One Seed of Grain

My body formed of clay is but the heart’s chalice,

My ideas thought out are but the heart’s new wine.

Knowledge, all of it, is a seed in the heart’s trap. 

This I say, but the message comes from the heart.

A free translation of Rūmī’s quatrain #260, Foruzanfar, ed.; 

pg 37 in Houshmand’s Moon and Sun; 

quatrain #1162 in Gamard’s The Quatrains of Rumi.

این شـکل سفالین تنم جـام دلست

واندیشـه پختـه ام مـی خام دلست

این دانـه دانش همگی دام دلست

این من گفتـــم ولـیک پیغام دلست

īn shekl-e sefālīn-e tanam jām-e delast

vandīsha-ye poxta am mē-ye xām-e delast

īn dāna-ye dānesh hamegī dām-e delast

īn man goftam valīk pēghām-e delast.

)Try your hand at reading the Persian words to get a feel for the sounds. The letters are pronounced as in Latin except for gh (a sound like a French r), x (like the Greek xi), and the short a as in “cat.” (

A literal translation:

This form of clay of my body is the cup of the heart.

And my mature thought is the raw wine of the heart.

This grain of knowledge entirely is the trap of the heart.

This I said, but [it] is the message of the heart.

This poem is a good follow-up of the poem in the last posting. Both are about the heart and about knowledge. What makes today’s poem different is the word dām [دام] “trap.”

There are all kinds of traps for all kinds of reasons—good and bad. Traps are for catching things you want to get rid of like mice or thieves or for catching things you want to keep like a rare butterfly or a lover. You’ll have to decide what kind of trap Rūmī is talking about.

What is the bait? A seed of grain dāna [دانه], in this case, a grain of dānesh [دانش], which means knowledge, even wisdom. Why knowledge? Is knowledge a pitfall? Does it sidetrack you on the way to the heart? Can it be used to eliminate those who are so blinded by knowledge that they are unfit, as unfit as new wine is to drink?

In the poem of the last posting, knowledge gained through book learning was put away. In this poem we must understand what book learning and rational thought can and cannot do for us on our journey. Along the way there are epistemological rabbit holes undreamed of by Alice. As interesting as any of these might be, they are traps, I think, for we are not dealing with logical arguments here. We are dealing with mysticism, where logic and our knowledge of this world are no longer useful. This is difficult stuff and perhaps Rūmī is showing us how to understand this stuff not with our minds but with our hearts To do this, he uses the music of his words, the hypnotic effect of repeated syllables and sounds, of that aspect of our soul that blooms with the perfume of song.

After the Fire

As soon as my heart was set ablaze by your love,

Everything I owned turned to ash but love for you.

Learning, lessons, books, all of it put on a high shelf,

For I became open to poetry and the music of words. 

A free translation of Rūmī’s quatrain #616, Foruzanfar, ed.; 

pg 36 in Houshmand’s Moon and Sun; 

quatrain #2 in Gamard’s The Quatrains of Rumi.

 

تـا در دل مــن عشق تو افروختــه شــد

جز عشق تو هر چه داشتم سوخته شد

عـقل و سـبـق و کـــتاب بــر طاق نــهاد

شـعـر و غـزل و دوبــیتــی آموختـــه شد

Tā dar del-e man eshq-e to afrūxta shod,

joz eshq-e to har che dāshtam sūxta shod.

Aqal ō sabaq ō ketāb bar tāq nehād.

She’r ō ghaz(z)al ō do bētī āmūxta shod.

A literal translation:

Since in my heart love for you blazed up,

Except for love for you everything I had was burned.

It put intelligence and lessons and books away.

Poems and odes and quatrains were learned.

For the past several weeks I have translated Rūmī’s quatrains into Latin. There were two reasons—maybe three: I wanted to show how Latin poetry was like Persian poetry, I wanted to see if I could do it, and finally I thought it would be fun. 

Well, it has been fun, but it has been time-consuming. I am no poet in Latin. So, for the time being, I’ll continue translating Rūmī’s quatrains—but into English.

Although the translating was time-consuming, I did learn a lot about Latin and Persian poetry. More than that, I learned how I might go about appreciating Latin poetry. In other words, having attempted to Latinē canere, I have a better feel for what Horace or Virgil or Catullus did. This may sound odd from one who started a blog about Horace’s odes over thirteen years ago, but it shouldn’t. Thirteen years ago was the start of this journey, and translating the quatrains has been one more step in the direction of understanding the beauty of Latin poetry.

Poetry, as I have said over the many blog postings, is probably one of the most difficult art forms to appreciate, especially if the poetry is not from your native language. It doesn’t matter where a painting comes from or a piece of music or a sculpture. One can appreciate it with little training. But poetry in a foreign language requires hours of study and throws up huge barriers, impenetrable but to the stalwart willing to ascend the steepest of all learning curves: competence in a foreign language.

But now, let me say a few words about today’s quatrain. It’s not difficult to understand. All Rūmī is saying that once he has the love of his friend, nothing else matters. His life changes and he sees it as a lyrical passing of the days: books have no meaning, but the music of poets speaks to his heart.

I will mention that Houshmand has a different first line. Instead of afrūxta shod [افروخته شد] “was kindled or blazed up,” she has andūxta shod  [اندوخته شد] “was filled up.” It seems that Houshmand used a different text, one that is reflected on the website ganjoor.net. 

Finally the third line doesn’t have a clear subject. Gamard says that it is the heart that put book-learning aside. Houshmand turns the sentence into the passive voice and mentions no subject. Perhaps, it is what happened in the first two lines that is the subject of the third line.

Drunk

Doctōrī ēbrius meō ōlim dīxī,

“Dē quō nōn est et est fac ut cognoscam.”

Responsum mī tum dedit et dīxit, “Abī;

Turbā cūrās tuās tene et tūtus sīs.”

Translation of Rūmī’s quatrain #1675, Foruzanfar, ed.; 

pg 31 in Houshmand’s Moon and Sun; 

quatrain #1640 in Gamard’s The Quatrains of Rumi.

See blog entry for October 31, 2021 about Latin and Persian poetry. 

استاد مــرا بـگفتم اندر مستی

کاگاهـم کن ز نیستی و هستی

او داد مــرا جــواب گفتا کـه برو

رنج تو ز خلق دور دار و رستی

Ostād-e marā begoftam andar mastī

kāgāham kon ze nīstī vō hastī

ū dād marā jevāb goftā ke borō

ranj-ē to ze xalq dūr dār ō rastī

I told my teacher in drunkenness,

“Make me aware of not-being and being.”

He gave me an answer and said, “Go,

Keep your troubles far from people and you are safe.”

This poem is fairly straighforward, until we get to the last line, which is close-fisted. Close-fisted because it refuses to give up its meaning. Gamard [pg. 510] translates the line as “Keep your harmfulness far from the people and you will gain salvation.” He further claims that this is a paraphrase of one of the sayings of Muhammad about good Muslims not harming other Muslims in word and in deed. Houshmand [pg. 31] bases her translation on a variation of the last line which inserts the word “if” and eliminates “your.”

گـر رنـج ز خلق دور داری رستــی

gar ranj ze xolq dūr dārī rastī

[Literally, if trouble from the people you hold far, you are free.]

Houshmand’s translation is: “Relieve the suffering of the world and you’ll be free.”

Because Houshmand’s text is different, I have nothing to say. But for the text from the editor Foruzanfar—there is room for some discussion. 

The discussion centers around ranj-e to [رنج تو] “your trouble” and rastī [رستی] “you are free.” Ranj means anything from “affliction, distress, suffering” to “torture” and may be etymologically related to our word “languid.” Rastī means “you are free” or “safe” or “you have escaped.” Its distant English cousin may be “rest,” as in “at rest.” The question is two-fold: how do you keep your affliction far from others and why do you want to do so? Is the answer to keep silent so that you won’t be bothered? Or is the answer to keep silent so that your problems don’t interfer with your dealings with other people? In this way you are free to do charitable acts. Gamard and Houshmand might say yes, but I find it hard to go beyond the simple meaning of the words: keep your problem far from people and you are free/safe. Free to do what? Safe to do what? Safe from what? As you can see, I have no answers. The meaning is up to you.

A free translation:

To my teacher I was like all high,

“Clue me in on being and non-being.”

He answered and said, “Go on now,

“Don’t be telling your troubles. You’re free.”

Tongues of Fire

Quī mē in flammās imposuit terrārum,

Centum linguās ignis in linguā posuit.

Cum circum mē ūreret ignis passim,

Suspīrium traxī, posuitque ōre manum.

Translation of Rūmī’s quatrain #452, Foruzanfar, ed.; 

pg 31 in Houshmand’s Moon and Sun; 

quatrain #638 in Gamard’s The Quatrains of Rumi.

See blog entry for October 31, 2021 about Latin and Persian poetry. 

آن کـس کـه بــر آتــش جهانــم نهاد

صد گونـــه زبانــــه بـــر زبانم نهاد

چون شش جهتم شعله آتش بگرفت

آه کردم و دست بـــر دهانــم نــهاد

ān kas ke bar ātash-e jehānam nehād

sad gūna zabāna bar zabānam nehād

chon shash jehatam shole ātash begereft

Ā kardam o dast bar dehānam nehād

The one who put me in the fire of the world,

Put a hundred tongues [of fire] on my tongue.

When in six directions the fire’s flames caught me,

I sighed and he put a hand on my mouth.

What a wonderful description of ecstacy! Someone comes and lights my heart on fire. I sigh to let the smoke and flames out, but he covers my mouth. The question is: why does he cover my mouth?

Gamard in his The Quatrains of Rumi refers the reader to his notes on annihilation, suggesting that in the evolution of the Sūfī toward sublimation to the Divine Will, there are necessary stages of self annihilation. First one must identify with the master. After this one turns to Muhammad and finally submits as completely as one can in this life to God. Thus the hand over the mouth, the shutting down of the individual will.  It is as if Rūmī is being told to shut up, and the allusion to his pen name of Khamūsh (quiet, silence) seems clear. It is as if the poet were telling himself, “All right, you are on fire, but stop talking and listen to what is happening around you and get ready for what will happen next.”

Here are some lines from two of Rūmī’s ghazzals (ode-like poems) that bring home this point:

basta konam man īn do lab tā ke cherāgh-e rūz o shab 

ham be zabāne zabān gūyad bā shomā  

بسته کنم من این دو لب تا که چراغ روز و شب  

 هــم بـــه زبانــــه زبان گویــــد قصـــه با شـــما

I’ve closed my two lips so that the lamp of day and night

Also with tongue[s] of fire may tell you stories.

[ganjoor.net, ghazzal #45]

Chū hama xāne del rā begereft ātash-e bālā

bovad ezhār-e zabāna beh az ezhār-e zabānī

چو همه خانه دل را بگرفت آتش بالا

بود اظهار زبانـه به از اظهار زبانی

When the entire house of [your] heart blazes high,

the sight of tongues [of fire] would be better than the sight of a tongue.

[ganjoor.net #2816]

The notion of flames and tongues of fire in this poem needs some explanation. Zabān [زبان] “tongue” and “language” are linguistic cousins. After thousands of years of sound change they may not look like they’re related, but they all come from these ancestors: dinghw, dngu. Change the ancient d to t and “tongue” pops into view. Change it again to l and “lingual” and “language”  come out of hiding. 

The word zabāna [زبانه] also means “tongue” but implies “tongue of fire” or “flame.” To Christians and Jews, this is a metaphor of God’s power and to Christians, in particular, a symbol of the Holy Spirit. Rūmī may be using zabāna in more than its literal sense as a way of reinforcing the ecstatic imagery but this is hard to tell. He does, however, use the word zabāna over thirty times in his poetry. Usually the meaning is simply “flame,” but there are several instances where Rūmī seems to mean “tongue of fire” as in the lines quoted above. 

A free translation:

He laid me within the flames of this world.

On my tongue he put a hundred tongues of fire.

When all around—up, down, left, and right—was aflame,

I gasped, I sighed, and upon my mouth he laid his hand.

A Night without the Dawn

Noctū vēnit amīcus affābiliter

Noctī iubeō ne dīcat arcāna mea

Nox dīxit “pēs et caput aspectā mē;

Est sōl tibi, ut afferam ad te aurōram?”

Translation of Rūmī’s quatrain #1186, Foruzanfar, ed.; 

pg 30 in Houshmand’s Moon and Sun; 

quatrain #699 in Gamard’s The Quatrains of Rumi.

See blog entry for October 31, 2021 about Latin and Persian poetry. 

 

Last night out of a fount of kindness my beloved had come.

I told Night, “Do not divulge my secrets.”

Night said, “Look behind and in front then;

“You have the sun, how would I bring the morning?”

dūsh āmāda būd az sar-e lotfī yāram

shab rā goftam fāsh makon asrāram

shab goft pas ō pīsh nega kon āxer

xorshīd to dārī ze kojā sobh āram

دوش آمــده بود از سـر لطفی یارم

شــب را گفتــم فاش مـکن اسـرارم

شب گفت پس و پـیش نگه کن آخر

خورشید تو داری ز کجا صبح آرم

 

A night without dawn might seem a bleak thought, one devoid of hope, in other words, an unimaginable hell. But in this poem, Rūmī describes instead a nightless night, one where a different kind of sun shines, where, by the very meaning of “nightless” there is no dawn. “How am I,” asks Night, “who am defined by day, able to bring you morning, because you hold the sun?”

What sun is this? This sun is, I think, the illumination that comes through meditation or communion with the beloved, with God, or, in this case, perhaps with his teacher and mentor Shams-e Tabrīzī, whose name when translated becomes ‘The Sun of the City of Tabrīz.’ (Tabrīz is a city in northwestern Iran, a major stopover along the silk road in Rūmī’s time. Shams is an Arabic word for the sun (شمس)—actually a word with deep Semitic roots, which “blooms” in the Hebrew name Samson, “little sun,” Shimshon שמשון).

Through this illumination or awareness come answers to eternal secrets. Rūmī is then worried that the night might divulge these secrets, but the night allays his fears by saying that it cannot bring the dawn. Only the sun can bear such illumination.

A free translation:

My friend had come out of kindness the night before.

So I told the night, “Don’t you tell my secrets.”

But it said, “Just take a good look at me.

You’ve got the sun, how could I bring the dawn?”

I Gave My Love a Cherry

In turbō nōs diū morātī sumus at

Illīs fide nec color fuit necque odor

Turbae lateāmus rectius nōs esset,

Tamquam ignis in saxō et in ferrō lux.

Translation of Rūmī’s quatrain #1075, Foruzanfar, ed.; 

pg 29 in Houshmand’s Moon and Sun; 

quatrain #119 in Gamard’s The Quatrains of Rumi.

See blog entry for October 31, 2021 about Latin and Persian poetry. 

 

یـک چــند مـیان خـلق کـردیــم درنگ

زیشان بـه وفا نـه بوی دیدیم نـه رنگ

آن بــه که نهان شـویــم از دیده خلق

چون آب در آهن و چو آتش در سنگ

yak chand mīyān-e xolq kardim darang

zīshān be vafā na būī dīdīm na rang

ān beh ke nehān shavīm az dīde-e xolq 

chon āb dar āhan ō cho ātash dar sang

We tarried some days among the people.

We saw with fidelity neither smell nor color from them.

It would be better for us to hide from the sight of people.

Like water in iron and like fire in stone.

In reading this four-line poem, I thought of the traditional Appalachian song, the riddle song about stone-less cherries, bone-less chickens, endless stories, and tear-less babies, because Rūmī has presented us with something similar: people without smell or color and iron containing water and stones fire. 

Smell and color in Persian suggest faithfulness, love, and sincerity, as in the expression būye yak rangī [بوی یک رنگی], literally “a smell of one color.” Rūmī reinforces this idea with the word vafā [وفا], which means promise, fidelity, and sincerity. Often this word is contrasted with jafā [جفا]: cruelty, oppression. This might give you an idea how untrustworthy and cruel a crowd without smell and color can be and why Rūmī advises fellow Sufis to go into hiding.

Here we come to the second riddle. How can water be in iron or fire in stone? Like the Appalachian song, the answer lies in their potential. Iron can be polished so that it gleams like water and reflects like a mirror. Similarly, strike one stone against another and you will see a spark. Add tinder and you will have fire.

I don’t know what exactly Rūmī has in mind here. Is he saying that the mystic has hidden qualities and potential that are best kept from the masses? Or is he saying that the people aren’t worthy of the splendor and gleam of the mystics, that they can’t see their potential and that they wouldn’t understand it even if they saw it, even if the mystics unleashed their powers? I have no answers, just questions.

Here is a free translation:

We spent some time with the people

No faithfulness there, evaporated, faded

Best to avoid them and go into hiding

Like the gleam in iron, the fire in stone.

I Can’t

Arcāna ego ēmittere iam nōn possum.

Dignē tum ea āmittere iam nōn possum.

Est in mē quod tenet mihī gaudium, sed

Ad hoc digitum intendere numquam possum

Translation of Rūmī’s quatrain #1236, Foruzanfar, ed.; 

pg 28 in Houshmand’s Moon and Sun; 

quatrain #815 in Gamard’s The Quatrains of Rumi.

See blog entry for October 31, 2021 about Latin and Persian poetry. 

اسرار ز دست داد مـی نتوانم

اورا بـه ســزا گـشاد مـی نـتوانــم

چیزیست درونم که مرا خوش دارد

انگشت بــرو نـهاد مـی نـتوانــــــم

asrār z dast dād mī natvānam

ūrā be sazā goshād mī natvānam

chīzīst darūnam ke marā xosh dārad 

angosht barū nehād mī natvānam

The secrets—I can’t let them slip out

Them—I can’t rightly open them up

There’s something inside me that keeps me happy

I can’t put a finger on it.

The first line seems to mean “He gave out secrets, but I can’t.” But this would be wrong, for the line is archaic in structure and literally means: secrets from the hand give I can’t, i.e., I can’t give secrets out. In modern Persian, the phrase “I can’t give” is usually  rendered like this: namītavānam bedeham [نمیتوانم بدهم]. But here Rūmī chose to use  [1] a so-called “short infinitive” (dād [داد]) for “give,” [2] an archaic negation which reverses namī to mīna, and [3] to syncopate, i.e. shorten, tavānam to tvāmam. The result is dād mī natvānam, both ancient in structure and poetic in feeling.

The meaning of the quatrain is fairly evident. However, there is one small word ū [او], which is a bit out of focus. It means—well—“he, she, it.” It appears in the second line in an oblique case ūrā [ اورا] and in the fourth line as the object of the preposition bar “on”: barū [برو]. When so used ū becomes about as slippery as the Latin eī, eum, or eō. We don’t know if the reference is to human beings or things or abstract ideas. What complicates things even more is the fact that sometimes in Persian (and in Latin as well) plural nouns can be refered to in the singular. All this means is that we don’t really know if the second line should be

I can’t open [them] for him or I can’t open them.

Similarly, the fourth line could be:

I can’t put a finger on it or I can’t show [it] to him.

It seems to me that unlike the translators Houshmand and Gamard, it would be best to leave “him” out of it, and thus my translation slips and slides to what is simple and so I translate ū as “them” or "it," as the case may be.

Finally, it is worth drawing attention to the word xosh [خوش] in line three. Most often it means “happy” or “good,” but it also had an archaic meaning of “beautiful.” This adds another dimension to line 3, for it says that there is something beautiful inside that is part of the secret of just plain being.

 Here is a free translation:

I can’t let the secrets slip out; I just can’t.

I can’t open them up; no, I can’t.

There’s something beautiful inside me. 

I cannot pin it down; I really can't.