From Coleman Barks's The Essential Rumi:
Sublime Generosity and I Have Five Things To Say
SUBLIME GENEROSITY
I was dead, then alive.
Weeping , then laughing.
The power of love came into me,
and I became fierce like a lion,
then tender like the evening star.
He said, "You're not mad enough.
You don't belong in this house."
I went wild and had to be tied up.
He said, "Still not wild enough
to stay with us!"
I broke through another layer
into joyfulness.
He said, "It's not enough."
I died.
He said, "You're a clever little man,
full of fantasy and doubting."
I plucked out my feathers and became a fool.
He said, "Now you're the candle
for this assembly."
But I'm no candle. Look!
I'm scattered smoke.
He said, "You are the sheikh, the guide."
But I'm not a teacher. I have no power.
He said, "You already have wings.
I cannot give you wings."
But I wanted his wings.
I felt like some flightless chicken.
Then new events said to me,
"Don't move. A sublime generosity is
coming toward you."
And old love said, "Stay with me."
I said, "I will."
You are the fountain of the sun's light.
I am a willow shadow on the ground.
You make my raggedness silky.
The soul at dawn is like darkened water
that slowly begins to say Thank you, thank you.
Then at sunset, again. Venus gradually
changes into the moon and then the whole nightsky.
This comes of smiling back
at your smile.
The chess master says nothing,
other than moving the silent chess piece.
That I am part of the ploys
of this game makes me
amazingly happy.
~~~
I HAVE FIVE THINGS TO SAY
The wakened lover speaks directly to the beloved,
"You are the sky my spirit circles in,
the love inside love, the resurrection-place.
Let this window be your ear.
I have lost consciousness many times
with longing for your listening silence,
and your life-quickening smile.
You give attention to the smallest matters,
my suspicious doubts, and to the greatest.
You know my coins are counterfeit,
but you accept them anyway,
my impudence and my pretending!
I have five things to say,
five fingers to give
into your grace.
First, when I was apart from you,
this world did not exist,
nor any other.
Second, whatever I was looking for
was always you.
Third, why did I ever learn to count to three?
Fourth, my cornfield is burning!
Fifth, this finger stands for Rabia,
and this is for someone else.
Is there a difference?
Are these words or tears?
Is weeping speech?
What shall I do, my love?"
So he speaks, and everyone around
begins to cry with him, laughing crazily,
moaning in the spreading union
of lover and beloved.
This is the true religion. All others
are thrown-away bandages beside it.
This is the sema of slavery and mastery
dancing together. This is not-being.
Neither words, nor any natural fact
can express this.
I know these dancers.
Day and night I sing their songs
in this phenomenal cage.
My soul, don't try to answer now!
Find a friend, and hide.
But what can stay hidden?
Love's secret is always lifting its head
out from under the covers,
"Here I am!"
Books by Rumi at Powell's Books
