"Put war in your poem!" they say. "Tell of the armies
and unrecruited rabble, and how peace was made
between Bilal and Sa‘d."
When peace of heart and eye's a struggle
against passions bound to wipe me out!
Armed combat is distasteful to recall. There are
other battles to send the blood racing.
How often am I slain in wars of eros
where lions are dominated by gazelles?
From quivering spears, my eyes roll away. By God,
I'm here for quivering of shapely bodies.
The stampede of desire on inner racetracks
stirs me more than urged-on horses.
Looks fly farther and hit harder
than shafts of India on the soul.
And arrows? Movements with gestural intention at a distance
and soft words from up close
are way more deadly.
Love's arrows never miss the mark, or fail to bring it down,
and leave no mark on the gut they skewer.
How I marvel at the kohl-rimmed eye
that leaves me wallowing in blood
with no sword drawn!
Basus, Dahis, and the heat of their battles
would be easier than what I'm going through.
My muse is unexcused, a sower
of fruitless seed that no one wants.
My genius is abandon to pleasure.
It shirks at flattery that might garner me a wage.
My society are jokers. With them I joke along,
but if ever I'm their butt my jokes turn serious.
Any way they turn, I am their cynosure,
grave as a judge, daft as an ape.
The peal of my wit goes up from a heart of lightning,
raining merriment with boom and flash.
And when I want someone, the hunt is on.
Finesse and style lure them to my side.
I can do it suave or funny,
and sometimes I'm a foul-mouthed fool.
What's due to lovers [often goes unpaid. The debt]
depreciates, and is forgiven. Meanwhile, I'm paid
cash money what's due me.
Companions! I ask you. Have you ever seen or heard
of a nobler master than one who comes on foot
to meet his slave?
He visits without assignation, saying,
"This way, you're not hanging on a promised time."
Like a star felicitous of orbit,
the cup goes back and forth between us,
kisses landing on narcissus eyes
and apple cheeks for nibbling.
Ask the cup: Why do you broadcast shame
upon our cheeks, and shamelessness in what we do?
At my caress, a blush of shame
crosses his cheek, a blush of protest and affront
upon a cheek that reddens in desire for revenge,
even under sway of wine and leisure.
I breached her teeth's barrier, and tasted
pure snowmelt filtered through a honeycomb.
I drank it in to quench the thirst
that burned inside me, and said to her:
"My breath seems like a draft of Hell without the flame,
and your mouth a draught of Paradise without the chill."
"In young men's lives are contrarieties
in need of balance," she said, "so enjoy it!"
So I toil on in conquest of what I want,
a toil that brings my spirit great relief.
From the cradle to my grave, my joy inveterate
in youths frivolous and beardless,
I go on mixing falsehood with <the truth>,
concealing my aims, which only God knows,
and evading censure.
There are two moons. Her face is one of them,
Dark night is doubled by her curling hair,
a night of Paradise and sweetness
never to be forgotten.
We spent it in the Garden of Eternity.
What need have I of roses? Her cheeks are Eden's own!
When I want pomegranates, I rub her chest.
But without spells and charms, desire is futile.
The lonely antelope would never find a mate.
Catch me all alone, and you will see
a flock of hens come strutting for the cock.
I praise God for all the blessings I've enjoyed,
though Satan, no praise to Him, did all the work.
Satan has planted the flag of his battles alongside
my flag, for his hosts to congregate around.
[News reaches me from all over:] If a prodigious birth
is celebrated in China, word of it flies post-haste to me.
When touched by love supreme, my verse becomes obscene
and exudes scandal, like fragrance from the aloe
touched by hot coal.
The look on my face at the height of my passions
[would terrify Gog and Magog, and send them running]!
They could have done without the barrier,
had they my face to imitate
back in Alexander's day.
There is no turning back the stampede
of my desires racing to savor what is sweet,
not if a thousand rebukes come in between.
Only the Devil knows what to do with me.
Only he will openly grieve when I die.
Into his army I went as a lad, and rose
through the ranks til the army was mine
and the Devil in my service.
If he predecease me, I will carry out
his corrupting works to a degree of expertise
never to be equaled after me
By Nasr al-Khubza’aruzzi (meter: ṭawīl)
