Rumi is the most read poet of our time. His poetry is read more then Shakespeare and Dante combined. Perhaps the most revered of Sufi Poets, Rumi was the inspiration for the sect in the west known as the "whirling dervishes," who imitate his ecstatic dancing. Rumi's poems were often created spontaneously as he danced and were copied down by his disciples.
The general theme of his poetry was the concept of Tawhid-or Unity. Union with the Beloved... Rumi has composed tens of thousands of Poems. Among his works are countless aphorisms as well as epic poetry.
I was introduced at Retreats and classes with Tim Miller and Richard Freeman. Two Teacher's that I consider and Honor as my Teacher's. The parallel between Rumi's poetry and Yoga is clear to me! What you "get out of" Rumi's poetry is personal and based on your life experience! Either way I hope something touches you enough to look deeper.
Lovers drink wine all day and night and tear the veils of the mind.
When drunk with love’s wine body, heart and soul become one.
The way of love is not a subtle argument. The door there is devastation.
Birds make great sky-circles of their freedom.
How do they learn it?
They fall, and falling, they’re given wings.
I am happy tonight, united with the Friend.
Free from the pain of separation, I whirl and dance with the beloved.
I tell my heart, “Do not worry, the key to morning I’ve thrown away.”
The Master who’s full of sweetness is so drunk with love, he’s oblivious.
“Will you give me some of your sweetness?”
“I have none,” he says, unaware of his richness.
The birds have flown to freedom, the cage lies empty.
Your happy sons bring to me the scent of heaven.
Please keep singing.
QUIETNESS
Inside this new love, die. Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky. Take an axe to the prison wall. Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You’re covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die, and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign that you’ve died.
Your old life was a frantic running from silence.
The speechless full moon comes out now.
WHERE EVERYTHING IS MUSIC
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,
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.
THE REED FLUTE’S SONG
Listen to the story told by the reed, of being separated. “Since I was cut from the reed bed
I have made this crying sound. Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I say:
Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back. At any gathering I am there,
mingling in the laughing and grieving, a friend to each, but few will
hear the secrets hidden within the notes. No ears for that.
Body flowing out of spirit, spirit up from body: no concealing
that mixing. But it’s not given us to see the soul. The reed flute
is fire, not wind. Be that empty.”
Hear the love-fire tangled in the reed notes, as bewilderment melts into wine. The reed is a friend
to all who want the fabric torn and drawn away. The reed is hurt and salve combining. Intimacy
and longing for intimacy, one song. A disastrous surrender and a fine love, together.
BLOSSOMING
Sunlight spreads over a face in the shadows Like the flower of truth beginning to unfold.
Looking at my life
I see that only Love has been my soul’s companion.
From deep inside my soul cries out: Do not wait, surrender for the sake of Love.
Be thirsty heart, seek forever without a rest.
Let this soundless longing hidden deep inside you
be the source of every word you say.
A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot. where it's being boiled. "Why are you doing this to me?"
The cook knocks him down with the ladle. "Don't you try to jump out. you think I am torturing you.
I'm giving you flavor, so you can mix with the spices and rice and be the lovely vitality of a human being.
Remember when you drank rain in the garden?
That was for this." Grace first sexual pleasure. Then a boiling new life begins,
and the Friend has something good to eat. Eventually the chickpea will say to the Cook, "Boil me some more.
Hit me with the skimming spoon. I can't do this by myself. I'm like an elephant that dreams of gardens back in Hindustan and doesn't pay attention to his driver. You're my cook, my driver, my way into existence.
I love your cooking." The Cook says, "I was once like you, fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time, and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings.
My animal soul grew powerful. I controlled it with practices, and boiled some more, and boiled once beyond that, and became your teacher."
Breath is central to Yoga because it is central to life... and Yoga is about Life
--- T Kris