Search Words, Couplet, Verse, Shair In Iqbal Poetry

(Asrar-e-Khudi-12) Dar Haqiqat Shair Wa Islah-e-Adabiat-e-Islamia

Concerning the true nature of poetry and reform of Islamic literature
’Tis the brand of desire makes the blood of man run warm,
By the lamp of desire this dust is enkindled.
By desire Lifeʹs cup is brimmed with wine,
So that Life leaps to its feet and marches briskly on.
Life is occupied with conquest alone,
And the one charm for conquest is desire.
Life is the hunter and desire the snare,
Desire is Love’s message to Beauty.
Wherefore doth desire swell continuously
The bass and treble of Lifeʹs song?
Whatsoever is good and fair and beautiful
Is our guide in the wilderness of seeking.
Its image becomes impressed on thine heart,
It creates desires in thine heart.
Beauty is the creator of desireʹs springtide,
Desire is nourished by the display of Beauty.
’Tis in the poetʹs breast that Beauty unveils,
’Tis from his Sinai that Beautyʹs beams arise.
By his look the fair is made fairer,
Through his enchantments Nature is more beloved.
From his lips the nightingale hath learned her song,
And his rouge hath brightened the cheek of the rose.
’Tis his passion burns in the heart of the moth,
’Tis he that lends glowing hues to love tales.
Sea and land are hidden within his water and clay,
A hundred new worlds are concealed in his heart.
Ere tulips blossomed in his brain
There was heard no note of joy or grief.
His music breathes oʹer us a wonderful enchantment,
His pen draws a mountain with a single hair.
His thoughts dwell with the moon and the stars,
He creates beauty and knows not what is ugly.
He is a Khizr, and amidst his darkness is the Fountain of Life:
All things that exist are made more living by his tears.
Heavily we go, like raw novices,
Stumbling on the way to the goal.
His nightingale hath played a tune
And laid a plot to beguile us.
That he may lead us into Lifeʹs Paradise,
And that Lifeʹs bow may become a full circle.
Caravans march at the sound of his bell
And follow the voice of his pipe;
When his zephyr blows in our garden,
It slowly steals into the tulips and roses.
His witchery makes Life develop itself
And become self‐questioning and impatient.
He invites the whole world to his table;
He lavishes his fire as though it were cheap as air.
Woe to a people that resigns itself to death
And whose poet turns away from the joy of living!
His mirror shows beauty as ugliness,
His honey leaves a hundred stings in the heart.
His kiss robs the rose of freshness,
He takes away from the nightingaleʹs heart the joy of flying.
The sinews are relaxed by his opium,
Thou payest for his song with the life.
He bereaves the cypress of delight in its beauty,
His cold breath makes a pheasant of the male falcon.
He is a fish. and from the breast upward a man,
Like the Sirens in the ocean.
With his song he enchants the pilot
And casts the ship to the bottom of the sea.
His melodies steal firmness from thine heart,
His magic persuades thee that death is life.
He takes from thy soul the desire of existence,
He extracts from thy mine the blushing ruby.
He dresses gain in the garb of loss,
He makes everything praiseworthy blameful,
He plunges thee in a sea of thought
And makes thee a stranger to action.
He is sick, and by his words our sickness is increased
The more his cup goes round, the more sick are they that quaff it.
There are no lightning rains in his April,
His garden is a mirage of colour and perfume.
His beauty hath no dealings with Truth,
There are none but flawed pearls in his sea.
Slumber he deemed sweeter than waking:
Our fire was quenched by his breath.
By the chant of his nightingale the heart was poisoned:
Under his heap of roses lurked a snake.
Beware of his decanter and cup!
Beware of his sparkling wine!
O thou whom his wine hath laid low
And who look’st to his glass for thy rising dawn,
O thou whose heart hath been chilled by his melodies,
Thou hast drunk deadly poison through the ear!
Thy way of life is a proof of thy degeneracy,
The strings of thine instrument are out of tune,
ʹTis pampered case hath made thee so wretched,
A disgrace to Islam throughout the world.
One can bind thee with the vein of a rose,
One can wound thee with a zephyr.
Love hath been put to shame by thy wailing,
His fair picture hath been fouled by thy brush.
Thy illness hath paled his cheek,
The coldness hath taken the glow from his fire.
He is heartsick from thy heart sicknesses,
And enfeebled by thy feeblenesses.
His cup is full of childish tears,
His house is furnished with distressful sighs.
He is a drunkard begging at tavern doors,
Stealing glimpses of beauty from lattices,
Unhappy, melancholy, injured,
Kicked well‐nigh to death by the warder;
Wasted like a reed by sorrows,
On his lips a store of complaints against Heaven.
Flattery and spite are the mettle of his mirror,
Helplessness his comrade of old;
A miserable base‐born underling
Without worth or hope or object,
Whose lamentations have sucked the marrow from thy soul
And driven off gentle sleep from thy neighboursʹ eyes.
Alas for a love whose fire is extinct,
A love that was born in the Holy Place and
died in the house of idols!
Oh, if thou hast the coin of poesy in thy purse,
Rub it on the touchstone of Life!
Clear‐seeing thought shows the way to action,
As the lightning‐flash precedes the thunder.
It behoves thee to meditate well concerning literature,
It behoves thee to go back to Arabia:
Thou must needs give thine heart to the Salma of Araby,
That the morn of the Hijaz may blossom from the night of Kurdistan.
Thou hast gathered roses from the garden of Persia
And seen the springtide of India and Iran:
Now taste a little of the heat of the desert,
Drink the old wine of the date!
Lay thine head for once on its hot breast.
Yield thy body awhile to its scorching wind!
For a long time thou hast turned about on a bed of silk:
Now accustom thyself to rough cotton!
For generations thou hast danced on tulips
And bathed thy cheek in dew, like the rose:
Now throw thyself on the burning sand
And plunge in to the fountain of Zamzam!
How long wilt thou fain lament like the nightingale?
How long make thine abode in gardens?
O thou whose auspicious snare would do honour to the Phoenix,
Build a nest on the high mountains,
A nest embosomed in lightning and thunder,
Loftier than eagle’s eye,
That thou mayst be fit for Life’s battle,
That thy body and soul may burn in Lifeʹs fire!


  1. Salam. What is the farsi word for pheonix used? I coulndt figure it out.

  2. i have a question, what types of poets is iqbal talking about? who are they? are they the poet who only focus on the beauty of the life after and they do not want you to work on this life here - this is what causes indifference in many muslims about this world and our present?