The Mirror of My Heart Read online

  He’s gone; my heart’s the bell hung from his camel’s neck,

  Since custom says a camel has to have a bell.

  Qamar Qajar

  Nineteenth century

  The poet was a member of the Qajar ruling family. Nothing further is known about her.

  *

  O hunter, I’m a bird with torn wings, caught within your trap—

  If you throw stones at me, my wings can’t fly, or even flap.

  *

  I don’t say, “Don’t be so unjust to me”—

  My heart rejoices that you think of me.

  Esmat Khanom

  Nineteenth century

  One of the daughters of Fath Ali Shah (r. 1797–1834). The poem given here is an elegy for a young Qajar prince, though it is not known which one (there were a great many of them).

  *

  What have you done, cruel heaven, that you can never rest

  From seeking to destroy the bravest and the best?

  Is tyranny the only ware your stall has sold?

  Are spiteful deeds the only food your scrip can hold?

  Have you no wish to see a moon traverse the skies?

  Have you no wish to see a shining sun arise?

  How many wounded hearts you torture and oppress,

  How many helpless hearts are filled with your distress!

  May your soul mourn, like mine, throughout eternity,

  Your spirit always groan, like mine, in misery.

  Jahan Khanom

  Nineteenth century

  The poet was a granddaughter of Fath Ali Shah (r. 1797–1834) and the mother of Naser al-Din Shah (r. 1848–96).

  *

  A man or woman who is wise will be

  Honored in every place and company—

  A man or woman who knows nothing shows

  That he or she’s a thorn without a rose.

  Efaf

  Nineteenth century

  Efaf was a cousin of Fath Ali Shah (r. 1797–1834), to one of whose sons, Haydar Qoli Mirza, she was married.

  *

  In love’s street, O my heart, beware—

  Highwaymen wait in ambush there.

  *

  Though I’m a bird trapped in a hunter’s snare, I see

  No difference in myself from any bird that’s free.

  Fakhri

  Nineteenth century

  Fakhri was one of the many daughters of Fath Ali Shah (r. 1797–1834).

  *

  O nightingale, why sing so sadly to the rose

  Which neither cares nor knows about your heartfelt woes?

  *

  They say love’s a catastrophe . . .

  O God, may no one ever be

  Deprived of this catastrophe.

  *

  He said, “Forget the notion that I’ll ever be with you.”

  I answered, “Giving up one’s soul’s the hardest thing to do.”

  *

  The young folk make a fuss and flaunt themselves, while I

  Watch jealously; I’m old, and feel it’s time to die.

  Mariam Khanom

  Nineteenth century

  The poet was the daughter of Mirza Abul Qasem Farahani (1779–1835), the reformist vizier of Abbas Mirza. When Abbas Mirza’s son Mohammad Shah Qajar (r. 1834–48) was crowned as shah, he at first promoted Farahani to the post of chancellor of Iran, but shortly afterward had him executed. The poem given here may be a covert commentary on her father’s betrayal and death.

  *

  Treat all men well, as far as you are able to,

  May those who have deceitful hearts not injure you;

  Don’t trust the ones who seem so kind and beautiful—

  O God, those men one shouldn’t trust, the things they do!

  Mastureh Kurdi

  1805–48

  Although she was ethnically a Kurd, Mastureh wrote her poems in standard Persian (rather than in Kurdish). She was a prolific poet, able to write fluently in a number of poetic genres. Her husband, Khosrow Khan, of whom she seems to have been very fond, was the governor of Sanandaj, the capital of Iranian Kurdistan.

  *

  Look at that fairy being, how gracefully he goes,

  To seek out hearts to plunder, untiringly he goes—

  Oh, woe to those who find themselves in love with him,

  A Turk who’s bloodthirsty, avid for loot, he goes;

  No pity’s yours at last, my stony-hearted love,

  Given the way in which my wretched fortune goes.

  The cypresses and pines bow down their towering crests

  In every meadow where that lofty cypress goes;

  Grief-stricken by her need for you, poor Mastureh,

  Distracted in love’s desert, weeping, wild, she goes.

  *

  Forget that Ramadan is here—today

  Autumn has come: “Bring wine,” the meadows say.

  Our ancient sage’s fatwa’s in agreement:

  “Drink goblets filled with flowing wine, and pay

  No heed to sermons’ cant.” Come, pour the wine

  That fills my soul with wonder and dismay—

  The man who doesn’t drink in autumn’s not

  A man but some ferocious beast of prey

  I’d give the world’s wealth for a drop of wine—

  I’d give both worlds, and throw in Judgment Day.

  Don’t think it’s only wine that’s made me foolish—

  Your eyes leave all my thoughts in disarray

  The morning breeze is filled with musk’s sweet scent

  It seems you must have combed your curls today

  Dear Rose, I think of how your petals fall,

  And tremble like a tree the winds of autumn sway;

  Be kind, and glance at me for once; I’ve spent

  My life in wondering how you fare each day.

  *

  For one as sad as I am,

  wine’s a licit thing

  And more so since fresh flowers

  are blooming and it’s spring

  Your lips are ruby-red,

  you are so pure a creature,

  What words could paint such color,

  or dare define your nature?

  My friends, look well at this

  cruel rogue—and understand

  It’s my shed blood that makes

  the patterns on his hand24

  You left, and with you went

  my strength and good sense too,

  Come back—my eyes weep tears,

  my heart weeps blood for you

  But don’t complain about

  his cruelty, Mastureh—

  Our stony-hearted lovers

  always act this way.

  *

  Flute-like, while you’re away, I will complain tonight25

  And I’ll get drunk on wine to ease my pain tonight

  And, oh, for God’s sake don’t advise me to stop crying

  My sobs will be the flute’s and tambourine’s refrain tonight

  Cruel friend, if not for your hot brand upon my heart

  I wouldn’t weep and call for you in vain tonight

  But if my Khosrow should come home to visit me26

  Like Jamshid I’ll rejoice—laughter will reign tonight!

  That king and I, we’re one another’s qebleh now,27

  And it’s to him that I will pray again tonight

  *

  The candle-brightness of your face has filled

  The cottage of my heart with light tonight

  The gaudy splendor of its festival

  Has moved the angels with delight tonight

  Hyaci
nths scent your shoulders, and you’d think

  This world’s where musk and rose unite tonight

  Thanks be to God, your face’s sun has made

  My ruined heart the safest site tonight

  My hands are filled with love to welcome him

  Within my soul the moon shines bright tonight

  Don’t criticize the words I use—he’s here

  Joy makes me stammer as I write tonight

  Now Mastureh is in her lover’s arms

  No roses rival such a sight tonight

  *

  If my harsh Layli’s heart were not so pitiless

  I wouldn’t be Majnun stuck in this wilderness28

  If I could get the business of my heart in order

  The pages of my mind would not be in this mess

  If you would show your lovely face to pious preachers

  We’d hear no more about true faith and faithlessness

  If you would be the doctor for my heart’s complaint

  I’d need no medicines, and I’d quickly convalesce!

  If Mastureh’s love-longing could be made to end

  She wouldn’t sing these songs of her unhappiness

  *

  We’ve gone, we left behind us nothing good

  And what we have to show on Judgment Day

  Was built on water as it flows away

  Why do we boast about this world of dust?

  Tomorrow we ourselves are dust and clay

  We did so many things we shouldn’t do,

  And planted thorns of sin along the way

  We don’t deserve caresses, we’ve no beauty,

  It’s not in heaven the likes of us will stay

  Say that we’re pious, but don’t mention mosques

  It’s not to Mecca that we bow and pray

  The elders in the church and synagogue—

  These are the guides we follow and obey29

  Why should the Friend inquire of us the good

  And ill we’ve done, on Judgment Day?

  The good in us is all from Him, likewise

  The evil in us is from Him, we’ll say.

  O God, my heart and I took all the world

  To write about, and let our spirit stray

  From Him, the Friend, from whom we looked away.

  *

  Making Do

  I’ll pick weeds if no flowers appear for me

  And I’ll drink drops if I can’t reach the sea.

  *

  Dear love, dear silver-chin, when you’re not there30

  My thoughts become as tangled as my hair—

  If longing for you leaves me for a moment

  My soul will leave my body then, I swear.

  *

  Your mouth is sweet and I’m embarrassed by my bitter words—

  My letter was uncalled for, I accept that I’m to blame,

  I feel degraded, mortified, and stuck in my own mud,

  Unless your kind benevolence absolves me of my shame.

  Mastureh Guri

  1832–67

  The poet lived her whole life in Gur, in northern Afghanistan, and died unmarried at the age of thirty-four.

  *

  The lover’s heart is drunk, around your face it’s dancing

  A candle around which two hundred moths are dancing

  Wherever light that emanates from God is found

  One in a mosque, another in a wine-shop, is dancing

  And in an idol’s temple was your beauty painted?

  I see the idol and the temple, both are dancing

  The preacher told me yesterday to give up love

  Today he broke his oath, and drunkenly he’s dancing

  My heart sees both your curls’ snare, and your pretty mole—

  It trembles at the snare, around the mole it’s dancing

  And has the morning breeze passed through your lovely tresses?

  In gardens nightingales, in ruins owls, are dancing

  Behind the veil the banner of my love is streaming

  Look, at its sound, crazed Mastureh is wildly dancing31

  Shah Jahan Beigum of Bhopal

  1838–1901

  On the death of her father, when she was six years old, Shah Jahan Beigum became the titular ruler of the Indian state of Bhopal, although her mother acted as regent until her death in 1868, when Shah Jahan took over the government. She had been trained to rule, and did so wisely and well. Among the many public projects with which she became involved, she was one of the founders of Aligarh University, the most important Moslem university in India. Her first language was Urdu, in which she wrote her autobiography, but she also wrote poetry in Persian (as was not uncommon for educated Urdu speakers; one of the most admired Urdu poets, Iqbal (1877–1938), wrote a number of poems in Persian).

  *

  O Shah Jahan, your long life’s many sins are great,

  They’re like a sepulcher that’s dark and desolate;

  But don’t lose hope, your Judge is merciful—to Him

  A single straw outweighs your sinful mountain’s weight.

  *

  If some sweet, cypress-bodied youth should saunter past my grave,

  I’m happy from my grave to wish him well, and others living too;

  O heavens, how did you deal with Solomon and Alexander

  That Shah Jahan should ever hope for happiness from you?

  Baligheh-ye Shirazi

  Nineteenth century?

  This poet was presumably from Shiraz, but her dates are unknown.

  *

  At night a dog sleeps in your alleyway32

  By day the sunlight kisses where he lay

  From the 1800s to the Present

  Tahereh

  1814–52

  Educated by her father, Tahereh—also known as Qorrat al-Ayn—became a proselytizer for the teachings of a religious reformer, Mirza Mohammad Ali of Shiraz, known as the Bab (“the Gate”), the founder of Babism, a development of which became the Bahai religion. The followers of the Bab were regarded by orthodox Moslems with hostility that often turned violent, and this was exacerbated by an attempt on the life of the then shah, Naser al-Din Shah, in 1852, which was blamed on a Babi conspiracy. Tahereh was among those killed in the reprisals against the Babis; she was strangled, perhaps on direct orders from the shah himself.1

  *

  If I should ever see you, face to face, and eye to eye,

  I’d tell you of my sorrow, point by point, and sigh by sigh;

  But like the wind I seek you, searching where we might meet,

  Searching from door to door, from house to house, from street to street.

  Searching for that small mouth, the scent that cheek bestows,

  Searching from bud to bud, from flower to flower, from rose to rose.

  My heart’s blood spills as tears that fall unceasingly,

  Flowing from creek to creek, from stream to stream, from sea to sea.

  My life is woven through with love; the broken heart you left

  Is yours now—thread by thread, and warp by warp, and weft by weft.

  Tahereh found within her heart, searching it through and through,

  From page to page, from fold to fold there, you, and only you.2

  *

  Oh, by your hair, I swear, you’re my despair3

  I moan aloud you’re absent and elsewhere

  Your ruby lips are my sweet honeycomb

  And head to foot I’m gripped within love’s snare

  I’ve gone and you are here in place of me

  Although I’ve borne such grief for you, although

  I’ve drunk repeated glasses of love’s woe,

  Although my sou
l is burned, worn out with pain

  And dead with grief, my heart’s alive, I know

  Because your lips like Christ’s awaken me4

  I am a treasure, one that’s yours alone.

  I’m silver, and the mine’s a mine you own

  I am a seed, you are the harvest’s lord—

  If you are me, what is my flesh and bone?

  If you are me, what’s this misshapen me?

  Your love’s reduced me to a speck, and I

  Am drunk with love for you; suppose that my

  Poor hand should touch your hair with reverence—

  Since you are me it’s me I’d glorify

  My prayer mat has become my limbs for me

  If my heart’s yours, why hurt it as you do?

  And if it’s not, why’s it so wild for you?

  Moment by moment make this heartache greater

  And drive this me from me now through and through

  Reside in this distracted heart that’s me

  The smoky fire of love’s intensity

  Has burned all that there’s ever been for me,

  It’s cleansed belief from me and unbelief—

  Your eyebrow’s curve has all my piety

  And church and ka’bah are now one to me5

  That day the world was made, creation’s pen

  Wrote on its tablets all the fates of men—

  Before they came out from their nothingness

  And life was breathed into their bodies . . . then

  Your seal was on the wild heart that’s in me

  Fate saw to it, when man was made from clay,

  Your love was planted in my heart that day—

  My love for you became my destiny

  And heaven and hell for me have fled away.

  Apart from you there’s no desire in me

  We’re what’s left of ourselves, we die, the wine

  We drink down to its last dregs is divine;

  We’re burned within bewilderment’s deep valley,

  We’re lost souls wandering without a sign

  How deeply will my shame dishonor me?

  From when I cried out, “Show my truth to me!”

  I’ve boldly walked his street for all to see—

  I wandered everywhere and cried aloud

  That he is all of me and I am he.