love poetry

Pale sunlight, pale the wall.
Love moves away.
The light changes
I need more grace than I thought.

Not exactly what youd expect from a guy born in 1207, right?

Rumi [the poet] was born on the Eastern shores of the Persian Empire in 1207 (in the city of Balkh in what is now Afghanistan), and finally settled in the town of Konya, in what is now Turkey. His life story reads like a fairy tale. A charming noble man, a genius theologian, a brilliant sober scholar, meets a wandering and wild "holy man" by the name of Shams, and almost overnight is transformed. It seems that the universe brought these two opposing characters together to remind us for eternity that it is never what you expect when it comes to personal transformation.
(text borrowed from here: http://www.rumi.net/rumi_by_shiva.htm -- I can't seem to make the links work today)

I've been thinking a lot about Rumi lately, because Im feeling a little artistically uninspired by my life, and I find his poetry passionate, rousing and really chicken-soup-for-the-spirity, but not in a God-Says-You-Must-Do-This-Kind-Of-Way. Rumi just reminds me to keep at it, because its what I'm meant to do. It's almost like he wants to tell me that god wants me to do this, but he knows he can't use the big old G word with me or I'll tune out. I consider myself very spiritual (but not at all religious) and so I see the love in Rumis poetry as the love his has for his soul, for his god, or for Shams (his holy-man-soulmate), who embodies both physical and spiritual love.

In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.

You dance inside my chest,
where no one sees you,

but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.

To me, his love is Love (with a capital L), applying to almost any kind of love -- romantic love, physical love, spiritual love, self-love, family love, he gets it all. And it helps me get through the tough stuff (which, these days, seems to abound, but blah blah blah) and reminds me there are simple, organic loves out there, and if I cant find the out-of-reach ones, I should seek the simple ones that make my heart happy.

I would love to kiss you.
The price of kissing is your life.

Now, my loving is running toward my life shouting,
What a bargain, let's buy it.

* * *

The way of love is not
a subtle argument.

The door there
is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?

They fall, and falling,
they're given wings.


The simplicity of the imagery in his poetry just speaks to me, but I'm tickled by the complexity of trying to apply it to my own life. I mean, it's not like I'm in the 13th century, I'm not going to read by the fire, or arc my mallet at work (although sometimes I'm sorely tempted), but I see the metaphor, and can appreciate what he's saying.

ANYWAY, I'm no scholar (well, at least not about this) but it all just makes me really happy, and really connected to something bigger than me, so I just thought I'd share it. (also, it's a really good place to look if you want to use a poem in a valentine or love letter.)

So here's for you to enjoy (and cut and paste and send to your lovers)

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this?

If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God's fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this?

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don't try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.
This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
When someone doesn't believe that,
walk back into my house.
Like this.

When lovers moan,
they're telling our story.
Like this.

I am a sky, where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.
Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.
Like this.

How did Joseph's scent come to Jacob?
Huuuuu.

How did Jacob's sight return?
Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.
Like this.

When Shams come back from Tabriz,
he'll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us.
Like this.

* * *

There is a way between voice and presence
where information flows.

In disciplined silence it opens.
With wandering talk it closes.

* * *

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field.
I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, languages, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.


p.s. I'm not really reading this book right now, but it's a good place to start if you want more non-internet Rumi info.