I have been reading some Persian poetry.

My reason for doing this was simply because I knew nothing about Persian poetry- and in these times when the Western world is increasingly at war with most of the Eastern world, it seemed important to understand a little more the rich cultural subsoil that Middle Eastern Islamic civilisations grew within.

I post these bits and pieces like bit of a beautiful mosaic found in a river bed. I do not understand the whole picture- and never will, but I am starting to appreciate it some of its quality.

Beauty, humanity, truth, humour, a search for meaning and a longing for God.

And to encounter the culture through poetry seems to me right somehow. I suppose this is because I write poetry, but also I think this is because these poems are still alive. They have none of the dust of history.

The first poet I want to quote is Sanai.

We know little about him. He died around 1150, and was a subject of Bahramshah, one of the rulers of the Ghaznavids– whose empire covered much of the middle East- and was centred around Garzna, in what is now Afghanistan. He is thought to have been a court poet, who became dissatisfied with the shallow life of court and left to follow Hajj to Mecca.

So here are three poems of Sanai. Let them rest on you for a while-

Streaming (excerpt)

When the path ignites the soul,

there is no remaining in place

The foot touches the ground,

but not for long

The way where love tells its secret

Stays always in motion

And there is no you there, and no reason

The rider urges his horse to gallop

and so doing, throws himself

under the flying hooves

In love-unity there’s no old or new

Everything is nothing

God alone is

The puzzle

Someone who keeps aloof from suffering

is not a lover. I choose your love

above all else. As for wealth

if that comes, or goes, so be it.

Wealth and love inhabit seperate worlds.

But as long as you live here inside me

I can not say that I am suffering.

The time needed

Years are needed before the sun working on

a Yemini rock can make a bloodstone

Months must pass before cotton seed

can provide a seamless shroud

Days go by before a handful of wool

Becomes a Hater rope

Decades it takes a child

To change into a poet

And civilisations fall and are ploughed under

To grow a garden on the ruins

The true mystic