1Cademy - بخش ۷۲ - انتقال از نکوهش شعر و سخنوری به مذمت شعرای روزگار / Section 72 - Transition from the Denunciation of Poetry and Rhetoric to the Condemnation of the Poets of the Era

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Haft Awrang

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بخش ۷۲ - انتقال از نکوهش شعر و سخنوری به مذمت شعرای روزگار / Section 72 - Transition from the Denunciation of Poetry and Rhetoric to the Condemnation of the Poets of the Era

Original content

شعر در نفس خویشتن بد نیست
پیش اهل دل این سخن رد نیست

ناله من ز خست شرکاست
تن چو نالم، ز شر ایشان کاست

پیش ازین فاضلان شعر شعار
کسب کردی فضایل بسیار

بودی آراسته به فضل و هنر
بودی آزاده از فضول سیر

حکمت و اصل و فرع ورزیده
به ترازوی شرع سنجیده

مستمر بر مکارم اخلاق
مشتهر در مجامع آفاق

طیب انفاس شان مروح روح
جنبش کلکشان کلید فتوح

همه را دل ز همت عالی
از قناعت پر از طمع خالی

وه کز ایشان بجز فسانه نماند
جز سخن هیچ در میانه نماند

کیست شاعر کنون یکی مدبر
که نداند ز جهل هر از بر

نکند فرق شعر را ز شعیر
راحت خلد را ز رنج سعیر

همت او خسیس و طبع لئیم
همه آفاق را حریف و ندیم

روز و شب کو به کوی و جای به جای
می دود چون سگان سوخته پای

تا کجا بو برد که یک دو سه کس
گشته جمع از سر هوا و هوس

کرده ترتیب عیش را اسباب
از شراب و کباب و چنگ و رباب

افکند خویش را به مکر و دروغ
پیش آن جمع چون مگس در دوغ

کاسه ای چند زهر مارکند
با همه جنگ و کارزار کند

ژاژ خاید ظرافت انگارد
هرزه گوید لطیفه پندارد

بس که آید ازان گروه درشت
سیلی اش بر قفا و بر رو مشت

بدر آید ازان میانه که بود
پس سر سرخ و چشمخانه کبود

با چنان چشمخانه و پس سر
روی از آنجا نهد به جای دگر

ننهاده ست هیچ کس خوانی
در همه شعر بهر مهمانی

که نرفته ست تا سر خوانش
ننشسته طفیل مهمانش

نگرفته ست کس پی گشتی
کنج باغی و جانب دشتی

که نجسته سراغ وی از پی
طی نکرده بساط عشرت وی

زو یکی گر به غار کرده فرار
ثانی اثنین گشته در بن غار

ور دو کس زو به استغاثه شده
از عقب ثالث ثلاثه شده

ور سه کس از جفاش پی زده گم
چون سگ کهف گشته رابعهم

قصه کوتاه هیچ فرد و فریق
زو نرسته به حیله های دقیق

گشته زین گونه خست و ابرام
شعر مذموم و شاعران بدنام

هر که مخذول و خاسرش خوانند
خوشتر آید که شاعرش خوانند

لطف شاعر اگر چه مختصر است
جامع صد هزار شین و شر است

نیست یک خلق و سیرت مذموم
که نگردد ازین لقب مفهوم

English translation

Poetry in its own essence is not bad; This statement is not rejected by the people of heart. My lamentation is due to the meanness of the associates; When I lament, it diminishes their evil from my body. Before this, the virtuous ones whose calling was poetry Acquired many virtues. They were adorned with merit and art; They were free from superfluous ways of life. They practiced wisdom, its roots, and its branches, Weighing everything on the scales of the Divine Law. They were steadfast in noble character And famous in the assemblies of the world. The purity of their breath refreshed the soul; The movement of their pen was the key to spiritual victories. The hearts of all of them, through high ambition, Were full of contentment and free from greed. Alas, nothing remains of them now but a legend; Nothing remains in our midst but mere talk. Who is a poet now? A wretched turncoat, Who, out of ignorance, knows nothing of anything. He does not distinguish poetry (she'r) from barley (sha'ir), Nor the comfort of paradise from the torment of hellfire. His ambition is base and his nature is mean; He is a companion and drinking-partner to the entire world. Day and night, street by street and place by place, He runs about like a dog with burnt paws, Searching for where two or three people Have gathered out of whim and desire, And have arranged the means of pleasure— With wine, kebab, harp, and lute. He throws himself through deceit and falsehood Before that gathering like a fly in buttermilk. He gulps down a few bowls of what is like snake venom, And then quarrels and fights with everyone. He babbles nonsense and considers it wit; He speaks rubbish and imagines it a clever jest. So often does he receive from that coarse crowd Slaps on his neck and fists to his face. He emerges from the midst of where he was, With the back of his neck red and his eyes blackened and blue. With such bruised eyes and a beaten neck, He turns his face from there to go to another place. No one has ever spread a banquet table For any guest in the town, Without him going to the head of that table, Sitting as an uninvited parasite among the guests. No one has ever set out for a stroll To a corner of a garden or toward a meadow, Without him seeking their path, Traversing the carpet of their pleasure. If one of them fled from him into a cave, He became 'the second of the two' inside that cave. And if two people fled from him crying for help, From behind them, he became 'the third of the three.' And if three people lost their way because of his harassment, He became 'their fourth' like the dog of the Seven Sleepers. In short, no individual or group Has escaped him through any clever stratagems. Through such meanness and persistence, Poetry has become censured and poets infamous. Whoever is called defeated and ruined, Prefers to be called a poet. The grace of a poet, though minimal, Is a collection of a hundred thousand sins and evils. There is not a single blameworthy trait or behavior That is not understood from this title.

Updated 2026-07-06

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