NUWAS, Abu


Al-muharramah

…..
Many a nagging shrew, full of good advice,

seeks this impious rebel’s repentance.

One such woman hurried to set me

on the right path but my nature, my personality,

and my chosen course are thoroughly crooked.

When she harangued me, I shooed her away

and she left with her heart a-flutter.

Know that I have diligently conditioned my

heart to find following the right path unacceptable.

I have devoted many mornings to an ancient wine

like saffron-infused perfume, secreted away

for ages in the churches of Dabiq

Boasting myriad colors when it spreads out

in the glass, silencing all tongues,

showing off her body, golden,

like a pearl on a tailor’s string,

In the hand of a lithe young man who speaks

beautifully in response to a lover’s request,

With a curl on each temple and a look

in his eye that spells disaster.

He is a Christian, he wears clothing from Khurasan

and his tunic bares his upper chest and neck.

Were you to speak to this elegant beauty,

You would fling Islam from the top of a tall mountain.

If I were not afraid of the depredations of He

who leads all sinners into transgression,

I would convert to his religion,

entering it knowingly and with love,

for I know that the Lord would not have distinguished

this youth so unless his was the true religion.

…..


Diwan

…..
What a wonderful night I spent,

sleepless until dawn broke.

We were given a wine, the “daughter” of a monastery,

Unblemished by excessive sediment,

stored in earthen jugs.

Her pourer picked the grapes that made her:

red and black, like irises and pupils,

when she is decanted, it looks as though

saffron and blood mingled together,

Her pourer protected her in amphorae so that

she had nothing to fear for fifty years,

until she aged, her color having become

darker than grape leaves.

Noble men, hawks, fought over her,

their faces as red as anemones,

her pourer brought her forth

and she was like saffron-infused perfume,

flashing like lightning bolts that shone

from the decanter’s hollow,

She was as white as glittering swords

and the drinkers gave her a position of responsibility,

she was brought forward, bubbling, spurred on

by a fickle youth who walked gingerly.

The drinkers hurried to break her hymen

with a sharp-edged implement,

blood flowed from it like a nosebleed

from a shell-shocked man.

It looked like a solitary flame blazing in mid-air,

when the wine touched the water,

and the foam that gathered around the rims

of the goblets was like chokers

of purest white snakeskin.

What a night spent in the company of a group of people

who committed no sin other than

telling stories and speaking eloquently,

who were given drink from a vintage wine

that stalks the brain and takes it by force,

yhe sound of the decanter, poured into the cup,

was like an old man’s cackling and choking.
…..


O Malik! ! I pray thee

O Málik! I pray thee go for the wine full early,

And if it be dear to buy, then buy it dearly!

Bethink thee how once a grizzled old tavern-keeper,

Whose whiskers were black with blowing the tarry wineskin,

I called, as he lay where slumber had stolen o’er him —

His head sunk low, the left hand’s palm his pillow;

And he at my cry arose with a start of terror,

And hastened to light the wick, and it flared, and straightway

His terror was flown: he had gotten a look of gladness

And gaily haha’d—a clatter of idle laughter.

When now by the flame my features were lit, he gave me

The greeting of love, asked many a courteous question;

And into his hand I counted a thousand dirhems

To lodge me a month, with freedom for either party.

I found in his pleasure-domes two noble virgins

Of family high and proud, and became their bridegroom.

’Tis thus I have ever lived and am living ever,

Away my religion goes and my wealth in armfuls.

As oft as we meet, I like what the law forbiddeth,

And never can bear to like what the law hath hallowed.


The Last poem

Lord, though my sins are great and many

I know your forgiveness is greater still.

If only the virtuous can hope in you

from whom can the sinner seek refuge and help?

I call on you, Lord, humbly as you have commanded.

If you reject my hand, who will have pity?

I have no way to you but the hope

that you are forgiving, that I am a Muslim.


//////////////////////////////////////////////


When my sweetheart began to spurn me

And his letters and news stopped coming,

I called upon Iblis and said to him

Privately, shedding tears by the bucket:

“Do you not see I am ruined?

– How weeping and sleeplessness have emaciated my frame?

And how my ardor has intensified? Acute worry,

Anxiety and passion have almost killed me ...

All for obeisance to you: I have fulfilled your wishes without compromise

And scorned those things you despise;

But if you do not now graft love upon

My darling’s heart – as you are so capable –

I will never more recite poetry or hearken to song,

Nor will inebriation be the sap of my limbs;

Rather, I will recite the Qur’an incessantly,

Rising early to study it well into the night;

I will account for myself each year [before God], striving

toward [ His Meccan] Sanctuary

And set aside savings of virtuous deeds!”


///////////////////////////////////////////////////////


May I be your protection from death! — add more chains to me!

Double my dose of the lash and the club!

Appoint as sentry over me and the doors

Of my cell every rebellious devil

And give my ears reprieve from the filthy,

Harsh voice of a man called Sa‘id:

He has left my chains feeling light

But his hatred [of me] has placed irons on my heart!


///////////////////////////////////////////////////////


O companion of the radiant sun

O cupbearer whose cheek outshines the rising sun,

pour me the wine that sparkles like your eyes at dawn!

The morning star itself grows pale with envy of your face,

and the sun, ashamed, hides behind the tavern’s wall in disgrace.

I told the sun: “Go back! Your light is second-rate;

a single glance from him is worth a thousand of your rays.”

So let the day be night, and night be day again—

I have no use for daylight when his darkness fills my veins.

Drink, my soul, before the sun climbs high and burns away

the dew of pleasure clinging to the lips of yesterday.

Tomorrow we are dust, and dust does not remember wine;

tonight we are alive—so pass the cup, and let it shine!

The Last Poem

O Allah, if my sins become abundant

Then indeed I know Your Forgiveness is greater than my sins

And I supplicated in humility

And if You turn my hands away

Then who will be merciful to me?

If the only people that can have hope in You are the good-doers

Then who would the criminal, the sinner, and the evil turn to?

The only way I have to come to You is my hope in You

And Your beautiful forgiveness is that I am a Muslim.


////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Come, my lord, let us rebel against the Despot of Heaven;

My proud soul will be content with nothing but the forbidden

I do not care when my cup of death will come;

I have already had my fill of the joys of the [wine] cup.


////////////////////////////////////////////////////


Cheetah

I move through black cloud night—

Dark, at war with Dawn,

Quivers with a fine blade's sheen—

With a vigorous, widejaw cheetah

Thickneck, spine-welded-scapulae

Leanbelly in taut-twist well-rope body

Cheek-folds plump in a scowl,

Sheeny; black teardrops on masseters

Bactrian lungs in saffron ribcage

Heavy paws, bull neck, sudden dart

A lion but for the spotty coat

Alert for shapes that shift.

A long search sights two herds

On ground flat as a man's brow

He's off, a slow stalk,

A trap about to explode

Puff adder slither

Through ground high and low

Face to face with his prey now—

Havoc! He scatters them across the desert

Full stretch, full pelt

Greedy fury.

Why hunt with any creature but a cheetah?


Don’t cry for Layla

Don't cry for Layla, don't rave about Hind!

But drink among roses a rose-red wine,

A drought that descends in the drinker's throat,

bestowing its redness on eyes and cheeks.

The wine is a ruby, the glass is a pearl,

served by the hand of a slim-fingered girl,

Who serves you the wine from her hand, and wine

from her mouth — doubly drunk, for sure, will you be!


Love in Bloom

I die of love for him, perfect in every way,

Lost in the strains of wafting music.

My eyes are fixed upon his delightful body

And I do not wonder at his beauty.

His waist is a sapling, his face a moon,

And loveliness rolls off his rosy cheek

I die of love for you, but keep this secret:

The tie that binds us is an unbreakable rope.

How much time did your creation take, O angel?

So what! All I want is to sing your praises.

In The Bath-House

In the bath-house, the mysteries hidden by trousers

Are revealed to you.

All becomes radiantly manifest.

Feast your eyes without restraint!

You see handsome buttocks, shapely trim torsos,

You hear the guys whispering pious formulas

to one another

('God is Great! ' 'Praise be to God! ')

Ah, what a palace of pleasure is the bath-house!

Even when the towel-bearers come in

And spoil the fun a bit.

Hunting Poem

Many a time I would go out early, dawn, with my hound

Looking to hunt with companions

We led him up rugged, high hills

Set him onto a flock of gazelles

They raced away, an open enticement, he poured his energy out

Slapping sand-dust against flank and underside

Until they were distracted in a thicket of thistles and shrubs

Whereupon he stole unto them

Splitting the herd in two as if

They were two wrapped rolls torn asunder

One swift, sand-colored stag urged that he run again

The hound ripped the sides away from his heart

He joined the stag’s muzzle to his jawbones

As two broken fragments are jointed together

Then turned to the rest of the flock

Like an eagle, wings soft on the wind, attacks in a craggy cleft

One stag plunging to his knees, weary, helpless

His mouth curled round toward his haunches

The hound went to mangling the beast in the soft-soiled earth

Going right to the discs in his back

These were my pleasures as a young man

I never said: enough. Enough of such pleasures.

Ghazal

In swearing by the sacred nip

On the upper arm

Lips pursed against

Cheek’s hollow

And by night’s thrall

Savored in pink waistcloths

Won’t you send for me a kiss today

Amulet against rejection?

Separation has dressed me in shrouds

Disintegration leads me to the grave