Hafiz came on the scene during the Ilkhanate dynasty (established 1256, fifty-nine years before he was born). He was thirty-eight when it collapsed in 1353. Then, several dynasties (Injuids, Muzaffarids, Chobanids, Jalayirids, Kartids, etc.) gained power and declared independence, dividing Persia into smaller, regional states. Of these, Hafiz lived under the reign of the Injus and Muzaffarids. Persia was not united again until the Safavid dynasty (1501–1736) in the 16th century.

His dates are possibly 1315–1390 (716–791 AH), but this isn’t absolutely certain. (Please note, too: Muslims of his time didn’t celebrate birthdays.) It’s safe to say Hafiz was a contemporary of Chaucer. Yet Hafiz is more like Shakespeare, two centuries later. Both were immersed in cosmopolitan as well as local culture. Their affinity might even bear direct influence. Scholar Ernest Fenollosa points out that “the freedom of the Elizabethan mind, and its power to range over all planes of human experience, as in Shakespeare, was in part, an aftermath of Oriental contacts,” encounters with Iran included.

He was a native of Shiraz, the capital of the province of Fars, from which come the words Farsi and Persian. Throughout the Islamic world, for centuries, Shiraz had been considered as the House of Knowledge, comparable to the Athens of Iran. Situated for both land and maritime trade on the Silk Road and the Spice Routes, it was a major international trading center, and, as a regional political center, its economy was self-reliant. In Hafiz’s time, Shiraz was comparable to Florence under the de Medicis. Scholar Leonard Lewisohn describes it as home of “learned theologians, eloquent preachers, pious ascetics, ecstatic Sufis, erudite scholars, specialist theologians, great calligraphers, famous scientists, and adept men of letters.” Such a varied cultural and economic climate helped Shiraz survive intense periods of political violence. Within that background of artistic and intellectual brilliance, Hafiz’s grasp of the philosophies, poetics, and politics of his time provided solid, rich grounding for him to reach beyond any other Persian poet, before or after[1]. Indeed, Hafiz is considered the zenith, the acme, the pinnacle, the apex of classical Persian literature of all time. In his lifetime, his lyrics captivated the soul of his people. His latest ones would be copied by hand and distributed for minstrels to sing and for people to read after performances. While written words were slower to travel, song was immediate. So his audience in his lifetime extended across Iran, from Fars to Khorasan and Azerbaijan. And, attesting to the reach of extending beyond national borders, his devotees could be found in such Persianate communities as India, Turkistan, and Mesopotamia.

Someone suggested he gather his lyrics together – following the common Persian practice of collecting and publishing a poet’s works into a book (divan) in his or her lifetime. But, no. His gears seemed to know no reverse, except to further refine and polish his work. His refusal to commit to a divan meant his work remained to be collected and arranged by others, beginning a dozen years after his death. His poems weren’t dated, although some clearly refer to contemporary events. But divans weren’t typically arranged chronologically nor even thematically but, rather, by the syllables rhyming at the ends of lines. What’s important to note here is that Hafiz’s divan, some five hundred lyric poems, is half or a third less than his peers. This reflects his “soul-digging, hardworking” commitment to craft, seen in each lyric’s high degree of polish.