The Reed Flute’s Song<\/b> – by Rumi<\/i><\/p>\n
Listen to the story told by the reed,
\nof being separated,<\/p>\n
“Since I was cut from the reedbed,
\nI have made this crying sound.<\/p>\n
Anyone apart from someone he loves
\nunderstands what I say.<\/p>\n
Anyone pulled from a source
\nlongs to go back.<\/p>\n
At any gathering I am there,
\nmingling in the laughing and grieving,<\/p>\n
a friend to each, but few
\nwill hear the secrets hidden<\/p>\n
within the notes. No ears for that.
\nBody flowing out of spirit,<\/p>\n
spirit up from body: no concealing
\nthat mixing. But it’s not given us<\/p>\n
to see<\/i> the soul. The reed flute
\nis fire, not wind. Be that empty.”<\/p>\n
Hear the love fire tangled
\nin the reed notes, as bewilderment<\/p>\n
melts into wine. The reed is a friend
\nto all who want the fabric torn<\/p>\n
and drawn away. The reed is hurt
\nand salve combining. Intimacy<\/p>\n
and longing for intimacy, one
\nsong. A disastrous surrender<\/p>\n
and a fine love, together. The one
\nwho secretly hears this is senseless.<\/p>\n
A tongue has one customer, the ear.
\nA sugarcane flute has such effect<\/p>\n
because it was able to make sugar
\nin the reedbed. The sound it makes<\/p>\n
is for everyone. Days full of wanting,
\nlet them go by without worrying<\/p>\n
that they do. Stay where you are
\ninside such a pure, hollow note.<\/p>\n
Every thirst gets satisfied except
\nthat of these fish, the mystics,<\/p>\n
who swim a vast ocean of grace
\nstill somehow longing for it!<\/p>\n
No one lives in that without
\nbeing nourished every day.<\/p>\n
But if someone doesn’t want to hear
\nthe song of the reed flute,<\/p>\n
it’s best to cut conversation
\nshort, say good-bye, and leave.<\/p>\n
\n
\n(I found a quote below that references Rumi being heard in the downtown New York performance art scene – which makes me think of an Iranian poetry festival I went to – at the Bowery Poetry Club – where Rumi, Hafez, Ferdowsi and others were celebrated – it was mainly a Persian crowd, and it reminded me of the Bloosmday celebrations I’ve gone to, where it’s been mainly an Irish crowd – meaning IRISH Irish – and people know large sections of Joyce’s book by heart, and shout it out during the celebrations in unison. Sitting in that dark club, surrounded by rowdy wine-drinking Iranians – all of them with their dog-eared books of Hafez and Rumi, shouting out poems in unison – in Farsi no less!, a collective cultural memory … it was one of my favorite New York experiences ever. Don’t come between a Persian and his poetry!!)<\/p>\n
\n“He turned into a poet, began to listen to music, and sang, whirling around, hour after hour.” — Annemarie Schimmel<\/i><\/p>\n
“Praise to Early-Waking Grievers<\/i> I was sleeping, and being comforted I had been away from my own soul so long, Some go first, and others come long afterward. God blesses both and all in the line, and replaces what has been consumed, and provides for those who work the soil of helpfulness, and blesses Muhammad and Jesus and every other messenger and prophet. Amen, and may the Lord of all created beings bless you.” “Around the first century AD, Balkh became an important staging post on the Silk Road, selling and trans-shipping raw silk from China to Persia and eventually Europe. The city spawned many imitators, among them Samarkand, Marakanda, Bukhara, Khiva, Merv, Tus, Ravy and Qom. After Muslim Arab armies arrived in 663 AD an Islamic renaissance flowered in its thriving bazaars, bathhouses and barrel-vauled palacees. By the eighth century the military prowess, artistic refinement and scientific achievements of the Islamic world had far surpassed the Christian West. Thinkers, poets and mathematicians thrived in Balkh, among them the Persian free-thinker Omar Khayyam, who spent his formative years there. In 1207, the city gave birth to another wild man, the poet Jalal-ud-Din Balkhi, also known as Rumi, who held that music and poetry could facilitate direct and ecstatic experience of God, and founded the Sufi Muslim order of whirling dervishes.” — Christopher Kremmer, “The Carpet Wars”<\/i><\/p>\n “Much of subsequent Sufism rests on the notion that when the lesser, egotistically oriented self of a person is displaced, the greater or Universal self is found, enabling the experience of contact with the Divine. The ordinary, sensible world is simply the reflection, at its more attenuated end, of the Divine emanantion, and Man its most exquisite mirror. As the dust of egotism is blown from the mirror … The foundation of Sufi practice is neither ascetism nor retirement from the world, although there may be periods of both. The austerities of monasticism were disapproved of by the Prophet himself, and Islam never fully lost the company (or the genes) of its most spiritually inclined. It is perhaps the Sufi’s willingness to undertake his spiritual training in the rough and tumble of life that accounts for the breadth of Sufism’s appeal. In Sufism there is the renunciation of ties, but the most obvious among these – the visible ties of the material world – are the least essential. ‘Is there anything more astonishing,’ writes a nineteenth-century Sufi master, ‘than that a man should put the blame on his professional activity for not being able to perfect himself?’ ” — Jason Elliott, “An Unexpected Light”<\/i><\/p>\n “Along with a throng of pilgrims, I removed my shoes and entered Rumi’s blue-domed mausoleum. A sign in English greets visitors with Rumi’s words: ‘Come, come whoever you are, whether you be fire-worshipers, idolaters, or pagans. Ours is not the dwelling place of despair. All who enter will receive a welcome here.’ Turkish women wrapped in red head shawls and men with beards and woollen hats mingled easily with Western tourists amid the overlapping Oriental carpets and gold-leafed Koranic calligraphy framed by colorful tiles. Not just the tourists, but the pilgrims too, were happily snapping photos. Rarely had I been in a holy place with such a welcoming climate.” — Robert Kaplan, “The Ends of the Earth”<\/i><\/p>\n “The political upheaval [in Iran] particularly opened the way for a revolution in Persian literature. For over a millennium, poetry had had priority in a land that revered the lyrics of mystics such as Hafez, Ferdowsi, Rumi and Attar, who wrote at the height of Persian and Islamic glory in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.” — Robin Wright, “The Last Great Revolution”<\/i><\/p>\n \u00ef\u00bf\u00bdJalaluddin Rumi was, among many other things, a lover of irony, of the odd and absurd juxtapositions that life creates. So it may be that he would have savored the fact that Madonna set translations of his 13th century verses praising Allah to music on Deepak Chopra\u00ef\u00bf\u00bds 1998 CD, A Gift of Love; that Donna Karan has used recitations of his poetry as a background to her fashion shows; that Oliver Stone wants to make a film of his life; and that even though he hailed from Balkh, a town near Mazar-i-Sharif situated in what is today Afghanistan, his verse has only become more popular with American readers since September [2001], when HarperCollins published The Soul of Rumi, 400 pages of poetry translated by Coleman Barks. September 2001 would seem like an unpropitious time for an American publisher to have brought out a large, pricey hardback of Muslim mystical verse, but the book took off immediately. It has a long road ahead, however, if it is to catch up with a previous Rumi best seller, The Essential Rumi, published by HarperCollins in 1995. With more than 250,000 copies in print, it is easily the most successful poetry book published in the West in the past decade\u00ef\u00bf\u00bd — Ptolemy Tompkins, Time Asia Edition, September 30, 2002<\/i><\/p>\n “Persian literature and architecture had a great influence on the Seljuks. It may be telling that Rumi was a cult figure among hippies in the 1960s and 1970s. He was born in 1207 in Balkh, in the northern, Turkic, part of Afghanistan. As a boy, he traveled with his father for several years across Persia and eastern Anatolia to Konya (the hippie route to India, in reverse). Travel, evidently, leavened Rumi’s spirit, and his tolerance. A flower child of his time, he believed that men, regardless of race or religion, were united, and linked to all of nature by love. This view, which may have had roots in the pre-Islamic past, was expressed in Rumi’s characteristically sensuous poetry:<\/p>\n And I am a flame dancing in love’s fire, Rumi believed that love of God transcends particular religions and nationalisties and that Moslems are by no means the only people to whom God has revealed himself. Rumi said that we should simply say ‘farewell’ to the ‘immature fanatics’ who scorn music and poetry. He cautioned that a beard or a mustache is no sign of wisdom – if anything, travel (the nomadic life) will bring wisdom.. Rumi was an ascetic, the opposite of a religious activist like Mohammed: He thought that men and women should shun politics and concentrate on discoveries of their inner selves. He favored the individual over the crowd and spoke often against tyranny, whether of the majority or the minority, When Rumi died in Konya on December 17, 1273, Christians, Jews, Arabs, and Turks poured forth from the surrounding countryside to mourn. They cried en masse and tore their clothes as a sign of grief. His tomb became a site of pilgrimage. In a part of the world associated with fanatics, he is one of history’s truly ecumenical figures.” — Robert Kaplan, “The Ends of the Earth”<\/i><\/p>\n “Rumi\u00ef\u00bf\u00bds spirituality is suffused by a sense of cosmic homelessness and separation from God, the divine source.\u00ef\u00bf\u00bd — Karen Armstrong<\/i><\/p>\n “Rumi is able to verbalize the highly personal and often confusing world of personal\/spiritual growth and mysticism in a very forward and direct fashion. He does not offend anyone, and he includes everyone. The world of Rumi is neither exclusively the world of a Sufi, nor the world of a Hindu, nor a Jew, nor a Christian; it is the highest state of a human being–a fully evolved human. A complete human is not bound by cultural limitations; he touches every one of us. Today Rumi’s poems can be heard in churches, synagogues, Zen monasteries, as well as in the downtown New York art\/performance\/music scene.” — Shahram Shiva<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Reed Flute’s Song – by Rumi Listen to the story told by the reed, of being separated, “Since I was cut from the reedbed, I have made this crying sound. Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I … Continue reading
\nIn the name of God the Most Merciful, and the Most Compassionate.
\nThis is the fourth journey toward home, toward where the great advantages are waiting for us. Reading it, mystics will feel very happy, as a meadow feels when it hears thunder, the good news of rain coming, as tired eyes look forward to sleeping. Joy for the spirit, health for the body. In here is what genuine devotion wants, refreshment, sweet fruit ripe enough for the pickiest picker, medicine, detailed directions on how to get to the Friend. All praise to God. Here is the way to renew connection with your soul, and rest from difficulties. The study of this book will be painful to those who feel separate from God. It will make the others grateful. In the hold of this ship is a cargo not found in the attractiveness of young women. Here is a reward for lovers of God. A full moon and an inheritance you thought you had lost are now returned to you. More hope for the hopeful, lucky finds for foragers, wonderful things thought of to do. Anticipation after depression, expanding after contraction. The sun comes out, and that light is what we give, in this book, to our spiritual descendants. Our gratitude to God holds them to us, and brings more besides. As the Andalusian poet, Adi al-Riga says,<\/p>\n
\nby a cool breeze, when suddenly a gray dove
\nfrom a thicket sang and sobbed with longing,
\nand reminded me of my own passion. <\/p>\n
\nso late-sleeping, but that dove’s crying
\nwoke me and made me cry. Praise<\/i>
\nto all early-waking grievers!<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\n— prose prayer at the beginning of Book IV of the “Mathnawi”, by Rumi<\/i><\/p>\n
\nThat flickering light in the depths of desire.
\nWouldst thou know the pain that severance breeds,
\nListen then to the strain of the reed.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n