(d. AD 1320; AH 719)
Little is known about the life of Mahmud Shabistari, including his exact date of birth. What we know is that he was born and educated in the village of Shabistar near Tabriz in Iran.
He was not a voluminous writer, but his only extant literary masterpiece, Gulshan-e-Raz (Rose Garden of Mystery) – written in 1311 and containing about a thousand rhymed couplets – is considered an essential manual of the mystical doctrine of Sufism, making Shabistari one of the most celebrated Sufi poets of the fourteenth century.
The poem, composed in masnavi form, was written in response to a series of questions on mystical doctrine, and the influence of Mohyuddin Ibn ‘Arabi’s Wahdatul Wujud (Unity of Being) philosophy is evident. It is one of the best manuals of Sufi theosophy which exists. His lesser-known works are Haqqul-Yaqin (Certain Truth) and Risala-i-Shahid (Tract of the Witness). The Gulshan-e-Raz is studied widely in the Islamic world.
Again you question me, saying, ‘What am I?’
Inform me as to what ‘I’ means.
When Absolute Being is spoken of
Men use the word ‘I’ to say it.
When ‘The Truth’ is set in what exists
You express it by the word ‘I’,
‘I’ and ‘you’ are the accidents of Being.
They are like lattices of the lamp of Being.
Bodies and spirits are all the One Light,
Now shining from mirrors, now from lamps.
You say, ‘The word “I” in every connection.’
You really speak of the soul of ‘I’.
But as you have made intellect your guide,
You do not know your ‘Self’ from one of your parts.
Go, O master, and know well your ‘Self’,
For fatness does not resemble an empty tumour.
‘I’ and ‘you’ are higher than body and soul,
For both body and soul are parts of ‘me’.
The word ‘I’ is not limited to man,
So that you should say it means only the soul.
Lift yourself above time and space,
Quit the world and be yourself a world for yourself.
That man attains to the secret of unity
Who is not detained at the stages on the road.
But the knower is he that knows Very Being,
He that witnesses Absolute Being.
He recognizes no being but Very Being,
And being such as his own he gambles clean away.
Your being is naught but thorns and weeds,
Cast it all clean away from you.
Go sweep out the chamber of your heart,
Make it ready to be the dwelling-place of the Beloved.
When you depart out, He will enter in,
In you, void of yourself, will He display His beauty.
The man who is loved for his ‘pious works’,
Whom the pains of ‘negation’ purify as a room that is swept,
He finds an abode in a ‘laudable station’,
He finds a portion in ‘what eye hath not seen, nor ear heard’.
But while the stain of his own being remains on him,
The knowledge of the knower assumes not the form of experience.
Until you cast away obstacles from before you,
The light enters not the chamber of your heart.
As there are four obstacles in this world,
So also the modes of purification from them are four:
First, purification from filthiness of the flesh;
Second, from sin and evil ‘whispers of the tempter’;1
The third is the purification from bad habits,
Which make men as beasts of the field;
The fourth is the purification of the secret,
For at this point the pilgrim’s journeyings cease.
Whoso is cleansed with these purifications,
Verily he is fit to commune with God.
Until you utterly gamble away yourself,
How can your prayer be true prayer?
When your essence is pure from all stain,
Then it is that your prayers are ‘a joy of the eyes’,2
There remains then no distinction;
Knower and known are one and the same.
E. H. Whinfield
Set a mirror over against you,
Look on it and see that other person.
Again see what that reflection is,
It is not this nor that, what then is that reflection?
Since I am limited to my own proper Self,
I know not what is this shadow of me;
In fine, how can Not-being be joined with being?
The two, light and darkness, cannot be united.
Like the past, the future month and year exist not,
What is there but this one point of the present?
Time is one imaginary point, and that ever passing away,
You have named it the fleeting river.
There is none other in this desert, but only I,
Tell me what is this echo and noise?
Accidents are fleeting, substance is compounded of them.
Say how does it exist or where is this compound?
Bodies exist only through length, breadth and depth,
Since their existence proceeds from these nonentities.
And of this kind is all the fabric of the two worlds;
Now you know this, have faith and be stablished.
Of a truth there is no other existence than ‘The Truth’,
Whether you say ‘He is the Truth’, or ‘I am the Truth.’
Separate imaginary appearances from True Being,
Make not yourself a stranger but a friend.
E. H. Whinfield
Union with ‘The Truth’ is separation from the creature state,
Friendship with Him is estrangement from Self.
When the contingent wipes off the dust of contingency,
Nothing remains save Necessary Being.
The existence of the two worlds is as a dream,
In the moment of eternity they become naught.
He who is ‘united’ is not a creature,
The perfect man says not so.
How shall Not-being find entrance at that door?
What connection has the dust with the Lord of Lords?
How can Not-being be united with ‘The Truth’?
How can Not-being achieve travelling and journey?
If your soul were cognizant of this mystery,
You would straightway say, ‘God pardon my error.’
You are non-existent, and Not-being is ever immovable,
How can this non-existent contingent move to the necessary?
No substance possesses objectivity without accidents,
And what is an accident? – what ‘endures not two moments’.
Philosophers, who have written on natural science,
Define bodies by length, breadth and depth.
What then is matter but an absolute nonentity?
Wherein is demonstrated form?
As then form without matter is not self-existent,
So too matter without a form is naught but Not-being.
All the bodies in the universe consist of these two nonentities,
Whereof nothing is known, but their non-existence.
Consider then their whole essence without more or less,
In itself it is neither existent nor non-existent.
Look upon contingent being in spirit and in truth,
For apart from necessary being it is naught.
Absolute Being by its own perfection is pervading all,
Phenomenal objects are mere imaginary things;
Imaginary things are not really existent,
Though the numbers are many, only One is counted.
The world has only a simulated existence,
Its state is but an insubstantial pageant and a farce.
E. H. Whinfield
Unity is like a sea, albeit a sea of blood,
Whereout rise thousands of mad waves.
Behold how this drop of water from that sea,
Has assumed so many names and forms!
Mist, cloud, rain, dew, clay,
Plant and animal, and perfect man.
In fine it was one drop of water at the first,
Wherefrom all these things were fashioned.
This universe of reason, soul, heavens and bodies,
Is as a drop of water in its beginning and ending.
When their appointed time comes to heaven and stars,
Their being is lost in Not-being.
When a wave strikes it, the world vanishes away,
Then is fulfilled the text: ‘It abounded not yesterday.’1
In a moment this world passes away,
None remains in the house save ‘The Truth’.
At that moment you attain proximity,
You stripped of ‘Self’ are ‘united’ to ‘The Beloved’.
Union here means the cessation of this dream,
When this dream passes away, it is union.
Say not ‘the contingent outsteps its limits’,
Contingent becomes not necessary, nor necessary contingent.
He who is transcendent in spiritual mysteries,
Says not this, for it is an inversion of verities.
O master! you have a thousand ‘processes’ before you,
Go and consider your own coming and going.
Of the argument of part and whole and the ‘process’ of man,
I tell you every whit both manifest and secret.
E. H. Whinfield
Being is the sea, speech is the shore,
The shells are letters, the pearls knowledge of the heart.
In every wave it casts up a thousand royal pearls
Of traditions and holy sayings and texts.
Every moment a thousand waves rise out of it,
Yet it never becomes less by one drop.
Knowledge has its being from that sea,
The coverings of its pearls are voice and letters.
Since mysteries are here shown in an allegory,
It is necessary to have recourse to illustrations:
I have heard that in the month Nisan
The pearl oysters rise to the surface of the sea of Uman.
From the lowest depths of the sea they come up
And rest on the surface with opened mouths.
The mist is lifted up from the sea,
And descends in rain at the command of ‘The Truth’.
There fall some drops into each shell’s mouth,
And each mouth is shut as by a hundred bonds.
Then each shell descends into the depths with full heart,
And each drop of rain becomes a pearl.
The diver goes down to the depths of the sea,
And thence brings up the glittering pearls.
The shore is your body, the sea is Being,
The mist Grace, the rain knowledge of the Names.
The diver of this mighty sea is human reason,
Who holds a hundred pearls wrapped in his cloth.
The heart is to knowledge as a vessel,
The shells of knowledge of the heart are voice and letters…
E. H. Whinfield
Knowledge is never coupled with lust of the world,
If you desire the angel, cast out the dog.
Knowledge of faith springs from angelic virtues,
It enters not a heart with a dog’s nature.
Thus runs the saying of ‘The Chosen’,
Mark it well, for verily it is so.
When form is contained in the house,
The angels enter it not perforce.
Go, cleanse the face of the tablets of your heart,
That an angel may make his abode with you.
Gain from him the knowledge that is your heritage,
Begin to till your field for the next world’s harvest.
Read the books of ‘The Truth’ – your soul and the heavens,
Be adorned with the principle of all the virtues.
E. H. Whinfield
The principles of a good character are equity,
And thereafter wisdom, temperance, courage.
He who is endued with all these four
Is a sage perfect in thought and deed.
His soul and heart are well informed with wisdom,
He is neither over-cunning nor a fool.
By temperance his appetites are subdued,
Intemperance and insensibility alike are banished.
The courageous man is pure from abjectness and from boasting,
His nature is exempt from cowardice and rashness.
Equity is as the garment of his nature,
He is void of injustice, thus his character is good.
All the virtues lie in the mean,
Which is alike removed from excess and defect.
The mean is as the ‘narrow way’,
On either side yawns hell’s bottomless pit…
E. H. Whinfield
The world is the dowry given to man by the Universal Soul.
Of this marriage the issue is eloquence,
Knowledge, language, virtue, earthly beauty.
Heavenly beauty descends from the unseen world,
Descends like some licentious reveller,
Sets up its flag in the strong city of earthly beauty,
Throws into confusion all the world’s array.
Now riding royally on the steed of comeliness,
Now brandishing the keen sword-blade of language.
When beheld in a person it is called beauty,
And when heard in speech eloquence.
Saints, kings, dervishes, apostles,
All alike bow down and own its sway.
What is this charm in the beauty of a fair face?
It is not merely earthly beauty, say what is it?
That heart ravishment can come only from ‘The Truth’,
For there is no partner in Divine agency.
How can it be lust which ravishes men’s hearts?
For ‘The Truth’ now and again appears as evil.
Confess the ‘working’ of ‘The Truth’ in every place,
Set not foot beyond your own limits.
Know ‘The Truth’ in the garb of good is the true faith,
‘The Truth’ in the garb of evil is the work of Satan.
E. H. Whinfield
From His eye proceed languishing and intoxication.
From His ruby lip the essence of being.
Because of His eye all hearts are burning,
His ruby lip is healing to the sick heart.
Because of His eye hearts are drunken and aching,
By His ruby lip all souls are clothed.
Though the world is not regarded by His eye,
His lip ever and anon shows compassion.
Sometimes with humanity He charms our hearts,
Sometimes He grants help to the helpless.
By smiles He gives life to man’s water and clay,
By a breath He kindles the heaven into a flame.
Every glance of His eye is a snare baited with corn,
Every corner thereof is a wine shop.
With a frown He lays waste the creature world,
With one kiss He restores it again every moment.
Because of His eye our blood is ever boiling,
Because of His lip our souls are ever beside themselves.
By a frown of His eye He plunders the heart,
By a smile on His lips He cheers the soul.
When you ask of His eye and lip an embrace,
One says ‘nay’, and the other ‘yea’.
By a frown He finishes the affair of the world,
By a kiss He ever and anon revives the soul.
One frown from Him and we yield up our lives,
One kiss from Him and we rise again.
As the ‘twinkling of an eye’ comes the last day,1
By a breath the spirit of Adam was created.
When the world reflects on His eye and His lip,
It gives itself up to the worship of wine.
All existence is not regarded by His eyes,
They regard it only as the illusion of a dream.
Man’s existence is but intoxication or a sleep,
What relation does the dust bear to the Lord of Lords?
Reason draws a hundred perplexities from this
That He said, ‘Thou mightest be formed after mine eye’2…
E. H. Whinfield
Of the Mole1
… If this heart of mine be the reflection of that mole,
Why are its states so various?
Sometimes it is sick like His intoxicating eye,
Sometimes fluttering like His curl.
Sometimes gleaming as a Moon like that face,
Sometimes dark like that black mole.
Sometimes it is a mosque, sometimes a synagogue,
Sometimes a hell, sometimes a heaven.
Sometimes exalted above the seventh heaven,
Sometimes sunken below ‘this mound’ of earth.
After devotion and asceticism it becomes again
Addicted to wine, lamp and beauty.
E. H. Whinfield
Wine, torch, and beauty are epiphanies of Verity,
For it is that which is revealed under all forms soever.
Wine and torch are the transport and light of ‘The Knower’,
Behold ‘The Beauty’ for it is hidden from none.
Here wine is the lampshade, torch the lamp,
And Beauty the beam of the light of spirits.
By Beauty were kindled sparks in the heart of Moses,
His wine was the fire and his torch the burning bush.
Wine and torch are the soul of that flashing light,
Beauty signifies that ‘greatest of signs’.1
Wine, torch, and beauty, all are present,
Neglect not to embrace that Beauty.
Quaff the wine of dying to Self, and for a season
Peradventure you will be freed from the dominion of Self.
Drink wine that it may set you free from yourself,
And may conduct the being of the drop to the ocean.
Drink wine, for its cup is the face of ‘The Friend’,
The cup is His eye drunken and flown with wine.
Seek wine without cup or goblet,
Wine is wine-drinker, cup-bearer is wine cup.
Drink wine from the cup of ‘the face that endures’,2
The text ‘their Lord gave them to drink’ is its cup-bearer.3
Pure wine is that which gives you purification
From the stain of existence at the time of intoxication.
Drink wine and rid yourself of coldness of heart,
For a drunkard is better than the self-righteous.
The man who dwells far from the portals of ‘The Truth’,
For him the veil of darkness is better than the veil of light.
Thus Adam found a hundred blessings from darkness,
And Iblis was eternally cursed through the light.
Though the mirror of the heart be polished,
What profit is it when only Self is seen on its face?
When a ray from His face falls upon the wine,
Many forms are seen on it as it were bubbles.
World and spirit world are seen on it as bubbles,
Its bubbles are to the saints as veils.
Universal Reason is dazed and beside itself at this,
Universal Soul is reduced to slavery.
The whole universe is as His wine house,
The heart of every atom as His wine cup.
Reason is drunken, angels drunken, soul drunken,
Air drunken, earth drunken, heaven drunken.
The heavens giddy with this wine are reeling to and fro,
Desiring in their heart to smell its perfume.
The angels drinking it pure from pure vessels,
Pour the dregs of their draught upon this world.
The elements becoming light-headed from that draught
Fall now into the fire, now into the water.
From the scent of its dregs which fell on the earth
Man ascends up till he reaches heaven.
From its reflection the withered body becomes a living soul,
From its heat the frozen soul is warmed to life and motion.
The creature world is ever dizzy therewith,
From house and home ever wandering astray.
One from the scent of its dregs becomes a philosopher,
One from seeing the colour of the pure wine a traditionist.
One from half a draught becomes righteous,
One from quaffing a cupful becomes a lover.
Yet another swallows at one draught
Cup, wine house, cup-bearer and wine-drinker.
He swallows them all, yet his mouth remains open.
Well done, O ocean heart, O mighty winebibber!
He drinks up existence at one draught,
And obtains release from affirmations and negations.
Freed from dry devotions and empty rites,
He grasps the skirt of the ancient of the wine house.
E. H. Whinfield
To be a haunter of taverns is to be freed from Self;
Self-regard is paganism, even if it be in righteousness.
They have brought you news from the tavern
That unification is shaking off relations.
The tavern is of the world that has no similitude,
It is the place of lovers that reck not.
The tavern is the nest of the bird of the soul,
The tavern is the sanctuary that has no place.
The tavern-haunter is desolate in a desolate place,
In his desert the world is as a mirage.
This desert has no end or limit,
No man has seen its beginning or its end.
Though you wander about in it for a hundred years,
You will find there neither yourself, nor ‘other’.
They that dwell therein are headless and footless,
They are neither faithful nor infidels.
The wine of alienation from Self has got into their heads,
They have renounced alike evil and good.
Each has drunk wine without lips or palate,
Each has cast away thought of name and fame,
Talk of marvels, of visions, and ‘states’,
Dreams of secret chambers, of lights, of signs.
All through the smell of these dregs have they cast away,
Through tasting this self-annihilator they are lying drunken.
Pilgrim’s staff and cruse, and rosary, and dentifrice,
All have they given as ransom for these dregs.
Falling and rising again in the midst of water and clay,
Shedding blood from their eyes for tears.
Now raised by intoxication to the world of bliss,
Exalting their necks as racers.
Now with blackened faces beholding the wall,
Now with reddened faces impaled on the stake.
Now in the mystic dance of joy in the Beloved,
Losing head and foot like the revolving heavens.
In every strain which they hear from the minstrel
Comes to them rapture from the unseen world.
The mystic song is not those mere words and sound,
For in every note thereof lies a precious mystery.
Putting from off their head their tenfold cloak,
Being abstracted from every colour and smell;
And washing off in that pure, well-racked wine,
All colour, black and green and blue.
Drinking one cup of that pure wine,
And thence becoming ‘Sufis’ cleansed from qualities;
Sweeping the dust of dung-heaps from off their souls,
Telling not a hundredth part of what they see,
Grasping the skirts of drunkards flown with wine,
Wearied of teachership and discipleship…
E. H. Whinfield
Here idol is the evidence of love and unity,
Girdle is the binding of the bond of obedience.
Since infidelity and faith are both based on Being,
Idol-worship is essentially Unification.
Since all things are the manifestations of Being,
One amongst them must be an idol.
Consider well, O wise man,
An idol as regards its real being is not vain.
Know that God Most High created it,
And whatever comes from the Good is good.
Being is purely good in whatever it be,
If it also contains evil, that proceeds from ‘other’.
If the Mussulman but knew what is faith,
He would see that faith is idol-worship.
If the polytheist only knew what idols are,
How would he be wrong in his religion?
He sees in idols naught but the visible creature,
And that is the reason that he is legally a heathen.
You also, if you see not ‘The Truth’ hid in the idols,
In the eye of the law are not a Mussulman.
By telling beads and saying prayers and reading the Qur’an
The heathen becomes not a Mussulman.
That man is disgusted with superficial faith,
To whom the true infidelity has once been revealed.
Within every body is hidden a soul,
And within infidelity is hidden true faith.
Infidelity is ever giving praise to ‘The Truth’;
The text, ‘All things praise God’,1 proves it.
Who can gainsay it? What am I saying? I have gone astray from the road?
‘Leave them, and after all that is revealed, say, God,’2
Who adorned the face of the idol with such beauty?
Who became an idol-worshipper, unless ‘The Truth’ willed it?
It is He that made, He that said, He that is,
Made good, said good, is good.
See but One, say One, know but One,
In this are summed up the roots and branches of faith.
It is not I who declare this; hear it from the Qur’an,
‘There is no distinction in the creatures of the Merciful.’3
E. H. Whinfield