! ! On Being A Poet

When Hafiz sang the poetry in his heart in the beautiful gardens of Shiraz they said his voice was like pouring light into a cup when the soul is thirsty so no-one wrote it down; for the page does not always sing; better now, to seek out an old woman who had heard Hafiz when she was young, ask her to speak those verses as she remembered them or even to ask her grandchild who remembered the light of his voice in her grandmother’s eyes. Because Hafiz never saw anyone who is not God he called God sometimes Friend, sometimes Beloved, or Sweet Uncle, Generous Merchant, The Immediate One, The Problem Giver, The Problem Solver, or The Clever Rascal. Because Hafiz never saw anywhere which is not God he gave God’s address as sometimes the holes in the roof, or the cracks in the walls, or even the back door of a favourite pub where God is the dancer, the musician, the wine, the beautiful companion. Hafiz knew we need poets to bring rest and refreshment because separation from God is the hardest work in the world. So don’t do a thing; just rest there, and we’ll bring you what you need. * [To Daniel Ladinsky, translator of 'Hafiz', Shams-ud-din Muhammad, c.1320-1389]