Tē Amō vel Mē Amās

In tē amore aestuat furenter pontus

Cōram tē margarīta fundit nimbus

In tē amore īcit terram et aequor fulmen

Ad caelum sīc surrigit et hīc fūmus

Translation of Rūmī’s quatrain #559, Foruzanfar, ed.; 

pg 16 in Houshmand’s Moon and Sun; 

quatrain # 1579 in Gamard’s The Quatrains of Rumi.

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

Love is not always mutual. You may love someone but are not loved in return. Expressing the exact relationship between lover and beloved is somewhat challenging, especially in Persian poetry, where the words

عشقِ تو

eshq-e to,

literally ‘love of you’ or ‘your love’ might also mean ‘love for you.’ This ambiguity is quite apparent in today’s quatrain, which begins with

از عشقِ تو دریا همه شور انگیزد

az eshq-e to daryā hama shūr angīzad.

Zara Houshmand in her Moon and Sun [Amrevan Books, 2020] translates eshq-e to as ‘your love.’ Ibrahim Gamard and Rawan Farhadi in their The Quatrains of Rumi [Sufi Dari Books, 2008] translate eshq-e to as ‘love for You.’

The entire line literally means: from eshq-e to, all the sea is disturbed. So, does your love cause the sea to be in tumult or is it love for you that disturbs the sea?  If it is God’s love then we enter a theological discussion about the meaning of love in the Qur’ān, where love and mercy and forgiveness are part of the definition of Allāh and how His love could so affect the sea. But if it is my love for God, then I might say that it is strong enough to set the entire sea into violent motion. Maybe Rūmī is not talking about God and love but about his deep friendship with his teacher and spiritual leader Shams-e Tabrīzī. I will let you decide. 

But my take is that it is Rūmī who is passionately in love and it is this passion that he compares to a stormy sea. I even have half a mind to translate this opening line as:

Tantum tē dīligō, ut aestuet aequor

I so love you that the sea rages.

But perhaps this is going a bit far.

One small note before we leave this first line—and this is what makes poetry so complex—the word شور shūr not only means ‘commotion,’ ‘revolt,’ but also ‘salty’!

The next two lines continue to give the magnitude of this love and are straightforward:

در پای تو ابرها درر می ریزد

dar pāye to abrhā darar mīrīzad

at your feet, clouds pearls pour

از عشق تو برقی به زمین افتادست

az eshq-e to barqī be zamīn oftādast

out of love for you, lightning to the ground has fallen

The last line presents us with a puzzle, however.

این دود به\در آسمان از آن می خیزد

īn dūd be/dar āsemān az ān mīxīzad

It says “this smoke to the sky, from that it rises.’  What smoke? Where does it come from? Houshmand declares this to be dark smoke rising and a burning fire.’ Gamard and Farhadi say simply that smoke rises because of it. Neither of these translations clarifies or attempts to tell us what is behind such a statement about smoke. 

The answer, I think, comes from the metaphorical use of the word ‘smoke.’ دود dūd, ‘smoke’ is used in the expression دودِ دل dūd-e del, literally ‘smoke of the heart,’ and refers to a deep sigh either out of passion or cavernous sadness. To a Persian, the heart burns with the fire of love or depression. Thus the smoke. This last line is then a culmination of the emotional states expressed in the foregoing lines: love for you has burned up my insides. There is only the smoke now that rises heavenward.  I might add here that the Latin vapor was used in a similar way. It means not only ‘steam’ but to Vergil ’smoke’ and to Lucretius ‘exhalation,’ and finally to Seneca the ‘ardor of love.’

With a little fiddling with the second and third lines we might be able to use vapor:

Tantum tē dīligō, ut aestuet aequor

Tantum tē dīligō, ut īcat fulgor

Cōram tē margarīta fundit nimbus

Ad caelum sīc surrigit et iste vapor

Here are my two English translations of this quatrain:

I so love you that the sea rages

At your feet, the clouds pour pearls

I so love you that lightning strikes

So skyward rises too this smoke.

Out of love for you the see rages

At your feet, the clouds pour pearls

Out of love for you, lightning strikes

And so heavenward this smoke arises

 The Voice

Sit vōx tua semper ūna cum mente meā.

Nocte et die fīat ēloquēns et laeta.

Sī vōx tua dēfessa sit īdem sīmus,

Nunc vōx tua ceu canna canat melliflua.

Translation of Rūmī’s quatrain #4, Foruzanfar, ed.

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

We record the sound of everyone’s voice in our head and without too much trouble can tell who it is on the other end of the line, friend or stranger. But some voices—and let me be poetic—seem to be stamped on the heart: the voice of your mother or father, your lover, your most hated foe. And, if you are one of those very special people, the voice of God? I honestly don’t know whose voice Rūmī has in mind in today’s quatrain. Is it his friend’s, Shams-e Tabrīzī, or is it God’s? 

Here is the first line of today’s quatrain with one word طبع tab’ left untranslated for the time being, mainly because I can’t decide what the word means:

آواز ترا طبع دل ما بادا

āvāz-e torā tab’ -e del-ē mā  bādā

For your voice, may there be a tab’ of my heart.

Tab’ , it turns out, contains these main ideas:

stamp impression likeness temperament nature

The word ‘likeness’ seems to be central. A stamp creates the same likeness over and over. A person’s character is likened to outside as well as inside forces. In other words, it is molded by nature and nuture. 

Because Latin does not have a word that encompasses the meanings of tab’, I have made two translations of the first line. The first translation is a wish that the voice be like my heart. 

Sit vōx tua semper ūna cum mente meā.

May your voice always be one with my heart.

In this translation it is hard to understand whether the heart is to be like the voice or the voice the heart. The second translation is based on the meaning of ‘stamp, impression’ and seems to show what the relationship is between the voice and my heart.

Impōnet vōx tua in meum cor stigma.

May your voice mark my heart.

 Stigma, however, may be too strong, for it can mean a ‘brand,’ an identifying mark burned into animals as well as slaves. This notion of branding is not uncommon in Sufi poetry: 

مگر که بر رخ من داغ عشق می بینی

magar bar rox-e man dāgh-e eshq mībīnī

fortasse in faciē stigma amōris aspectās

perhaps you see the brand of love on my face 

(Rūmī, ghazzal 224, Foruzanfar, ed.)

But here Rūmī doesn’t use the word tab’. Instead he uses  داغ dāgh. Dagh is a searing brand. Tab’, on the other hand, is a bit more subtle in meaning and certainly less violent. Perhaps, in today’s poem, all that Rūmī is hoping for is that his heart be affected by the voice. The voice stamps the heart with words. If the heart is soft enough, open enough, the impression made will remain.

The rest of the quatrain helps to bring things into focus. Put simply: if the voice is happy, my heart will be happy.

اندر شب و روز شاد و گویا بادا

andar shab o rūz shād o gūyā bādā

آواز تو گر خسته شود خسته شویم

āvāz-e to gar xaste shavad xaste shavīm

آواز تو چون نای شکر خا بادا 

āvaz-e to chun nāye shakar-xā bādā

Nocte et die fīat ēloquēns et laeta.

Sī vōx tua dēfessa sit īdem sīmus,

Nunc vōx tua ceu canna canat melliflua*.

Literally in Latin:

Night and day, may it become eloquent and joyous.

If your voice tires, may I tire also.

May your voice now sing like a flute mellifluous.

The third line centers around the word خسته [xasta], with a wide range of meanings: wounded, tired, sick, beaten, jaded, and worn out. I suppose the exact meaning is not as important as the implication: I will be affected by what you say and how you say it. Here we see the potency of the voice. The voice, using intonation and intensity, can wound the listener. It can also subvert meaning  and turn a word like ‘good’ into ‘bad,’ ‘bad’ into ‘good.’ Sarcasm, joy, flippancy, disgust, envy—and here ‘fatigue’—are all tools at the disposal of the voice. Your lover may say reassuring words but the voice will either confirm or betray that sincerity. 

The last line speaks of the voice as if it were a reed flute, not just any flute, but a sweet-sounding (in Persian sugar-gnawing) one, perhaps one made of sugar cane. This comparison between voice and reed recalls the famous opening lines of Rūmī’s Masnavī (مثنوی), a six volume treatise in verse filled with the philosophy of Sufism told in a series of parables.  Here are those opening lines, which suggest that the entire work is the soulful sound of the reed flute. (the meter: — · —  —  —  ·  — — — · —)

بشنو این نی چون شکایت می کند

از جدایی ها حکایت میکند

کز نیستان تا مرا بریده اند

در نفیرم مرد و زن نالیده اند

beshno īn nē chon shekāyat mīkonad   

az jodāyīhā hekāyat mīkonad

kaz nēstān tā marā borīda and

dar nafīram mard o zan nālīda and

Hear this reed when it complains;

It tells stories of separation.

Since they cut it from reed bank,

Men and women have lamented with my flute

auribus cannae querēlās imbibe

fābulās disiunctiōnis narrat et

secta cannētō sum; ex illō diē

cum meā plōrent dolentēs fistulā 

Finally, here is today’s quatrain more freely translated:

Let your voice impress my heart

Let it be night and day eloquent and gay

Should it waiver, I will waiver.

Now, let it be a flute as sweet as cane.

*Latin poets shied away from alliteration. Perhaps I should change canat to sonet.