“Rumi”
Posted on May 22, 2008
Filed Under Favorite Authors
Lately, I’ve been using Rumi’s poems as my “Bible” every morning. For those of you who didn’t catch the ‘fad’ of Rumi, he was a poet and mystic from the mid-1800s. His poems are great not just as poems, but also as supplements to help you with life.
As I’ve been reading Rumi, I’ve been realizing something about poetry and poets. There are two types of poets. The first are those that are able to describe themselves as prophetic poets, where what they have to say also tells something about characteristics, living or even the future. The second type of poet is a social poet, who is interested in the dealings of the day and responds to them.
Since I’m writing about Rumi, you probably know which one I prefer. Actually, both of them have a great place among poets, and I think need some extra respect, but poets like Rumi create an extra space for thinking that moves from the head and to the heart. Not only that, but it is something that you can apply to your daily life and what you are doing.
One of the things I’ve caught about the Rumi style is that he puts stories inside of the stories which are inside of the poems. He does this like his poems are teachings, used to tell someone and enlighten them through the analogies of the stories that he uses. This is something that is rarely seen, and adds on a certain multi-dimensional approach to his poetry.
So, in honor of Rumi, here’s one of his poems that I will leave you with.
“Dervish at the Door
A dervish knocked at a house
to ask for a piece of dry bread,
or moist, it didn’t matter.
‘This is not a bakery,’ said the owner.
‘Might you have a bit of gristle then?’
‘Does this look like a butchershop?’
‘A little flour?’
‘Do you hear a grinding stone?’
‘Some water?’
‘This is not a well.’
Whatever the dervish asked for,
the man made some tired joke
and refused to give him anything.
Finally the dervish ran in the house,
lifted his robe, and squatted
as though to take a sh**.
‘Hey, hey!’
‘Quiet, you sad man. A deserted place
is a fine spot to relieve oneself,
and since there’s no living thing here,
or means of living, it needs fertilizing.’
The dervish began his own list
of questions and answers.
‘What kind of bird are you? Not a falcon,
trained for the royal hand. Not a peacock,
painting with everyone’s eyes. Not a parrot,
that talks for sugar cubes. Not a nightingale,
that sings like someone in love.
Not a hoopoe bringing messages to Solomon,
or a stork that builds on a cliffside.
What exactly do you do?
You are no known species.
You haggle and make jokes
to keep what you own for yourself.
You have forgotten the One
who doesn’t care about ownership,
who doesn’t try to turn a profit
from every human exchange.’”
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