Long Masnavi Poems
Long Masnavi Poems. Below are the most popular long Masnavi by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Masnavi poems by poem length and keyword.
Cultural and Social Terms
Idol: In Persian poetry, often refers to the beloved, particularly one who is non-Muslim. The term carries complex connotations of forbidden desire and spiritual challenge.
Veil: Refers both to the physical head covering and the metaphysical veil between the material and spiritual worlds in Sufi thought.
Fate's Wheel: The wheel of fortune or destiny (charkh-e falak), a common motif in Persian literature representing the unpredictable nature of fate.
Character Names
Giti: A Persian name meaning "world" or "universe," suggesting the beloved encompasses all existence for the lover.
Saeed: An Arabic name meaning "happy" or "blessed," ironic given the character's suffering in love.
Poetic Devices and Concepts
Ghazal tradition: Though this is a masnavi, it draws heavily from the ghazal (lyric poem) tradition of Persian literature, with its emphasis on unrequited love and spiritual longing.
Tavern: In Sufi poetry, the tavern represents the place of spiritual gathering and divine intoxication, not literal alcohol consumption.
Cup and Wine: The cup represents the heart or soul, while wine represents divine love or spiritual knowledge.
Dawn: Often symbolizes spiritual awakening, hope, or the appearance of the beloved.
Mystical Concepts
Fana: The Sufi concept of self-annihilation or dissolution of the ego in divine love, reflected in the lovers' ultimate union where individual identity dissolves.
Ishq: Divine or passionate love that transcends ordinary human affection, central to Sufi thought and Persian poetry.
Longing (Hijr): The pain of separation from the beloved, considered a necessary stage in spiritual development.
Historical Context
Persian Literary Tradition: This work draws from the rich tradition of Persian mystical poetry, including works by Rumi, Hafez, Saadi, and others who used love poetry as a vehicle for spiritual expression.
Courtly Love: The formal, ritualized expression of love that characterized medieval Persian court culture, with its emphasis on patience, suffering, and devotion.
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Note: Many terms in Persian mystical poetry carry multiple layers of meaning - literal, romantic, and spiritual - simultaneously. This ambiguity is intentional and central to the tradition's power and enduring appeal.
Introduction
"The Masnavi of Giti and Saeed" is a modern reimagining of a classic Persian love epic, woven from the threads of ancient myth, Sufi mysticism, and the eternal yearning of two souls. It tells the tale of Giti and Saeed—lovers bound by fate and challenged by the trials of longing and destiny. In this retelling, the timeless language of Persian mysticism meets contemporary poetic sensibility, inviting readers into a world where each image, each sigh, carries the weight of devotion and the spark of transcendence.
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Part One — In the Name of God
O Sovereign of the world's design
You know all secrets in the wine
The painter of both seen and hidden realms
Your wisdom guides where fortune helms.
The fountain of each form and face
In You all qualities find place.
Your breath gave life to lifeless clay,
Your light still guides us on our way.
First written in love's sacred flame,
O Craftsman of beauty—praise Your name!
Sweet Venus tunes her aching strings,
For longing hearts her melody sings.
Before all time, Your being stood,
Self-sustained, eternal, wholly good.
None bore You forth, nor child have You,
Yet boundless joy from You flows through.
The lover learned from You to yearn,
In Your sweet absence, watched hearts burn.
We glow with warmth Your presence brings,
And bow in thanks for all good things.
Part Two — The Cause for Telling the Tale
One day, in sorrow for my friend so dear,
I wept for love that brought both joy and fear.
"O Heavens! Why this bitter mask you wear?
Why turn my song to notes of deep despair?"
Without that moon-faced, radiant light,
Each day I burned through endless night.
Each dawn brought cries of aching pain,
Till all the world could hear my strain.
How, when, and where this tale took flight—
With her, so rare, so pure, so bright.
That sea of grace, my soul's sweet bane,
That lovely sprite who broke my chain.
How did she cast me in sorrow's deep sea?
How did her absence wound the heart of me?
So much I wept, so many prayers I cried,
I left it all to fate to be my guide.
Let destiny reveal what it may show,
What fruits from this sweet madness yet may grow.
I wrote this tale of love's eternal flame,
Love came and sealed my fate and carved its name.
The Voice…
On a dark night that was darker than my pain,
nothing was there for me except to complain.
I hid myself in the emptiness of bed.
Nothing was there except loneliness instead.
I heard a sound that was not like any sound.
Joyously called my name, sought me, and then found.
He told me to get up, wake up look at dawn.
The darkness of the night soon will be all gone.
The voice told me that morning dawn, full of light;
has the power to wash darkness from its night.
The voice asked me about the days of my youth.
That I am old and grey, with forgotten truth.
I asked him that who are you, and what are you?
I don't know you, didn’t see you passing through.
Who are you that suddenly came to my room?
Aren’t you God, and I am, meeting my doom?
I called your name many times when I was young.
I prayed your name day and night with broken tongue.
Now, you are calling my name in this day and age;
not worth talking to you; anger creates rage.
I am too old, and I had too many sins,
Living is the only game that nobody wins.
Go and bother another soul beside me,
I am tired of you; you shall never be.
The voice told me that I was out of my mind.
And I have been beguiled, as though I am blind.
He told me that he was with me the whole time.
He let me to fly in this paradigm.
He told me that he is the end of a start.
He is the love that cries from an aching heart.
He told me that he is water in the spring.
He is those nightingales who so blithely sing.
He told me that he is bottom, and he’s up.
He is grapes, and he is wine in the same cup.
He told me that he gave feathers for a flight.
He made it so the sun shall set within night.
I asked him if I could see him with my eyes,
I will be like the moon, lighting up the skies.
That I looked for any sign to believe him,
with just all promises, dreams maybe all grim.
He told me to wake up, open up my eyes,
and see what is to see, a blessing in disguise.
I did open my eyes saw a glowing bright,
like a drifting shadow, in an ocean of light.
I saw my son saying, "Wake up! Wake up! dad",
What’s the matter with you? Are you going mad?
5/14/16 Haloo
The Life Is …
The Life Is …
When I was young, there was no pain,
The only pain was to complain.
When I was young, I did not care,
Just as long as my love was there.
When I was young, my life was great.
But I was there a bit too late.
A bit too late to know life was,
being young and having no flaws.
A bit too late to celebrate,
What I had then was called my fate.
Now it’s different, weather is cold,
I turned into a man that’s old.
The spring has passed, summer is gone,
Autumn at rest, winter is on.
I am too old and know it’s gone.
It is too dark to hope for dawn.
Now I know that a part of life,
It is old age and lives with strife.
Now I know that my life is not,
The perfect plan when I had thought.
The life is not the silken dress,
Unmarked from flaws, full of success.
My life is just a song I sing,
It is winter chasing the spring.
It is sorrow, it is laughter,
It is hope for morning after.
My life is just a long poem,
Had a young star; none would know him.
The life is just a shooting star,
It is so bright but can’t go far.
Blink your eyes; it’s all be gone,
I played this game like a faceless pawn.
I played so well; somehow, I lost.
You don’t want me to count my cost.
My life is like a field of dream,
Or maybe like a moonlit stream.
My life is like a drop of dew,
Waiting the Sun to say adieu.
My life is like the dew at dawn,
The sun will kiss; it will be gone.
My life is not to be just young,
It is okay to be unsung.
My life is like the morning breeze,
It can bring storms or bring you ease.
You are hoping for one more dream,
That wakes you up in golden gleam.
The life is like a candle’s flame,
It lights up love or burns to blame.
The games are on, and the moves are fast.
I do not know how long they last.
For some, it’s short; for some, it’s long.
Go have more fun; it is not wrong.
Remember now, it might get late,
Go play your move before checkmate.
10/2/2019
Haloo
Note: The painting is called “A reminder”; it’s acrylic on wood.
Note: This style of poetry is called "Masnavi"; it is the spiritual couplets. This particular masnavi consists of eight syllables in each line. Poetrysoup has a great explanation and example of this form of poetry.
Rather Galesburg Joliet
Terrehaute Florence Colorado
to the shores of Bogotá
flushing heroin fentanyl
through the gates behind bars
thee corrupt prison ran
by gang leaders paying
off prison guards you can
ask yourself what brand
to buy into Hoover vacuum’s
are reliable American made
while Kirby Brands offers
negligence falsifying death
row inmates finally hangman’s
curse while the hoover
vacuum continues to crawl
over the paisley patterns in
the federal building breaking
even on Lasalle and Van Burean
where Gargano once controlled
most of the revenue trading fenced
with osh gosh severe terrorist
threats released only when corrupt
prison guards do exactly what
he says attack who he says attack
while Kirby vacuum holding twenty
convictions drugs violence victim
intimidation battery hit and run
corrupt family members controlling
Wisconsin prison system looking to
transfer power back to Joliet upon
Hoover stamp of approval which
might cross over interfering with
the free Hoover movement this
certainty opens the flood gates
for Gambino early release programs
for death row inmates just can’t
have all power to the people without
including all prison across America
not to exclude Gitmo with the
boarders rise in Islamic crossing
over Lore Mannino territories all
corruption throughout prison systems
changes hands through Gambino rackets
funnelling crime throughout abuse
of power corruption evenly distributed
meanwhile power is being tampered
with 40 years of dirt swept under
the rugs until the Hoover vacuum
is plugged back in all bets are off
ask yourself what’s your Brand
Hoover trustees or unreliable Kirby
designed to malfunction fictitious
score boards chips blood everywhere
devouring the structure of all power
terrorising FBI confidential human sources
during an election where corruption sinks
fast folding swiftly better get a broom
No fear of terrorist threats from
violent offenders gang leaders
corrupt prison guards organised
corruption abuse of power intimidation
of an FBI confidential human source
FBI informants CLEAN IT UP
Cat and mouse
Within a garden somewhere out there,
butterflies were dancing free from care.
Thousands of flowers loving the dance,
love the lovers and loving romance.
A lot of butterflies full of lust,
drinking and dancing in love they trust.
Daffodil pitchers filled with the wine,
drinking that wine was wholly, divine.
Roses and jasmines fully bloomed,
enchanted aromas sweetly perfumed.
From its hiding a devious mouse,
saw the butterflies right from his house.
He ran to the garden, chased the fly,
grabbed him tightly, bit him to die.
Ate him like candy tenderly sweet,
the smell of jasmines made it complete.
Loving his food and loving its taste,
the mouse was happy nothing got waste.
Until he saw a ghostly shape,
scary giant, he couldn’t escape.
There was a cat with a smiley face,
growled and meowed and started the chase.
Running like wind, he didn’t gave in,
hunting for food is never a sin.
He grabbed the mouse in a playful way,
ate him so fast then rested all day.
The mouse tasted like jasmine and rose,
the flavor of butterfly joined with those.
The cat was happy and licked his paws,
adored his power sharpened his claws.
Until the next day there was a dog,
with big shaggy tail, fat like a hog.
Ugly and old he ran after cat,
hunted the cat and ate him like rat.
The dog was old and his fate foretold,
he died in winter when air was cold.
He died and buried and turned to dust
nothing can escape from time and rust.
The months have passed and years gone by,
what else can we do except comply?
Living and dying is a part of life.
Life and death are in constant strife.
The flesh of the dog made the jasmines grew,
butterflies came with their lives renew.
Roses and lilies grew one more time,
butterflies dancing, dancing in rhyme.
Another mouse and another cat,
the playful cat, that ate up the rat.
Another dog and another feast,
after a while the death chose the beast.
Life is a circle, circle like a chain.
Everything goes and comes back again.
There will be death for me and you,
like roses and jasmines lives renew.
3/12/16 Haloo
Motherland…
I am a desert, barren and hot.
Hoping for the rain, which I forgot.
Once, I was green, golden, and bright.
Nightingales singing night after night.
My fresh breeze at dawn was ever nice,
Showered me blossoms like paradise.
Year after year, I dressed up in green.
Green and reddish with white in between.
Until I became older than old,
All I have now is darkness and cold.
I lost all of my glory and youth,
Hope death is not the end or the truth.
I had so many kings that were tall,
Now, I am filled with filth that they crawl.
Tired of being a desert that’s old,
Thousands and thousands of years to be told.
Cyrus and Darius lived within me.
Now I am barren; how could it be?
I am now desert far from the sea;
They burned my soul so no one can see.
Empty and lonely, thirsty and dry,
hope for the rain and generous sky.
Hope for someone to answer my cry,
Wash up my tears, and don’t let me die.
I need a hero like the old times,
Come and wash me from all the crimes.
Come to me, my love, my lovely rain,
shower me with love, get rid of pain.
If you come back and shower me, fine
promise I give you, I'll drink your wine.
For me, rain is love; love is my life.
To live without love is endless strife.
I want to become a jungle of love,
making love and being free as a dove.
I am now dying, dying of thirst,
Hope for a drizzle; first thing is first.
1/28/20 Haloo
Note: Motherland is Iran, the birthplace of civilizations, a country with thousands of years of history. In the past forty years, there is a great tension between the government of Iran and the United States. This tension has escalated recently to the point of an imminent war between the two countries. The people in Iran are suffering from an authoritarian government on one side and sanctions and pressure on the other. This humble piece is written to give you the understanding that under a millimeter of skin, we’re all the same, the same humans, and humanities are the same regardless of religion, culture, and geographical background.
The Question …
I had some questions, I asked a friend,
What is my purpose? Where is the end?
What happens to us when we all die?
Do we turn to ghosts ready to fly?
He smiled at me and nodded his head,
“How stupid you are,” he grinned and said.
Don’t you know that you will turn to dust?
All the laws of science are just and must!
If the light is gone, dark will appear,
Why should the darkness cause the fear?
You are up one day, bashful and gay.
Next day, you are dead, sleeping all day.
I looked at my friend and asked again,
What's the nature of water in rain?
Water in oceans is rough and cold,
It dies into steam when heat is bold.
Rises to clouds, like a wingless bird,
Reborn as rain, which I’m sure you heard.
How do you know that when I am dead,
I do not come back with proof, be said?
He looked at me, glaring, and told me so;
foolishness is bliss; how do you know?
I told him to trust and follow your heart;
go within yourself, but yet depart.
Further and further into your soul,
Sometimes, science is out of control.
I told him about the moth and flame,
how he loves fire, and himself to blame.
He starts like a worm crawling on ground,
then dies in cocoons, round and round.
He will be reborn after he’s dead,
He grows wings and legs, flying instead.
I told him about living and life;
Living and dying, always in strife.
The water in rain moths and weeds;
came all from the steam, worm, and seeds.
One day, I will be drinking the dew,
Drunk in the rainbow, singing adieu.
He started to think of moths and rain,
looked at me, and smiled walked in vain.
He left me and slowly nodded his head;
Thinking of dying once he is dead.
I did not see him ever again,
but heard that he was dancing with rain.
1/20/2016 Haloo
Note: This style of poetry is called "Masnavi"; it is a spiritual or mystical story in the form of couplets. This particular Masnavi consists of nine syllables in each line. Poetrysoup has a great explanation and example of this form of poetry.
Celebration of death
Peter Gargano and his
son Peter memories
meeting at the clock
restaurant fort myers
right before traumatic
brain injury blessings
many laughs prayers
are with the family
reminders from license
plates RFP RIP it’s really
helpful getting terrorists
threats on license plates
especially when I have
to get 12 nerve blocks
injections in my head today
actually every 25 days
traumatic headaches
severe pain and suffering
memory care centers
after surviving hurricanes
I’m reminded of hurricane
Charlie grateful an yet
traumatic events Peter
remembering Peter Gargano
the the trauma it’s almost
like he’s still with us like I
didn’t witness his dead body
leaving this world or all thee
other wise guys hitmen
The Don of Don Boss of Bosses
all dead controlling terrorist
threats on license plates
I’m reminded of mob boss Frankie
boy cali being gunned down holding
his license plate organized crime
terrorising me for wearing
wires pregnant buying
weapons and drugs from junk
sick officers being a rat exposing
mafia hitmen no I’m no
Sammy the Bull or John Gotti jr
big Paul bambino who suffered
a rash from his Mexican maid
Christmas time before being gunned
down without ointment of course
not Carlo Gambino nor Domenico Cefalu
no just a mom a grandma the fbi
just warned me my ex husband
set fires with gargano killing 9
people before I knew a car bomb
ignited my skull Peter stood over
my blood soaked body to go
over investments insurance
monies my memory of my
wearing wires pregnant for the
fbi saved my life today is a
gargano kind of day happy
heavenly birthday Peter Pete
and Peters Just in case I’m
brutally murdered by this ongoing
hit on my life because I refuse to
allow the mafia extort my American
Poetry brings me to tears today fondly
remember me writing American poetry
I.
I fold my mother's silver spoon—crescent bright,
worn soft as secrets whispered through the night.
Her thumb's warm press, a tender, sacred trace,
curves like a prayer held close in time and place.
Now bitter dust swirls in plastic's cold embrace,
instant coffee falls—no homeland to retrace.
II.
The clerk repeats my name—a broken hymn,
I spell each letter till the sounds grow dim.
A lullaby that once made sorrow fade,
now splinters sharp like glass in morning shade.
Grandmother's voice dissolves without a trace—
erased by tongues that cannot hold her grace.
III.
At laundromats, I fold shirts worn and thin,
and hold the shape where father's frame has been.
Beside me, whispers soft as evening rain:
"Mi amor"—melodies that heal some pain.
I swallow embers burning in my chest,
Persian fires I'm forbidden to confess.
IV.
Here, tall trees stand—no desert wind's sharp bite,
back home, jasmine chokes in fading light.
Those roots broke concrete, shattered stone with might,
thirsting for waters lost to endless flight.
They claimed the earth, reclaimed their ancient right—
seeking the drink that made their blossoms bright.
V.
I study mathematics of my loss—
subtract the dawn prayer's shimmer and its gloss,
divide sweet dates by oceans vast and wide,
multiply silence by the tears I hide.
Yet still my dreams speak Persian—wild and free,
tongue honeyed with the taste of what could be.
VI.
My sun-dark hands plant mint in coffee cans,
where memories bloom beyond their native lands.
Green leaves unfurl like secrets I once kept,
curled tight as letters that my mother wept.
I tell the soil: "Grow fierce, defy their plans,
crack pavement wide, take root where no one stands."
A silver shoot breaks through at break of dawn—
mother's voice whispers: "My love, you are not gone."