Scheherazade, subterranean, bongitybongbong, and I shared an interesting discussion regarding one of my favorite poets, Rumi, and I thought to bring him to this part of the forum for everyone elses' benefits. Here are a few of his works we shared in the quote forum; share some of your favorites, if you have any.
There is a way between voice and presence
where information flows.
In disciplined silence it opens.
With wandering talk it closes.
"There is no angel so sublime, He wispered,
Who can be granted for one moment
What is granted you forever.
And I hung my head, astounded.
My Heart, that dervish vagabond,
Poured me the wine of oblivion.
I stagger to the House of Wine
Dancing, dancing, dragging this old cloak.
How can you ever hope to know the Beloved
Without becoming in every cell the Lover?
And when you are the Lover at last, you don't care.
Whatever you know or don't - only Love is real.
If one drop of Divine Drunkenness fell
On the intellects of everyone in the world,
The world and its beings, free will, and obedience -
All, all, would vanish in a moment.
The sail of the ship of man's being is belief.
When there is a sail, the wind can carry him
To place after place of power and wonder.
No sail, all words are winds.
You say you have seen Him, but your eyes are two stones.
You say you have known Him, but nothing in you trembles.
You still say "I" when you speak of surviving His glory:
No one who has seen It has ever survived.
The real work of religion is permanent astonishment.
By that I don't mean in astonishment turning your back on Him -
I mean - blazing in blind ecstacy, drowned in God and drunk on Love.
Choose the company of those withdrawn in love.
Listen to those who open the path to you; listen, and don't say a word."
O you who've gone on pilgrimage -
where are you, where, oh where?
Here, here is the Beloved!
Oh come now, come, oh come!
Your friend, he is your neighbor,
he is next to your wall -
You, erring in the desert -
what air of love is this?
If you'd see the Beloved's
form without any form -
You are the house, the master,
You are the Kaaba, you! . . .
Where is a bunch of roses,
if you would be this garden?
Where, one soul's pearly essence
when you're the Sea of God?
That's true - and yet your troubles
may turn to treasures rich -
How sad that you yourself veil
the treasure that is yours!
Though I cannot narrow my favorite Rumi poem to one, a work of his that I think highly of, and brings me to tears, goes thus, titled "No Room For Form:"
On the night when youc ross the street
from your shop and your house
to the cemetery,
you'll hear me hailing you from inside
the open grave, and you'll realize
how we've always been together.
I am the clear consciousness-core
of your being, teh same in
ecstasy as in self-hating fatigue.
That night, when youe scape the fear of snakebite
and all irritation with the ants, you'll hear
my familiar voice, see the candle being lit,
smell the incense, the surprise meal fixed
by the lover inside all your other lovers.
This heart-tumult is my signal
to you igniting in the tomb.
So don't fuss with the shroud
and the graveyard road dust.
Those get ripped open and washed away
in the music of our finally meeting.
And don't look for me in a human shape.
I am inside your looking. No room
for form with love this strong.
Beat the drum and let the poets speak.
This is a day of purification for those who
are already mature and initiated into what love is.
No need to wait until we die!
There's more to want here than money
and being famous and bites of roasted meat.
Now, what shall we call this new sort of gazing-house
that has opened in our town where people sit
quietly and pour out their glancing
like light, like answering?