sunday bear: rumi

“Laura” by Pam Wooley (antique lace collar, distressed mohair, 1988)



Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round
in another form. The child weaned from mother’s milk
now drinks wine and honey mixed.

God’s joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,
from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flowerbed.
As roses, up from ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these,
till one day it cracks them open.

Part of the self leaves the body when we sleep
and changes shape. You might say, “Last night
I was a cypress tree, a small bed of tulips,
a field of grapevines.” Then the phantasm goes away.
You’re back in the room.
I don’t want to make anyone fearful.
Hear what’s behind what I say.

Tatatumtum tatum tatadum.
There’s the light gold of wheat in the sun
and the gold of bread made from that wheat.
I have neither. I’m only talking about them,

as a town in the desert looks up
at stars on a clear night.

~ from The Essential Rumi translated by Coleman Barks with John Moyne (Harper San Francisco, 1995)


♥ This week’s Sunday Bear Hug is brought to you by your loyal friend Cornelius, who wants you to have the stars.



Copyright © 2012 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

friday feast: a meditation (rumi)

 “Window to the Heart” mandala by blue_sea_art.

In the depths of winter, I think about Spring.

There is a faint stirring underfoot.

I’ve been practicing “no mind.” This is a secret all you poets already know. To move beyond attentiveness, listening — to a state of attunement.

Can you hear the song, the airy silence?

Absorb the ground and sky, its fragrance.

Honor what unfolds from within, dissolve in your bliss.


by Jelaluddin Rumi

Don’t worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn’t matter.

We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.

The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmosphere,
and even if the whole world’s harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.

So the candle flickers and goes out,
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.

This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.

Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!

They derive from a slow and powerful root
that we can’t see.

Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Have a beautiful weekend!

The Poetry Friday Roundup is being hosted today by Lee Wind at I’m Here. I’m Queer. What the Hell do I Read?

The morning wind spreads its fresh smell.
We must get up and take that in,
that wind that lets us live.
Breathe before it’s gone.

Dance, when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you’re perfectly free.

~ from The Essential Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks and John Moyne (Harper, 1995).

Copyright © 2010 Jama Rattigan of jama rattigan’s alphabet soup. All rights reserved.

friday feast: let the beauty we love be what we do

~ This post especially for cloudscome at A Wrung Sponge, with love, hugs, and healing thoughts.

      photo by NBeuscher

Seems for most of my adult life, Rumi’s poetry was always there, gracing beautiful leather bound journals, appearing in a calligrapher’s hand, shared among friends whenever there was a need for comfort, inspiration, or spiritual guidance.

I remember seeing a PBS special about well-known Rumi translator, Coleman Barks, a long time ago. I ran out immediately and bought a couple of Rumi volumes, and from time to time, I go through them and marvel anew at all the wisdom, beauty, insight, and passion contained in his words.

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