“Imagination Does Not Exist,” by Hafez, translated by Daniel Ladinsky.
 published in a book titled, “The Gift” (Penguin Compass, 1999).

 

The
Great religions are the
Ships,
Poets the life
Boats. 

Every sane person I know has jumped

Overboard.

 

That is good for business

Isn’t it

Hafez?

“The Great Religions,” modern renderings of Hafez’s sentiments by Daniel Ladinsky,

 published in a book titled, “The Gift” (Penguin Compass, 1999).

 

Described by Emerson as the “poet’s poet.” Translated by Goethe, adored by Thoreau. 

Although Hafez was not much acclaimed in his own day and often exposed to the reproaches of orthodoxy, he greatly influenced subsequent Persian poets and has become the most beloved poet of Persian culture. It is said that if there is one book in a house where Persian is spoken, it will be the Dīwān of Hāfez.

His collected works (Divan) are to be found in the homes of most Iranians, who learn his poems by heart and use them as proverbs and sayings to this day. His life and poems have been the subject of much analysis, commentary and interpretation, and have influenced post-Fourteenth Century Persian writing more than any other author.

Though Hāfez’s poetry is influenced by Islam, he is widely respected by Hindus, Christians, Sikhs, Buddhists, and others. The Indian sage of Iranian descent Meher Baba, who syncretized elements of Sufism, Hinduism, Zoroastrianism and Christian mysticism, recited Hāfez’s poetry until his dying day. October 12 is celebrated as Hafez Day in Iran.  

Ballad of the Army Carts

Wagons rattling, banging,
horses neighing, snorting,
draftees marching, bows arrows at hips,
fathers, mothers,
wives, children,
run to say goodbye —
kick up so much dust you can’t see Xian-yang Bridge!

Families pull at clothes,
feet stamp in anger!
Block the way — shrieking!
Despair raises tears to heaven, there is no need to pray

I walk alongside the column.  I ask, “What is happening??”

A soldier shrugs, “This happens all the time
from age fifteen they are sent to guard the North,
at forty they garrison the West
When leaving home the village elder wraps their turbans,
when returning home their hair is white

Frontiers flood with blood oceans
War loving emperors dream of conquests forever

Haven’t they head, in Han, east of the mountains,
there are two hundred prefectures, thousands upon thousands of villages
growing nothing but thorns?

Even where strong wives handle hoe and plough,
crops grow chaotically, fields are disasters

It’s harvers for men of Quin, they’re such good fighters
they’re driven from battle to battle like dogs, chickens

Even though you were kind enough to ask, sir,
perhaps I shouldn’t complain, as a soldier

Take this winter,
Shanxi troops were never sent home.
Their tax collectors are demanding land taxes though — land fees!
Where is that money supposed to come from?!?

A son is born to be killed

Have you seen the shores of Kokonor?
White bones lie in drifts, uncollected

New ghosts moan,
old ghosts cry

Under lowering clouds their voices scream in rain.

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