The dawn breeze brought news of the crying rend

The dawn breeze brought news of the crying rend:
He was all the night searching for the friend.

From bar to bar he stumbled with graphic speech;
No fool for long was beyond his wit’s reach!

The lover with long black hair he couldn’t find;
She was there teasing him, but he was blind.

Blind, blind drunk grasping for her in empty air,
Longing to run his fingers through her curly hair.

The scent of sandalwood was in his mind;
It is what the beloved wears when divine.

With wild and bloodshot eyes he looks for her;
He doesn’t care the world is a passing blur.

This dawn, the sound of the moaning lover,
Told darvish the rend’s pain wasn’t over.

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A thousand times we have inscribed paper with your glorious name,

A thousand times we have inscribed paper with your eternal name,
only to have shredded our efforts to praise you in bitter shame.

We long to sing glorious song that delights your grave expression,
and we cry to find the talent that intuits your intimations.

Beloved, it’s not easy having you as our perfect master;
all our efforts to please you are often a perfect disaster!

We need your help in developing a convincing argument,
as to why we should not be in need of perfect atonement!

We have more faith in your forgiveness and divine sense of humor,
than in our bungling acts of sincerity and uninspired stupor!

All the many songs we have written and have never sung to you,
are longing to be revised and rehearsed until pleasing and true.

Beloved, sharpen our wit and love into a pure ghazal:
have mercy on Darvish’s plea to light your face with real dazzle!

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ghazal #339, divan-e-hafez, revised with rhyme


Idol, how am I to manage the pain of love’s plight,
And for how long do I cry in grief through the night?

The heart goes berserk when it is so disdained-
Unless all of your curls secure me with chains!

By your head of curls, my total distraction is such,
Where is the skill to explain each one- it’s too much!

All that I have suffered in separation so long,
Is ridiculous to recount in this simple song!

When it is time to desire sight of your bright visage,
I paint my mind with the colors of your beautiful image.

If I knew that in this way union could be granted,
I would bet my heart and faith, and forever be contented.

Keep your good distance preacher, and stop posing;
I’m not one to listen to your lies masquerading!

Hafez, there is no hope of honor from venality;
And when fate is such, how can I avoid pity?

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This life of consumerism is a contract inspired by faust:

This life of consumerism is a contract inspired by Faust:
we sold our soul for desire, but now the mind is accursed!

With pleasure comes pain as surely as cats’ play with mice;
our pursuit of desire has rebounded as a dreadful farce:

In this market economy regaled as a noble rat-race,
we are the rodents competing on a wheel turning in place.

Our corporate experiment is about socializing greed:
it is a winner-takes-all approach regardless of need!

Big fist and the fat cats have all the fun running the show;
the rest of us run in place to make their profits grow.

It was the glint of gold in our eyes that dug such a deep grave;
it is the light of love in our hearts that we so deeply crave.

Darvish must consider how to attain research fame,
by learning how to make rats and cats chant God’s name!

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ghazal #88 divan-e-hafez, khanlari

i have heard the sublime words of the canaan elder:
separation from the friend cannot be described!

the terror of resurrection that the preacher talks about,
is a metaphor for what he said of separation’s anguish.

from where do i get some truth about the departed friend,
when what the chatty wind has to say is all confused?

alas, that the cruel and unkind moon- the enemy’s lover,
has so glibly spoken of abandoning his own friends!

my station of contentment, after all, is thanks to the rival:
the heart has accepted your pain, and forsaken remedy.

don’t pin your hopes on the wind, even if it conveys desire:
because this proverb is what the wind said to solomon.

regardless of what the heavens grant you- stay on the path;
who told you that this world has given up telling lies!

defend yourself from ancient despair with mature wine:
this is the fount of joy spoken of by the inspired bard!

like a fortunate slave, don’t sigh a breath about why or what;
the lover takes to heart every word the beloved breathes!

who has said that hafez has repented of the thought of you?
i have not said this! the man who said this is a slanderer!

notes: canaan elder= jacob, father of joseph from whom he was
separated.

italics: couplet from meher baba’s placard placed in his bedroom
before he “dropped his body.”

the verb in the first line, dam zadan, means “to sigh.”
the first verb in the second line, qabul kardan, means
“to accept, receive”. the second and last verb is “goftan”
which means “to speak, say,” but i took a small liberty
and used the verb “to breathe” because the image is
of the command not to “sigh away” the words that
the beloved speaks (breathes) to the lover.

in the edition baba used, “sultan” is substituted for
“beloved”, but which baba translated as “master”.

 

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I run from the rotting stench of my precious thought,

I run from the rotting stench of my precious thought,
but cannot find the pure, sweet breeze of “I am not”!

The sweet grace of lord and master will set me free,
when I submit myself to grace and cease to be.

For now, God help us to learn the high circus arts,
like how to make a lion laugh and monkey fart.

Perhaps, the Master will be inclined to believe,
we are useful to his pleasure and deserve reprieve.

We hang out around his court by all contrived means,
and never with complaint about the refried beans.

We understand no man has ever petitioned love,
except at beauty’s feet with the Beloved tall above.

There are few things about which Darvish has no clue;
the most regrettable is how to his foul mind eschew.

 

 

 

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In the old city of Poona, Sheriar’s cafe served everyman;

In the old city of Poona, Sheriar’s cafe served everyman;
The lips of the matchless dervish repeated “Yezdan, Yezdan”!

The fakir whose poverty was pure gold, never had ambition
except to see his son revealed as the Zoroaster of his vision.

Merwan’s destiny was a perfect mystery to the family,
except the father whose polished heart perceived reality.

Young Merwan would serve drink to the usual customers;
he would not take money from the poor he called brother.

All high culture depends on the friendliness of cafe spirit,
where the purity of youth and elder serve tea and biscuit.

But the dagger hidden in cloak brought it all to an end:
the partner who defrauded Sheriar proved to be no friend.

The greatest dervish of our time was left with his wife’s tears;
Darvish adds that Merwan, like his father, lived with no fears.

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no man lives the anguish of living without love

no man lives the anguish of living without love
and survives. he leaps off a bridge without a shove.

we cry and cry to feel a loving hand in ours;
no man wants to die alone in his last hour.

the name of god is the friend present here and now;
his sweet breath revives the walking dead with ciao!

the friendliness of beloved god is miraculous:
the blind upon seeing his beauty are incredulous!

the lord appears in our heart when called with feeling;
recalled at length the beloved remains compelling.

we must believe in the sincerity of our anguish;
sooner or later we will in any case perish!

darvish is afraid of heights and can barely swim:
the master is a monster ocean waiting for him.

 

 

 

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the fire of digestion is god’s gift to proud man;

The fire of digestion is god’s gift to proud man;
Without a good shit man lives his life on the can!

Prometheus stole the fire that bound him to rock;
Daily, the eagle tears his liver and courage mocks.

To digest experience is the human condition:
To not crap it out is most foul and original sin.

Think of your friends who suffer from constipation;
How many of them confide about such with elation?

The root of honesty is never to strain for the truth;
It should be smooth and easy, never hard or uncouth.

Agni is a precious gift that must be well tended;
Neglect it and your bowels will be terribly offended.

This present age is a time of unnatural behavior;
The toilet has become our throne and holy savior!

Darvish praises the god of culture for his sacrifice;
To squat and take a perfect shit is worth the price!

 

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The royal wedding of our time gladdens the loyal heart;

The royal wedding of our time gladdens the loyal heart;
we praise the prince and princess we can’t live without!

King Arthur’s knights march to a beat that plays in our veins:
the cry of his men can still be heard across the plains.

Excalibur’s arcing light still inspires courage in our lives;
the sword of truth will rise again to slay murderous lies!

The seed of love will plant and grow to proclaim again,
that only brave truth and sweet mercy will Britain reign!

We live with the hope that all we suffer will turn to laughter:
British love and wit long for the birth of such a Master!

Darvish praises the royal crown that never tarnishes,
but lacks the bright coin to heat his hearth full of cold ashes!

The light of gold and diamond lustre that shines this day,
has not yet brightened the poet’s face whose verse is praise!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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