in time
superior forces will treat well of you.
All moral creatures are as if intoxicated
with the wine of ignorance; you who are sober
take heed and follow a different path.
Meat is hung in salt to keep it fresh
but when the salt itself goes bad, what can be done?
Speak not to fools of holy truths
or the Household of the Prophet, for fools
are like sterile rain, like owls who flee
the City of Knowledge for their ruined haunts.
From pulpit-steps they sermonise the rabble
whetting appetites with talk of paradise
and its mountains of food. Go if you dare,
speak eloquently to such as these of Ali
if you do not fear my fate, to be enchained
in the mountains of Yamgan. Of course they crey
and clamour in hope of heavenly victuals! When
you mention barely, do not the asses bray?
Take care not to tell them their paradise
is no place of banquets and coition, lest in rage
they slay you with arrows of their eyes.
Take refuge in the Citadel of the Household
that its inhabitants may scatter on your head
pearls from the treasury of their holy sire.
Proofs of the Hands of Mercy, Imams of the Time,
when they desire Qu ranic hermeneutics
stretch their hands to Saturn. They weigh
in their scales your science and religion
for only the undiscerning do the work of faith
without the BALANCE. True religion is Man,
its spirit gnosis, its body right action -
this is the founding stone on which is raised
the roof of Sages. Do not disdain to act
simply because the philosophers have called
work the punishment of the weak. No,
the multitude are in error - do not follow
their path, lest you fall in the same way.
Drunkards are many; be silent and let them pass.
When have you ever seen a horde of sots
obey a sober man?
Weak as we are - and alone - and dangerous the way -
how can we tread the Prophet s path?
If the road is plagued by day with highwaymen
my son, perhaps we d do better to travel by night,
hidden like stars against the noontide from all eyes
but after sunset, vigilant guides, awake;
corporeally concealed from the ignorant but
to the wise openly visible as sunlight.
Physically all are equal: rank depends on intellect,
dignity on wisdom alone. Again, everyone speaks,
but some speak with knowledge, others not -
judge the speech and you have judged the man:
I and thou in silence are but paintings on a wall.
The Cosmos to its Lord is a garden in which we
are so many trees; come, judge this harvest-tide:
which of us drops the more succulent fruit?
But cease your wrangling - strife such as you concoct
long since exiled me from home. Muhuammad and Ali
are surely supreme amongst all men - should we
not honour them more than any So-and-So?
God s treasures, they reveal His Mysteries
to us, the People of Secrets, Companions of the Cave
(not just any hole in the ground, but the Cavern
of True Religion), pure hearts, friends of the Messenger.
Our portion is wheat - yours but chaff;
never believe we share your bovine taste for straw.
The wine of religion goes to your head; we,
who remain sober, find no satisfaction
in your company; yet day and night we work
for your salvation, knowing that in your madness
you have flung yourself to perdition. We know,
we understand that you are drunk and foolish;
we turn the other cheek; we know that you
cannot abide our words of wisdom;
in your presence we nail shut our mouths.
You could seek from us the cure
for snakebite - but you fancy us the snakes?
What is the purpose of the intellect with which
we sometimes turn to sin, sometimes to the
worship of God? Why should He bid us Do good,
shun evil if we had not been endowed
with free will? The ravenous wolf is not held
responsible for his acts - but we are. Why?
Why blame man for spouting noise, but not
condemn the pickaxe for its thwack! Thwack! ?
Why are you and I weighed down with such tasks
as prayer, but not the deer or the game-birds?
What is the one thing God gave us which makes us
lords over the beasts of the field? Intellect!
And the same faculty which sets us higher
than a donkey, makes us the slaves of the Almighty.
With it may investigate all hows and whys,
without it we are no more than tress without fruit.
It will tell us why we should - for example -
fast all day from morning to night in Ramadan.
If God knows we are murderers and tyrants
why doesn t He simply wipe us all out at once?
He commands us not to sin - and we sin;
does that make us omnipotent ? On the other hand
if we sin only because He wills us to sin,
why should we be blamed? Untie this Gordian knot
and I ll offer you my humblest respect!
But if problems like this scare you, away with you!
Because WE dare to search for answers.
With glowing hearts we raise to the skies
the complex, gold-leafed palace of our thought;
we are warriors, Quranic and Shariite, Partisans
of Ali, the warrior-knight. Invalids
find the taste of sugar disgusting - no wonder
you think us unbelievers. Five hundred snakes,
a thousand ants, ranged against one MAN
scarcely constitutes a threat. Is it
any marvel we ve never reckoned you an army?
Let us closely observe
what the devil s happening tot he world -
how Virtue and Rectitude seem
to have flown - not that the fleeting world
itself has changed its nature
but that people s temperaments have undergone
some transformation.
Your body
in the Child of Nature, babe of the Spheres,
its state forever shifting under Heaven -
one can only imagine therefore that you
- who were so subtle - have fallen
into such a carnal and inferior state
because the spheres themselves have somehow
gone awry.
Humanity (by way of simile)
was like an ALEEF
Arabic alphabet -ALEEF- placed here
Erect and straight -
how could the letter of humankind
have been itself to the hump
Arabic alphabet - NUN - placed here
Of a NUN?
Virtue and learning have become the slaves of Bread
the dough of knowledge cut with fraud and deceit.
Piety and justice are broken pots and pebbles,
ignorance and stupidity taken for gold and the precious Pearl.
You!
Chameleon World!
Woe to him
who falls for your seductive routines -
he who cannot see the way round you
with the candle of REASON
trips and falls. There s nothing left
for you here: humanity has absconded
from the last human being.
All deeds are but cruelty, con and cant
all words but fraud, perfidy and crime.
I swear one would scarcely know the difference
if the world had already fallen to the rule
of all the devils of the Inferno.
Stupidity has reared itself into the heavens,
humanity and nobility hidden themselves in some cave.
The sirocco of petty meanness blows hot across earth,
everything good wilts and decays.
As for the province of Khorasan, once
the Abode of Learning, it has become
a cavern of sordid and effeminate demons.
Balkh!
The House of Wisdom -
And now
fit for the axe, its fortune topsyturvy
turned upon its head. Khorasan
once the kingdom of Solomon - how
has it become the domain of Satan?
One might think the land had become a maw
which gobbled Religion, or that Religion
in Khorasan has become the companion of Qarun
(that miser whom earth swallowed
with all his wealth). Aye, Khorasan
serves a fit example for the house
of the sinister Qarun.
Tatars
were their slaves, but they have become
the Tartars valet - is not the star
of Khorasan afflicted by some evil conjunction?
The Kipchak lout has proclaimed himself
a nobleman, while the Duke has become
the Tartar s girlfriend s butler.
The talentless have made themselves the Emirs
virtue shrinks and mediocrity swells itself.
You
may mortgage your soul
But I
shall not pawn myself to the world;
you may trust the wolf, but the wise
will keep his distance.
Your miserable mind
has become a fetid slime in a corpse
of ignorance, tyranny and evil;
in your greed you prefer the wicked Zahhak
to Feraydun the Just. So much the slave
of desire: my hart chokes with bood
in pity of you who sold yourself
like 100,000 others for a taste of lust.
Try to reform yourself. Think of great men
like Aaron the Alexandrian. Aaron
was made Aaron by knowledge. Garments
are cleaned with soap; wisdom
is the best detergent for the Spirit.
He who makes wisdom his prop
is saved from the fire of ignorance.
Listen
my son
to a father s advice
for my own days have been made auspicious
because I heeded helpful words
and my subtle spirit soars above the spheres
through knowledge
even
If my body
lies chained
imprisoned
beneath the earth.
You cannot - O wiseman -
on the Worldtree
see other fruit than
the man of Wisdom;
to a gnostic like you
the sage is a plum
and the ignorant
are thorns
- the good are hidden
among the bad
as a lonely datepalm
in a desert of brambles.
But you object: Nasir!
If you re such a noble spirit
why do you vegetate here in Yamgan
lowly and alone?
For me Yamgan
is God s refuge.
Look well! Don t imagine me
some sort of prisoner.
No one claims
that silver, diamonds, rubies
are base or held captive
in the mine;
Yamgan itself may be
base and worthless
but here I am held
in high esteem.
After all if the serpent
is abject and vile
the snakestone in its head
is treasured and praised
and a perfect pearl s worth
is none the less to the buyer
for having been born
in a scabby shell;
the fragrant bloom
is unstained
even if it roots itself
in furrows of dung.
And you, my visitor
- to return to my first simile -
are a sublime tree
whose fruit is speech.
It s up to you: choose
whether to be fruit without thorns
(choose now!)
Or thorns without fruit.
The apple of wisdom
can be yours -
otherwise you re are nothing but
a sterile poplar -
for the wiseman s branches
yield a produce
of precious gems
and leaves of gold dinars;
but knowledge and wisdom
are better than gold and gems
to him whose heart is illumined,
eyes open and awake.
Then come,
speak,
pour down your
yield of words
and as much as this fruit
is rich and sweet
so will your deeds be judged
as virtuous as your talk -
but if you re a man of
words without action
you re no better than
counterfeit coin.
Utter the right word
in the right place -
a fine stallion s at its best
in the battlefield
- and utter it only
to one who knows its worth,
for what use is turban
without a head to wear it?
Only the heat of battle
can tell
a coward deserter
from a fierce brave.
Know what you want to say
then say it:
fix the compass point
before drawing the line.
If your words are not free
of stain and rust
how will they polish
the hearts of others?
Keep silence
when you do not know:
don t be the type who flashes
his genitalia in the bazzar!
How dare you ride an ass
before noble arab steeds?
You re roped
in ignorance s bonds
led astray by demons -
you deny it?
Why then have you bulled
through the rosebed?
You? A doctor of souls???
Never!
How can one sick man
treat another?
Please - don t rasp my soul
like some wretched file
with words like
jagged bits of steel.
Are you not ashamed
of your ignorance?
Do you not blush
before true learning?
Bow your head,
submit - or else
on the Final Day you will not snatch
your soul from the bonfire.
Mortify your flesh
with pious deeds
that tomorrow your soul
may go un-singed.
You claim to be
free of guilt - what!
When your back s bent double
with burden of sin!
If future bliss
is what you want
cease now to work so hard
for the world -
for the world
couldn t care less.
Don t let it agonise you
with fleshly cares:
it s an evil-tempered leviathan;
beware!
Furious, merciless
greedy.
How often do you need
to try and taste again -
it s the same world you ve seen
a hundred times before.
Hold fast to Faith;
religion conquers the world
and sews up its maw
with spikes.
If you become
a prince in religion
the surely the world
must become your slave.
You! Look well
into your own affairs:
if you want justice
do justice.
If you want
to be upright
don t bow your neck to earthly kings
as the hoopoe to Solomon.
Shun the eagle of Greed
for its beak
and vicious claws drip
with venom
and if you d like
avoid a quarrelling with dogs
give up your taste
for carrion meat;
otherwise - admit it -
your aching face, weary hands:
the cause of suffering
is yourself.
Take this advice from the PROOF
for he is awake
to the habits of this tyrant,
the revolving sphere.
Of all the people in Khorasan
no one has battled
as much as he with the
vicissitudes of Fate
and was saved at last
from the claws through Faith,
the decree of God
the One, the Almighty.
If the world causes you pain
follow in his wake.
Other than this there is no
better Way.
Have I changed? Or is it the world that s changed?
I think it must be me; the world seems the same as ever.
It would bound away when I used to chase after it
but now things are different - it s me who turns away;
or perhaps we ve both changed: I have become
more like the world and the world more like me.
I used to be precious ore in its mine, but now
I myself am a mine of golden speech in the rational soul.
What could have happened to everyone, that they seem
so severely frightened just at the mention of my name?
I never spilled the cup of anyone s reputation
or snatched bread from a hand by force;
I never worried any young men into greybeards
so why am I so hated by young men and old alike?
I never asked for sermons to be read in my name
neither in Kashgar nor in Baghdad - so why
do the Ruler and the Emir now revile and abuse me?
I feel no greed for blood or carrion. I wonder
why so many dogs have become my enemies?
I won t write any eulogies for you, Emir,
so don t send me any dinner invitations;
if you do invite me, I won t call you Emir
and if I do praise you, please don t call me
a human being! The Creator of heart and soul
has set the Book of Freedom in a secret place
in my breast; slavery s chains has been struck
from my ankles - that s why I never bow down my head.
Before I received this boon, I was a slave to anyone
and suffered a great deal of pain in this world,
much as I kicked against it. You who know it not
can run after it - I who know it,
know too much. Unless you toss him out with a
sound beating, the born rascal will never
become obedient - that s why I drive away from my door
the rapscallion world. O seeker of that world
don t bother to seek me out as if I were (like you)
lost on the way. As hastily as you dash
after the world I run horrorstruck from its gates.
Your autumn winds do not agree with my sighs of sorrow -
unlike you I do not praise the sad season s beauties.
The world s kiss moistens your lips but
dries my mouth with terror. By day Repentance
is my bosom companion, by night the Quran
my confidante. O you who reel in hilarity
around the wine-jug, I do not circumambulate
the amphora nor stagger upon a drunk s pilgrimage;
I am intoxicated with pain and sorrow by the blood of Husayn -
how can the vine s blood make me gleeful again?
My hand and tongue do not imitate your deeds;
my subtle soul is saved even though dense
and heavy under the burden of Time. Sages see
my angelic essence, even if to your eyes I am still
merely human. My body s the banner of angels
even if hidden in Yamgan from devil s spite.
If the whole kingdom of Solomon couldn t wipe out
a single demon, what can I do against a horde?
I am a shepherd hired by the Moses of Time,
to a flock which grazes on knowledge in the dark night
of the world. No shepherd is without crook or bowl -
my bowl is the Book, my staff my tongue.
Come to me and eat the bread of Divine Law
softened in the milk of my eloquence. O you
who think me ugly, I am ugly; if you are beautiful
then beautiful too is my face. Learn wisdom
and you will find me wise; become a jewelled sword
and I will be your whetstone. The hand of the Lord,
the Imam of the Time, has sown the seed of humanity
in my speech. Come, climb my tree, and I will seat you
on humanity s branch. I am flowing water
to freshen the tillage of Wisdom in religion s fields
by my speech, to wash away demon dust
with counsel precious as pearl; I am vigilant,
tempered spearhead pointed always towards
the devil, who can never disgrace me. Speech
is my arrow head, my pen is the arrow, my fingers the bow.
If my enemy comes from the East I will easily
slay him with my speeding shafts.
Pass by, food of his heart, sweet breeze of Khorasan
Here to a dim prison in the vale of Yamgan
Where he sits narrowed by poverty, comfortless, cold,
His fortune gone, possessions lost, landless and old.
Unjust Fate has stripped from his soul in its tyranny
All repose, and from his body all luxury;
He knows more sorrows than a pomergranate has seeds,
His limbs possess less power than the winter reeds;
That elegant frame, that once too-handsome face
Have decayed now to ugliness, distraction and disgrace -
That face, once luminous as Spring anemones,
Now withered like autumn leaves in exile s miseries.
His kinsmen turn their back on him and cut him dead;
No sustenance now but God s mercy, the Divine bread.
I committed no sin but somehow the Turk
the Arab, the Iraqi and the Khorasani all alike
have been my foes. Always looking for some pretext
to hate me, calling me unorthodox , an enemy
of the Companions. What can I say to this army
of demons? God has not given me Solomon s
magic spell. They come from far away
barking and howling like dogs in the barn.
A million like them still wouldn t bother me,
for on Judgement Day . . . Thou knowest, O Lord,
Thou knowest well! But still it s only reasonable
to take certain precautions against demons -
even the greatest and most eloquent sage,
attacked by desert ghouls, wouldn t be able
to talk his way out! The ignoramus
recognises no proof - there s no point reciting
the Quran to a calf. The wiseman wastes no words
on a horde of idiots - who would season
coarse barley bread with expensive spices?
They call me unorhodox - bah! - what do they know
of Islam except the name? O you who wear
upon your head the hat of false claims and hide
your soul beneath the garments of stupidity,
tell me: to whom should one pay allegiance
after Muhammad? - and how do you prove your claims?
After whose mule are you driving your crippled ass?
Whose silk brocades are you boasting about when you
yourself are still dressed in tatters and dirty rags?
After all, isn t it better to have a clean and simple
linen shirt for yourself, than for your uncle
to go about decked out in all the latest fashions?
The virtues of friends (if they exist) will
avail you naught on that morrow when the
HIDDEN POWER is revealed. Anyway, your patrons
seem not to have seen fit to bestow upon you
any of that virtue and excellence of theirs -
why, if they are such a renowned ascetics, do you
lead the life and display the character of an imp?
Yes, you look like a stick-up man or a mugger to me -
so where s your take? You know - the booty?
All day you fast and moan and twiddle your beads -
come nightfall you re down at the tavern,
jiving and enjoying a glass of sweet wine. Ah,
you ve memorised the Book of Con - that s why
(no doubt) you ve been appointed Grand Mufti
of Balkh, Nishapur and Herat. Your words
are heavy with fruit as a date palm, but
when it comes to action, your thorns appear.
I hate your master the devil, that s all
I have to say, I have turned my face away
to the door of the Prophet s Household, where
I expect the blessings of the Two Worlds.
I may be exiled, far away from the family and hearth,
but I ve gained the wisdom of Luqman.
I ve tattoo d the name of Mustansir on my
breast and forehead - that king whom Caesar
would humbly thank for a job as doorman.
The stone of his stoop is more precious
than Badakshan rubies, just as the sky
is higher than dusty earth. In is courtyard
the sons of Emirs and Vaziers from Tehran, and
people of all clans and tribes are waiting to serve
just as their ancestors came before them.
O Imam, in whose noble essence God s purpose
in making the world has been fulfilled,
know that to me, the slave of devotion,
the flinty stones of Yamgan valley are worth
more than the pearls of the Gulf.
When you have bestowed upon me all Eternity
why should I bother with this insipid world?
Fifty years in Yamgan . . . why am I in jail?
Two sets of chains: Reason for my spirit,
and devil s shackles for my body. No wonder
the demons don t obey me: am I Solomon?
In fact I am more like Salman.
My words shine like the sun, even if
you haven t seen me in the flesh
for . . . how many years? Your heart:
a moon to the wisdom of my
pearl-scattering sun. Yamgan:
the gold-mine of knowledge and sagacity
(aren t I buried in Yamgan?)
I ve changed a lot since we met -
at least that part of that s
bound to the material realm. But
I have not turned away from the
Path of Faith. For unlike my flesh
my spirit soars. You write
Why don t you leave, come back?
Don t you realise -I m escaping
from demos? Don t blame me!
Don t aks me to make my home
amongst asses and cows - you know
I m not a herdsman. Comedians!
What do you have in common with
comics and their audiences? I m not
interested in laughing or cracking jokes.
Yesterday I laughed; today I weep.
Fools laugh; wisdom s got me by
the neck. Fools eat and enjoy themselves;
je regret, je regret . . . .all that.
The pink tulips of cheeks have
rotted like straw; if I thrash my wheat
with your breezes, I ll have nothing
tomorrow but a bag of wind.
Why has God made me this way?
Yesterday I was a rolling stone;
today I m a moss-grown ruin.
Yesterday tuxedo and tails
today rags. If I leave my hovel
whee should I go. I fear -
or rather I don t fear - I ll never
leave; I will stick to present evil.
I could try to hang on to the world
by the skin of my teeth - but
they d soon have my teeth out
by the roots. No, now that I
am aware of this secret I shall
rise and brush the mould
off my lapels. Before they come to
cart me away, I ll read over
the record once agin. Tomorrow
they ll strip me bare - why should I
bother to conceal anything today?
Repentance turns evil to good
- do God promise us in the Book -
I shall stick to good and stay away
from what doesn t concern me.
Do unto other . . . . that s what it means
to be a Muslim. If I am the servant
of the All-merciful, shouldn t I follow
His Messenger? At least I m
sensible enough to not to think that
two opposites can both be true.
Once again, off again . . .that s a
drunkard s act. I d never expect
you to summons me to join
the inebriates - and if anyone
does call me . . .sorry. No. I ll stay.