Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Ghazal: The sun will not rise now

The sun will not rise now:
the round of pouring wine has come.

Poets call the tress a snake;
they are doing the work of crushing its head.

However smooth and oily our talk,
her heart will not slip now. [TN: a pun: *chikni chupri baat*, "oily talk", and the heart that will not "slip".]

They write verses in praise of the lip:
now they mean to spit out rubies.

When we beat our breast,
it is in return for her breasts being pressed. [TN: obscure; the sense of the second line is uncertain.]

Why should the talk not be new in every style?
For I have the power to change the language.

Now she means to put *missi* on, [TN: *missi*, black powder for the lips and teeth.]
setting off even a single kiss.

Do not rest in the shade of the tree of mourning,
traveller, if you mean to go on.

From my eye's looking away, my child of a tear
has now learned the way of throwing a tantrum.

To guard against the arrow of the glance is a sheer mistake:
the message of death is not to be put off.

We too shall gamble with our life now:
it is a fine pastime to amuse the heart.

Mehr, how long this friendship with the chameleon?
You do not grieve at its changing colour. [TN: the chameleon, *hirba*, was thought to turn towards the sun; *mehr*, the pen name, means "sun".]

Ghazal: In this age everyone beneath the old sky was robbed

In this age everyone beneath the old sky was robbed:
others' gold was plundered; my coin of verse was plundered.

If you are a recluse, find a place in the lover's heart;
do not squander the wealth of beauty so, silver-bodied one.

What calamities were the nightingale's lot!
What gardens were plundered by the cruel hand of the flower-picker!

I did not even cry to God against you, idol:
mute, I was robbed at your house, you who have no mouth. [TN: the beloved's mouth is so small it is thought not to exist.]

After death the grave-robber's cruelties fell on us:
O sky, even beneath the earth the shroud was stolen.

Gusts of wind blew, and that tress was scattered:
the scent spread everywhere, the musk of Khotan was plundered.

I am such a Hatim that after death I would advise my heart, [TN: a pun on the poet's own name, Hatim, and Hatim Tai, proverbial for generosity.]
"Now in the grave too raise the dust, and give away the shroud."

Mehr, I am heartless in verse; I shall recite the Christian year: [TN: obscure: perhaps a chronogram; the closing line repeats the opening line.]
others' gold was plundered; my coin of verse was plundered.

Ghazal: If the madness of longing for that tress would go, so much the better

If the madness of longing for that tress would go, so much the better;
if my heart could get out of that coil, so much the better.

If her mind were diverted with chess, so much the better;
Mehr, this move is good; if it works, so much the better.

If death could be exchanged for this life, so much the better:
the heart is restless; if the soul would leave, so much the better.

In this round, cupbearer, I alone am left without;
if only the vat of wine would boil over, so much the better.

Now he slaps his arm and stirs up trouble between us:
if the arrogance of such a sharp one were broken, so much the better.

In this love I shall again be in fear for my life;
if even now the restless heart steadies itself, so much the better.

If any hand but your servant's touches your body,
God grant that that hand may rot away; so much the better.

What a love love is, what a love love is!
I shall change this heart; if it changes, so much the better.

It is not possible for life to escape unhurt:
if the one longing for death goes into that lane, so much the better.

May the kisses have the taste of sugar twice refined, cupbearer:
if a second round were poured as well, so much the better.

Now, like Zauq, the grief of love in my liver [TN: a pun: *zauq*, "taste", and the poet Zauq of Delhi.]
pricks like a thorn; if it came out, so much the better.

The colour of thought and the brightness of my nature:
if they would spit out a few more rubies and pearls, so much the better.

Mehr's gift for the friends of Benares:
if one more ghazal went along with it, so much the better.

Ghazal: The state of her waist was revealed, companion

The state of her waist was revealed, companion: [TN: this ghazal is a feat of the *ghair-manqut* kind, written only in letters without dots; the sense is often strained.]
we gained the kingdom of non-being, companion.

The state of Mehr's heart was revealed, companion:
pain became the heart's sympathiser, companion.

Lost in the long curl, companion,
the head has become mad, companion.

Pain became our cure, companion;
so, for God's sake, wound the heart, companion.

That the heart's wish may be gained, companion,
have pity, come, come this way, companion.

God, God! The tulip of the mountain
has become the flower on the tombstone, companion.

Let it be the season of the rose, mountain and desert,
the head, the madness and the passion, companion.

For us the round of joy is the promise of union:
there will be an endless round, companion.

We were told to burn ourselves with roses:
bravo, bravo, a fine thing has bloomed, companion! [TN: puns: *gul khana*, to brand oneself for love; *gul khilna*, "a flower blooming", is a scandal.]

The state of the spirit of God will be known [TN: *Ruh-ullah*, "the spirit of God", is a title of Jesus, who raised the dead.]
if the beloved's ruby lip moves, companion.

God, God! The cold sigh of dawn:
in how many ways it has grown hot, companion!

What kind of affair will it be,
if there is union with her, companion?

How can the rival's star be lucky?
How can an owl be a *huma*, companion? [TN: the *huma*, a bird of good omen; the owl, of ill omen.]

Show us the splendour of that ruby;
smile, and make us weep blood, companion.

Let the snare of the curl be a chain, companion,
if a knot of a single hair comes loose, companion.

The heart in that state, she in that mood:
in whom can we hope, companion?

Keep it, Mehr, and write it another way:
bring the pen's endless round, companion.

Ghazal: We have borne torments, we have suffered sorrows

We have borne torments, we have suffered sorrows:
we are sick of our heart, we are weary of it.

We are restless, uneasy, distraught:
we are sick of our heart, we are weary of it.

We have tasted the joy of a kiss from those lips:
love has come; we gaze at her face, filled with longing.

Those tresses are a calamity that tangle up the soul:
hearts have come to be caught in the twists of her knot of hair.

She sits filled with anger, irritated,
inflamed, stirred up by the rivals.

She sits at the door, having had me turned out:
I have fallen down; she has wreaked havoc. [TN: a pun: *dhai dena*, "to fall down", and *ghazab dhana*, "to wreak havoc".]

She sits strutting, puffed up with pride:
now her beauty is at its height, she is in full bloom.

What a marvel, what a marvel is your life-giving lip!
Even such a one, in your time, has been silenced.

That she should take pity on me is quite impossible:
she is not one to understand; she has been taught otherwise.

My restless heart would have wreaked havoc by now;
I keep it checked, scolded, threatened.

The tumult will go on like this in your lane:
where can the lovers go? Their hearts are caught.

If she comes, it is a kindness; if she does not, let her not:
we keep our heart amused with imagining her.

The heart is calm, the wounds of the liver are healed:
it is all ease, since I hold you in my arms.

Even in death my dejection is plain:
on my grave even the flowers are withered.

She is very close to the black-faced rivals:
she is the moon, Mehr, and so she is eclipsed. [TN: a pun: *mehr*, the pen name, means "sun".]

Ghazal: O Mehr, if the veil slips there

O Mehr, if the veil slips there,
the first light of dawn will break.

God, the length, the coils, the tangle!
The tale of the tress takes all night.

Let us look into the notebook of the hidden one too;
search for a theme for the waist. [TN: obscure: perhaps a play on *Makhfi*, "hidden", a pen name; the waist is so fine it is "hidden".]

Gold is made even from dust:
the beggar does not need gold.

The thought of my love's face is in my heart:
I am a neighbour of the mirror's house.

What sweetness has your lip given me?
The colour of that sugar is red.

Ghazal: Speak of idols, preacher; who has seen God

Speak of idols, preacher; who has seen God?
For Moses the spark from a stone is the lightning of glory. [TN: Moses saw God's glory as a blaze on Sinai.]

This is India; here every day is a fair of idols:
God knows, Mehr, whether that idol is a Devi or a Durga. [TN: Hindu goddesses.]

This is India; here every day is a fair of idols:
one is Kali Bhavani, one a Devi, one a Durga. [TN: the source gives two couplets with the same first line.]

Among the idols of India, God bless you, when was anyone like you?
Your tresses are black, idol; you yourself are Durga. [TN: a pun: *Kali*, the goddess, and *kali*, "black".]

My lamenting heart, caught in the ring of your tresses, says,
"I am in India; the unbelievers have surrounded me."

For which unbeliever's sake, Mehr, do you keep going round?
For whom does the sky's wheel turn in worship?

A black kerchief is wrapped round a fair, fair neck:
evening and dawn are made to embrace; what a sight!

That fair, fair throat, and on it a black kerchief:
that same scene now turns in my eyes night and day.

The thought of that idol is with us; what have we to do with the Kaaba?
Our lamp is the scar of the heart that burns in the temple.

She has shed my heart's blood; they call it a sacrifice, *balidan*:
the grief of separation is an unbeliever who recites the Durga Path. [TN: the hymn to Durga.]

The taste of a kiss from the lip is unlike the good things of the world:
he who has tasted this sweet offering has become a yogi. [TN: *mohan bhog*, a sweet offered in temples.]

Mischief upon mischief! Idols, for God's sake, stop:
you burn my heart; is it Lanka too? [TN: Lanka, Ravana's city, burned by Hanuman in the Ramayana.]

She has made the blood of a Muslim lawful; alas, the heartlessness!
Your hennaed hand, unbeliever, has brought out this colour.

It is forever lamenting in that idol's memory, O Lord:
what we took for a heart is the bell of a church.

It is a great darkness; how should the heart not be troubled?
The calamity of the cross-like tress is all twists.

I saw a strange sight in your lane, O killer:
here someone sobbing, there someone writhing.

Where is that stature, and where these unhewn logs?
Not the cypress, nor the box tree, nor the tree of Paradise is like it.

Tell me in which faith the blood of the innocent is lawful, cruel one:
are you Hindu, Muslim, Jew or Christian?

If the dead heard it, he would live, and the soul would return to the body:
God bless you, idol, what a turn of melody is in your throat!

God knows the themes are imaginary, in fancy:
I have no tie with her, and she has no care for me.

God knows which idol has made an unbeliever of a Muslim:
on Mehr's neck is the sacred thread, on his brow the *tika*. [TN: the *janeu*, the Brahmin's sacred thread, and the *tika*, the forehead mark.]

The unbeliever has made an unbeliever of Mehr, a Muslim man:
the sacred thread is the string of his rosary, the mark of prostration his *tika*. [TN: the source gives two closing couplets.]

Ghazal: I face the idols, and here am I

I face the idols, and here am I;
God is my refuge, and here am I.

What can despair and hope do, coming here?
There is a heart without desire, and here am I.

What was mingled with the dust, parted from the feet,
is your footprint, and here am I.

God knows, idols, what will become of me,
if this is my heart, and here am I.

Just let the Day of Resurrection come:
there you are, idol, there is God, and here am I.

From her side, cruelty and tyranny;
here is love, and faithfulness, and here am I.

Mehr likes this saying of the master:
"Idol, there is your lane, and here am I."

Ghazal: Let the wind bring the fragrance of my love's body

Let the wind bring the fragrance of my love's body;
life would come, if the wind came here by way of there.

Let the wind not swagger just because it touched my love's body;
let the wind become a waft of perfume and cling to me.

Let it carry my dust and scatter it in her lane;
let the wind do me a favour and be of use to me too.

Let the morning breeze's shoulder be the litter for my journey: [TN: a pun: *hawadar*, a light litter, from *hawa*, "wind".]
I am so weak that only the wind can carry me to her.

Your reputation was made in the garden, morning breeze; [TN: a pun: *hawa bandhna*, "the wind is tied", is to win a name.]
let the wind of my sigh be made famous in her lane.

Even one airy glance of yours is cruelty:
let not my life vanish into air from that arrow shot at random. [TN: *tir-e-hawai*, an arrow shot into the air.]

Why should I not ask this of the spring breeze?
Why should I not tie the wind, if my love makes me tie the wind?

How delicate that fairy is, whose litter
stays upon the wind like Solomon's throne! [TN: Solomon's throne was carried by the wind.]

You will meet Mehr; may this sign of the date prove true:
may the wind warm you in garden, wine and rose. [TN: obscure: the last line may be a chronogram.]

Ghazal: By God, your eyes are Hindu idols that drink wine

By God, your eyes are Hindu idols that drink wine:
these are not threads of intoxication; your eyes wear the sacred thread. [TN: the red veins of drunken eyes likened to the Brahmin's thread.]

I would not have cared for the deer's eye or the narcissus,
if these eyes had not met with your eyes.

A whole world calls me four-eyed for this reason:
that your eyes, my love, roam in my eyes. [TN: *char chashm*, "four-eyed", also means "alert" or "keen".]

We keep watching your road, sir:
you do not come, but every time the eyes come.

When I looked at her lovingly, she said,
"Look, look, eyes become sinners."

She kisses her own eyes in the mirror:
the lips will play the Messiah, for the eyes are sick.

Mehr, Agra is left behind, yet even in Chunar [TN: Agra and Chunar, towns where the poet lived; چنار may also be read "plane tree".]
the eyes keep searching for the same lanes and bazaars.

Ghazal: If you rub on a paste of henna

If you rub on a paste of henna,
you will make your sweat into the perfume of henna.

You will be cruel, you will be harsh:
that is all that will happen; what else will you do?

My breath will flutter and leave me
if you set me free from the cage.

When I say that cruelty is not good,
she says, "What will you do?"

Who is sure of the vision at the Resurrection?
You will just go on hearing "You shall not see Me." [TN: *lan tarani*, God's answer to Moses, Quran 7:143.]

When I told the state of my heart, she rose, saying,
"I am going; sit and babble on."

Emperors say to her beggar,
"Pray for us too."

That will be the garment of the roses, sir,
if you bestow your gown upon them.

Will the shore be good for you, O sea of beauty? [TN: a pun: *kinara*, "shore" and "keeping away".]
You will make friends only to drown them.

When the astrologer looked at her hands, he said,
"You will turn the roses' garment into a gown." [TN: a pun: *qaba*, "gown", and tearing a garment open.]

You will be the claimant against my life
if you give a hearing to my plea.

My heart has been brought up in great indulgence:
show it a little kindness.

We would not have gone mad if we had known
that you would play the fairy and fly from us.

Idols, the sighs of those in pain are lightning:
be afraid of the wrath of God.

We hear great fame of your bounty:
grant our need too.

For God's sake, Mirza Mehr sahib, [TN: Mirza Hatim Ali Beg Mehr, the poet.]
how long will you keep dying for idols?

Ghazal: A river in flood is flowing

A river in flood is flowing:
the eyes have a strange story.

The ascetic is proud of his asceticism;
the drinkers have the refuge of God.

Her mouth is mentioned everywhere:
it is nothing at all; what is this talk? [TN: the beloved's mouth is so small it is said not to exist.]

The shade of her wall rested on me:
this too is the good fortune of the *huma*. [TN: the bird whose shadow brings kingship.]

You claim to be equal to her eyes?
Narcissus, can you see anything at all? [TN: a pun: *ham-chashmi*, "equality", literally "being of one eye".]

Though our feet are hard as hoof,
every single thorn has pricked.

The love for idols is open:
what is hidden from God, Mehr?

Ghazal: That long tress took my heart; it did its work

That long tress took my heart; it did its work:
this calamity pulled down the Kaaba; it did its work.

My love did not come; death did my work:
I stayed without success; fate did its work.

The ascetic too let his prayer lapse: [TN: a pun: *qaza*, "fate" in the couplet before, and a prayer missed.]
by God, the grace of these idols did its work.

It did not carry our dust into her lane:
the morning breeze never did our work.

She is in the ascetic's eye and in the Brahmin's heart:
God bless it, even the picture of the idol did its work.

The sick of love recovered through union:
O Galen, this one medicine did its work.

Last night my reaching sigh outdid my lament:
the spear did more work than the lance.

Now she teases me and gives me abuse:
thank God, my prayer did its work.

I have no complaint against the Angel of Death:
an envy of the houris came and did my work.

Laila thought she heard your cry:
O Qais, even the sound of the camel bell did its work.

It made the court high as the sky sift Mehr's dust: [TN: obscure: the sense of this closing couplet is uncertain.]
one small thing did a great work.

Ghazal: Midnight has come; the tricks and excuses are over

Midnight has come; the tricks and excuses are over;
the drunkenness has worn off; the comb has passed through the tresses.

My heart has become the target of the arrow of the lashes:
we are dead; the pretext for death's coming is over.

It is the time of old age; the age of youth is over:
now the theme of love poetry is finished.

Now it is autumn; the time of the rose season is over:
the nightingale's call is done, its song is over.

Shirin liked milk; they have a taste for wine: [TN: Farhad cut a channel of milk for Shirin.]
the round is different now; the former age is over.

Cupbearer, in old age the morning draught is a must:
it is still the late round; the former age is over.

If dew falls on the dewy one in our life,
then after death a canopy has been spread over the grave. [TN: obscure: the sense of the first line is uncertain.]

We were the dust of the caravan and were left behind by all:
even the caravan of the shifting sand has set off.

It is idle for the people of earth to taunt the sky with meanness:
it was all water when every grain was gone. [TN: a pun: *pani pani hona*, "to turn to water", is to be ashamed; *dana dana*, "every grain".]

The captives of the garden are freed now from the cage:
after the desolation, the nest is peopled again.

The breeze has brought the news that the season of spring is coming:
in the garden the nightingale's nest is ready.

How can the garden have water and colour from fountains in autumn?
All the gold of the rose has been plundered; the treasury is empty.

Alas the folly! Now comes the thought of lightening the load,
when the book of our sins has become a burden on our shoulder.

The rose rose from its chain; this one is mad for fairies: [TN: obscure: the reading of the first line is uncertain.]
in love I have become notorious from house to house.

She stayed with the bier as far as the grave; that was the limit:
even the enemy of my life has paid the due of friendship.

Simplicity once brought her even to the houses of us beggars;
now, God help us, the idols' workshop is in full swing.

How long, Mehr, the sleep of heedlessness? Wake up, sit up:
dawn is coming, the night has passed, the tale is over.

Ghazal: It gained sight from the eye of its temper

It gained sight from the eye of its temper: [TN: the "eyes" of a polished blade or mirror, *jauhar*, its watered grain. Every couplet ends with the same line.]
the mirror was lost in gazing.

Seeing the mirror of your knee,
the mirror was lost in gazing.

After the Creator, in the world of creation,
the mirror was lost in gazing.

Whomever it showed his face, it amazed:
the mirror was lost in gazing.

When it reached Aleppo, you may hear this tale: [TN: Aleppo was famed for its mirrors.]
the mirror was lost in gazing.

It has its back to the wall before you, sir:
the mirror was lost in gazing.

It never moves from in front of you:
the mirror was lost in gazing.

The comb is heart-torn, the maid is dumbfounded:
the mirror was lost in gazing.

Seeing the spring of that colourful face,
the mirror was lost in gazing.

Before you, like the lover's eye,
the mirror was lost in gazing.

Is Mehr stunned, or, O envy of the moon,
was the mirror lost in gazing?

In the gathering of pleasure of the moon-faced ones, Mehr,
the mirror was lost in gazing.

Ghazal: Speak of the beloved, if you can

Speak of the beloved, if you can;
preacher, do me a kindness, if you can.

O smoke of my sigh, let the heart's secret not be shown:
hide the scar, if you can.

This inner burning is setting me on fire:
make my eyes weep, if you can.

O Messiah, I have the sickness of love:
cure me, if you can.

I weep for Qais, O desert of madness:
think of your skirt, if you can. [TN: the lover tears his skirt; here the desert must look to its own "skirt", its edge.]

Why are you silent, idol? For God's sake,
say at least "hm" or "yes", if you can.

My heart has been sacrificed to her today;
you too, my soul, be sacrificed, if you can.

Bring an answer to the Mughal's sword of a brow: [TN: the poet bore the title Mirza, used by men of Mughal descent; Isfahan was famed for its swords.]
set out for Isfahan, if you can.

For hiding the secret, the smoke of my sigh
should be the smoke of a hookah, if you can.

Show me the harvest, O my love's sword:
do the peasant's work, if you can. [TN: a pun: *khet*, "field" and "battlefield"; to "reap" is to cut down.]

Blow away the harvest of the shining moon: [TN: the halo of the moon is called its "harvest", *kharman*.]
do the peasant's work, if you can.

How long, my heart, the memory of the beloved's face?
Learn the Quran by heart, if you can.

That this fairy should be bewitched by me: this work,
O Solomon, do it, if you can. [TN: Solomon was said to command fairies and jinn.]

One day I shall just jump over the wall:
doorkeeper, look out, if you can.

Let the dawn of the night of separation show itself so:
hide the scar, if you can. [TN: the source gives the second line twice, here and above.]

O Frankish lady, my ruined house
make into England, if you can.

Make my house Paradise by the grace of your coming:
make me Rizwan, if you can. [TN: the keeper of the gate of Paradise.]

Scold me, abuse me, wound my heart:
O my life, do it, if you can.

In the throes of death, instead of a drink, give me wine to drink:
cupbearer, do me a kindness, if you can.

You yourself lay the sheet on my grave:
shining moon, do it, if you can.

O lamenting heart, how long this noise and clamour?
Hold back the lament, if you can.

Mehr, how long these scattered thoughts?
Gather a diwan, if you can.