(AD 1414–92; AH 817–97)
One of the last great Sufi poets, Nur ud-Din Abdur-Rahman Jami was born in the town of Jam in Khorasan, now in the Ghor Province of Afghanistan. A remarkable man, he was a great poet, scholar and mystic.
Aside from his poetry, which includes three divans of ghazals and seven romantic and didactic masnavis, he wrote about the Prophet, mysticism, Arabic grammar, rhyme, prosody, music and the lives of saints and mystics. His major poetical works are Behiristan (Abode of Spring) and Haft Awrang (Seven Thrones of Grace), which includes his famous masnavis Yusuf and Zulaikha and Salaman and Absal, a version of the Leila and Majnun story.
Jami was certainly the last of the great poets of the Persian language and he was regarded by his contemporaries as beyond praise or comparison. He died in Herat, Afghanistan.
By the garden, the brink of a stream,
And a goblet in my hand,
Rise up, Saqi! Pour the wine!
Abstinence here is a crime!
If the Sheikh is drunk with religion,
In the temple or mosque in fear,
Give me the tavern, full of drunks,
Such ecstasy is enduring here.
You kissed the goblet with your lips
And I so drunk that I did not know
Which are your red lips divine
And where is the red, red wine.
No need to draw your sword
To cleave my heart in two;
Leave it aside, one glance
Is enough and will do.
To the men of reason
Do not explain the pains of love;
Reveal not this secret precious
To the common and the ungracious.
Jami is drunk with your Love
And has not seen the wine or cup;
In this banquet of Love divine
What need for cup or wine?
When eternity’s dawn whispered ‘Love’,
Love cast the fire of desire in the pen.
The pen arose from the tablet of eternity
And drew a hundred forms of beauty.
The skies are but the offspring of Love;
The elements fell to earth through Love.
Without Love, no good or evil is discerned;
That which is not of Love is itself non-existent.
This lofty azure roof upon the world
That revolves through day and night above
Is the Lotus of Love’s garden,
Is the curl on the polo stick of Love.
The magnetism that is in the heart of stone
That grips the iron with such a strong grip
Is the Love that has such iron will;
Appearing from within the stone,
Behold the stone in its resting place
Is bereft without love for its opposite.
From this you can see the sorrow of the stricken
And the Love they feel for the Beloved.
It’s true that Love is full of pain
But it is also the solace of the Pure.
How can man escape this cycle of
Day and night
Without the blessing of Love?
O You, whose Beauty appears in all that is manifest,
May a thousand revered spirits be Your sacrifice!
Like a flute I sing the song of separation from You,
Yet it’s true that You are near to me at each instant.
It’s Love that reveals itself to us in all we see;
Sometimes dressed as a Monarch grand,
Others as a beggar on the street, a begging bowl in hand.
Arise, O Saqi, and pour that wine
That disperses sorrow from our hearts!
That wine that frees us from the Self
And leaves only the awareness of the Lord.
O Jami, the true path to God is Love
And peace be upon him who follows the true path.
I am so drunk that wine drips from my eyes;
My heart so burns that I can smell its roasting!
If my Beloved comes unveiled at midnight,
An ageing puritan will rush out of the mosque.
I saw your face at dawn and missed my prayer:
What use is supplication when the Sun has risen?
If a drop of Jami’s pain falls into the river
The fish will jump out burning with pain!
In solitude, where Being signless dwelt,
And all the Universe still dormant lay
Concealed in selflessness, One Being was
Exempt from ‘I-’ or ‘Thou-’ ness, and apart
From all duality; Beauty Supreme,
Unmanifest, except unto Itself
By Its own light, yet fraught with power to charm
The souls of all; concealed in the Unseen,
An Essence pure, unstained by aught of ill.
No mirror to reflect Its loveliness,
Nor comb to touch Its locks; the morning breeze
Ne’er stirred Its tresses; no collyrium1
Lent lustre to Its eyes: no rosy cheeks
O’ershadowed by dark curls like hyacinth,
Nor peach-like down were there; no dusky mole
Adorned Its face; no eye had yet beheld
Its image. To Itself It sang of love
In wordless measures. By Itself It cast
The die of love.
But Beauty cannot brook
Concealment and the veil, nor patient rest
Unseen and unadmired: ’twill burst all bonds,
And from Its prison-casement to the world
Reveal Itself. See where the tulip grows
In upland meadows, how in balmy spring
It decks itself; and how amidst its thorns
The wild rose rends its garment, and reveals
Its loveliness. Thou, too, when some rare thought,
Or beauteous image, or deep mystery
Flashes across thy soul, canst not endure
To let it pass, but hold’st it, that perchance
In speech or writing thou may’st send it forth
To charm the world.
Wherever Beauty dwells
Such is its nature, and its heritage
From Everlasting Beauty, which emerged
From realms of purity to shine upon
The worlds, and all the souls which dwell therein.
One gleam fell from It on the Universe,
And on the angels, and this single ray
Dazzled the angels, till their senses whirled
Like the revolving sky. In divers forms
Each mirror showed It forth, and everywhere
Its praise was chanted in new harmonies.
*
Each speck of matter did He constitute
A mirror, causing each one to reflect
The beauty of His visage. From the rose
Flashed forth His beauty, and the nightingale
Beholding it, loved madly. From that Light
The candle drew the lustre which beguiles
The moth to immolation. On the Sun
His Beauty shone, and straightway from the wave
The lotus reared its head. Each shining lock
Of Leila’s hair attracted Majnun’s heart,
Because some ray divine reflected shone
In her fair face. ’Twas He to Shirin’s lips
Who lent that sweetness which had power to steal
The heart from Parviz, and from Ferhad life.2
His Beauty everywhere doth show itself,
And through the forms of earthly beauties shines
Obscured as through a veil. He did reveal
His face through Yusuf’s coat, and so destroyed
Zulaikha’s peace. Where’er thou seest a veil,
Beneath that veil He hides. Whatever heart
Doth yield to love, He charms it. In His love
The heart hath life. Longing for Him, the soul
Hath victory. That heart which seems to love
The fair ones of this world, loves Him alone.
Beware! say not, ‘He is all-beautiful,
And we His lovers.’ Thou art but the glass,
And He the Face3 confronting it, which casts
Its image on the mirror. He alone
Is manifest, and thou in truth art hid.
Pure Love, like Beauty, coming but from Him,
Reveals itself in thee. If steadfastly
Thou canst regard, thou wilt at length perceive
He is the mirror also – He alike
The Treasure and the Casket. ‘I’ and ‘Thou’
Have here no place, and are but phantasies
Vain and unreal. Silence! for this tale
Is endless, and no eloquence hath power
To speak of Him. ’Tis best for us to love
And suffer silently, being as naught.
*
Be thou the thrall of love; make this thine object;
For this one thing seemeth to wise men worthy.
Be thou love’s thrall, that thou may’st win thy freedom,
Bear on thy breast its brand, that thou may’st blithe be.
Love’s wine will warm thee, and will steal thy senses;
All else is soulless stupor and self-seeking.
Remembrances of love refresh the lover,
Whose voice when lauding love e’er waxeth loudest.
But that he drained a draught from this deep goblet,
In the wide worlds not one would wot of Majnun.
Thousands of wise and well-learned men have wended
Through life, who, since for love they had no liking,
Have left nor name, nor note, nor sign, nor story,
Nor tale for future time, nor fame for fortune.
Sweet songsters ’midst the birds are found in plenty,
But, when love’s lore is taught by the love-learned,
Of moth and nightingale they most make mention.
Though in this world a hundred tasks thou tryest,
’Tis love alone which from thyself will save thee.
Even from earthly love thy face avert not,
Since to the Real it may serve to raise thee.
Ere A, B, C are rightly apprehended,
How canst thou con the pages of thy Qur’an?
A sage (so heard I), unto whom a student
Came craving counsel on the course before him,
Said, ‘If thy steps be strangers to love’s pathways,
Depart, learn love, and then return before me!
For, should thou fear to drink wine from Form’s flagon,
Thou canst not drain the draught of the Ideal.
But yet beware! Be not by Form belated;
Strive rather with all speed the bridge to traverse.
If to the bourn thou fain wouldst bear thy baggage
Upon the bridge let not thy footsteps linger.’
E. G. Browne