The Prince and the Poet

This is a story about  a powerful  poem written by a blind poet.  An ode to a city, a river, and a brook which after some 1100 years  still stirs the heart, mind and spirit -- ever since I was a young  girl at high school this story has gripped my imagination. The poem is written by Roudaki of Samarghand (858 -   941), and this is how it goes:

 Prince Nasr of house of Samanid ruled Transoxania of northern Persia around  875 AD. He  spent his winter in  Samarghand and his summer in Bokhara. The country was at peace and prospered under his rule and having no enemy the prince began to travel with his army to Hari, and Baad ghais, which were truly  prosperous, beautiful, and lush places. He really enjoyed staying at these towns as the climate was agreeable and  as the good book, says, he liked them for their "size, beauty, and the abundance and goodness of their fruit".  He spent the spring and summer in Hary and the winter  in Baddghais where  orange  came in abundance from Sakastan, and tangerine from Mazanderan, and the food was tasty and the wine was great. By the time spring returned the prince decided what’s the point of leaving this fine place we will stay until next winter  and will enjoy all the beauty of summer, and thus seasons after seasons  passed and the prince stayed there. 

It was toward the close of the fourth year of prince’s sojourn, and while the nostalgia raged most furiously among his men, that the Prince Nasr entertained his companions at nightly festivities of the most wonderful splendour. The army had become restless. The knights, and the men missed their wives, families, friends, and homes, but nobody dared to talk with the prince.  Many of his knights  had been moved by the songs the blind poet Roudaki sang and played on  his harp.  Thus, they sent an emissary  and asked him for help. Then, in one of those nights,  when the festivities started, and the prince   was happily reveling in the sound of the music and drinking his wine , the blind harpist entered with the help of courtiers into the pleasure palace. It was indeed a night like what Poe describes of the court of  Prince Prospero:

“In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine.”  

  When the musicians stopped playing that night, the blind harpist began by clutching his instrument and sniffing it as if it had been an apple and then in the most melodious string of his harp started to sing:

The fragrance of Moulian Brook is in my mind, again

The memory of my beloved darling is in my mind, again!

The river stones of Amoui, and its rough road

 Feels like soft silk beneath my cheerful feet

Happy to see  the face of a forgotten friend

 The waters of Djeyhoon river raise to neck of my stallion

O Bokhara! Be happy and long live!

Your Prince is returning to you jubilantly  

The prince is moonlight and Bokhara is heaven,

The moonlight is rising towards heaven again

The Prince is the blue pine and Bokhara is the garden

The blue pine is returning to the garden,

Even if the coffers be inflicted with a loss

There’d be so many benefits from prises, and gratitude    

It is said that Prince stood up, rushed towards the gate, jumped over his horse and galloped hurriedly alone toward Bokhara.
gN, July 2014