Hafez

His full name was Khājeh Shams-od-Dīn Moḥammad Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī. Shirazi is the town he was from. He lived 1325-1390. Few details are known about his life and his poems were collected after his death. Hafez was a Sufi Muslim. He was supported by patronage from several successive local regimes. We are coming up on Hafez day, October 12th.

Links:

Guardian

Biography in an interesting Iranian art website

Wikipedia

Tomb of Hafez

Poems:

Ode 487

With last night’s wine still singing in my head,

I sought the tavern at the break of day,

Though half the world was still asleep in bed;

The harp and flute were up and in full swing,

And a most pleasant morning sound made they;

Already was the wine-cup on the wing.

‘Reason,’ said I, ‘’t is past the time to start,

If you would reach your daily destination,

The holy city of intoxication.’   

So did I pack him off, and he depart

With a stout flask for fellow-traveller.

Left to myself, the tavern-wench I spied,

And sought to win her love by speaking fair;

Alas! she turned upon me, scornful-eyed,

And mocked my foolish hopes of winning her.

Said she, her arching eyebrows like a bow:

‘Thou mark for all the shafts of evil tongues!

Thou shalt not round my middle clasp me so,

Like my good girdle – not for all thy songs! –

So long as thou in all created things

Seest but thyself the centre and the end.

Go spread thy dainty nets for other wings –

Too high the Anca’s nest for thee, my friend.’

Then took I shelter from that stormy sea

In the good ark of wine; yet, woe is me!

Saki and comrade and minstrel all by turns,

She is of maidens the compendium

Who my poor heart in such a fashion spurns.

Self, HAFIZ, self! That thou must overcome!

Hearken the wisdom of the tavern-daughter!

Vain little baggage – well, upon my word!

Thou fairy figment made of clay and water,

As busy with thy beauty as a bird.

Well, HAFIZ, Life’s a riddle – give it up:

There is no answer to it but this cup. 

Ode 44

Last night, as half asleep I dreaming lay,

    Half naked came she in her little shift,

         With tilted glass, and verses on her lips;

Narcissus-eyes all shining for the fray,

         Filled full of frolic to her wine-red lips,

         Warm as a dewy rose, sudden she slips

    Into my bed – just in her little shift.

Said she, half naked, half asleep, half heard,

With a soft sigh betwixt each lazy word,

‘Oh my old lover, do you sleep or wake!’

And instant I sat upright for her sake,

And drank whatever wine she poured for me –

Wine of the tavern, or vintage it might be

Of Heaven’s own vine: he surely were a churl

Who refused wine poured out by such a girl,

A double traitor he to wine and love.

Go to, thou puritan! the gods above

Ordained this wine for us, but not for thee;

Drunkards we are by a divine decree,

Yea, by the special privilege of heaven

Foredoomed to drink and foreordained forgiven.

Ah! HAFIZ, you are not the only man

    Who promised penitence and broke down after;

For who can keep so hard a promise, man,

    With wine and woman brimming o’er with laughter!

O knotted locks, filled like a flower with scent,

How have you ravished this poor penitent!

Opening poem in The Angels Knocking On The Tavern Door (2008):

HOW BLAME HAS BEEN HELPFUL

We are drunken ecstatics who have let our hearts 

Go to the wild. We are musty scholars

Of love, and old friends of the wine cup.

People have aimed the arrow of guilt a hundred times

In our direction. With the help of our Darling’s eyebrow,

Blame has been a blessing, and has opened all our work.

Oh, dark-spotted flower, you endured pain all night.

Waiting for the wine of dawn; I am that poppy

That was born with the burning spot of suffering.

If our Zoroastrian master has become disgusted

With our way of repentance, tell him. Go ahead.

Strain the wine. We are standing here with our heads down.

It is through you that our work goes on at all;

Oh, teacher of the way, please throw us a glance. 

Let’s be clear about it; we have fallen off the path.

    Don’t imagine us to be like the tulip, who is preoccupied 

    With its goblet shape; rather look at the dark    

    Spot of grief we have set on our scorched hearts.

    “Hafez,” you say, “what about all your intriguing colors

    And ingenious fantasies?” Don’t take our language seriously. 

    We are a clean slate on which nothing has been written.

Since I've been meditating with 3 Iranian fellows online every day, I've been reading a lot more about Iran. Right now I'm listening to Kamancheh (Playlist on Spotify).

I'm going to watch as many Iranian films as I can find. I found A Persian Melody (or Jameh Daran) (2015) on Tubi. There's an Iranian movie review website. They didn't like the movie, 3 of 10 stars. 

I was talking to my friend who lives in Iran and he doesn't like the misery porn of Iranian films. I'm watching Holy Spider (2022) on Netflix and it's pretty dark.

There is one archaeological site that claims to be a Buddhist temple near Soltanyeh city of Zanjan province, supposedly from the 14th century. 

There are also statues found in Fars Province, best guess 1-3rd century style (source) 

Buddhism in Iran (Wikipedia). The article says some of the poetry of Sohrab Sepehri shows some Buddhist influence.