POETRY: Rumi mysticism - Sufi

Sufi masters are those whose spirits existed 

before the world. Before the body, 

they lived many lifetimes.
Before seeds went into the ground,
they harvested wheat. 

Before there was an ocean, they strung pearls. 

While the great meeting was going on 

about bringing human beings into existence, 

they stood up to their chins in wisdom-water.
 

When some of the angels opposed creation, 

the Sufi masters laughed and clapped 

among themselves.
Before materiality, 

they knew what it was like to be trapped 

inside matter.
Before there was a night sky, 

they saw Saturn.
Before wheat grains, they tasted bread.
With no mind, they thought. 

Immediate intuition to them is the simplest act, 

what to others would be epiphany.

Much of our thought is of the past or the future. 

They’re free of those.
Before a mine is dug, they judge coins.
Before vineyards, they know the excitements to come.
In July they feel December.
In unbroken sunlight, they find shade.
In fana, the state where objects dissolve,
they recognize things and comment rationally.

The open sky drinks from their circling cup.
The sun wears the gold of their generosity.
When two of them meet, they are no longer two.
They are one and six hundred thousand.
The ocean waves are their closest likeness,
when wind makes from unity 

the numerous.

 This happened to the sun and it 

broke into rays through the window, into bodies. 

The disc of the sun does exist, but if you see 

only the ray-bodies, you may have doubts. 

The human-divine combinations are a oneness. 

Plurality, the apparent separation into rays.

Friend, we’re traveling together.
Throw off  your tiredness.
Let me show you one tiny spot 

of the beauty that can’t be spoken.
I’m like an ant that’s gotten into the granary, 

ludicrously happy, and trying to lug out 

a grain that’s way too big.

A Sufi was wandering the world.

One night he came as a guest to a community of Sufis.

He tied up his donkey in the stable

and then was welcomed to the head of the dais.

They went into deep meditation and mystical communion,

he and these friends. For such people

a person's presence is more to learn from

than a book. A Sufi's book is not composed

with ink and alphabet. A scholar loves, and lives on,

the marks of a pen. A Sufi loves footprints!

He sees those and stalks his game. At first, he sees

the clues. After a time he can follow the scent.

To go guided by fragrance is a hundred times better

than following tracks. A person who is opening

to the divine is like a door to a Sufi.

What might appear a worthless stone

to others, to him's a pearl. You see your image

clearly in a mirror. A sheikh sees more than that

in a discarded brick. Sufi masters are those

whose spirits existed before the world.

Before the body, they lived many lifetimes.

Before seeds went into the ground, they harvested wheat.

Before there was an ocean, they strung pearls.

While the great meeting was going on about bringing

human beings into existence, they stood up to their chins

in wisdom water. When some of the angels opposed

creation, the Sufi sheikhs laughed and clapped

among themselves. Before materiality, they knew

what it was like to be trapped inside matter.

Before there was a nightsky, they saw Saturn.

Before wheat grains, they tasted bread.

With no mind, they thought.

Immediate intuition to them is the simplest act

of consciousness, what to others would be epiphany.

Much of our thought is of the past, or the future.

They're free of those. Before a mine is dug,

they judge coins. Before vineyards,

they know the excitements to come.

In July, they feel December.

In unbroken sunlight, they find shade. In fana,

the state where all objects dissolve,

they recognize objects. The open sky drinks

from their circling cup. The sun wears

the gold of their generosity.

When two of them meet, they are no longer two.

They are one and six hundred thousand.

The ocean waves are their closest likeness,

when wind makes, from unity, the numerous.

This happened to the sun, and it broke into rays

through the window, into bodies.

The disc of the sun does exist, but if you see

only the ray-bodies, you may have doubts.

The human-divine combination is a oneness.

Plurality, the apparent separation into rays.

Friend, we're traveling together.

Throw off your tiredness. Let me show you

one tiny spot of the beauty that cannot be spoken.

I'm like an ant that's gotten into the granary,

ludicrously happy, and trying to lug out

a grain that's way too big.

We tremble, thinking we’re about to dissolve 

into nonexistence, but nonexistence 

fears even more that it might be given human form! 

Loving God is the only pleasure. Other delights 

turn bitter. What hurts the soul? 

To live without tasting the water of its own essence. 

People focus on death and this material earth. 

They have doubts about soul water. 

Those doubts can be reduced! Use night 

to wake your clarity. Darkness and the living water 

are lovers. Let them stay up together. 

When merchants eat their big meals 

and sleep their dead sleep, 

we night-thieves go to work

    

Keep walking,
though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings.
Move within,
But don't move the way fear makes you move.
We are the mirror as well as the face of it.
We are tasting the taste this minute of eternity.
We are pain and what cures pain, both.
We are the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
I want to hold you close like a lute,
so that we can cry out with loving.
Would you rather throw stones at a mirror?
I am your mirror and here are the stones.

Hiding is the hidden purpose 

of creation. Bury your seed 

and wait. After you die, all 

the thoughts you had will 

throng around like children. 

The heart is the secret inside 

the secret. Call the secret 

language and never be sure 

what you conceal. It’s unsure 

people who get the blessing. 

Climbing jasmine, opening rose, 

nightingale song, these are 

inside the chill November 

wind. They are its secret. 

How did you discover mine? 

Your laugh. Only the soul 

knows what love is. This 

moment in time and space is 

an eggshell with an embryo 

crumpled inside, soaked in 

spirit-yolk, under the wing 

of grace, until it breaks free 

of mind to become the song 

of birds and their breathing. 

Spiritual experience is a modest woman

who looks lovingly at one man.

It’s a great river where ducks live

happily, and crows drown. The visible

bowl of form contains food that is both

nourishing and a source of heartburn.

There is an unseen presence we honor

that gives the gifts.

You’re water. We’re the millstone.

You’re wind. We’re dust blown up into shapes.

You’re spirit. We’re the opening and closing

of our hands. You’re the clarity.

We’re this language that tries to say it.

You’re joy. We’re all the different kinds

of laughing. Any movement or sound

is a profession of faith, as the millstone

grinding is explaining how it believes

in the river! No metaphor can say this,

but I can’t stop pointing to the beauty.

Every moment and place says,

“Put this design in your carpet!”

Imagine the phenomenal world as a furnace

heating water for the public bath.

Some people carry baskets of dung

to keep the furnace going.
Call them

materialists, energetic, fire-stoking citizens.

One of those brags how he’s collected

and carried twenty dung baskets today,

while his friend has brought six!

They think the counting up at nightfall

is where truth lies.
They love the smoke smell

of dried dung, and how it blazes up like gold!

If you give them musk or any fragrance

of soul intelligence, they find it unpleasant

and turn away.

Others sit in the hot bathwater and get clean.

They use the world differently.

They love the feel of purity, and they have

dust marks on their foreheads from bowing down.

They are separated by a wall from those

who feed the fires, busy in the boiler room

belittling each other.
Sometimes, though,

one of those leaves the furnace,

takes off the burnt smelling rags,

and sits in the cleansing water.

The mystery is how the obsessions

of furnace stokers keep the bathwater

of the others simmering perfectly.

They seem opposed, but they’re necessary

to each other’s work: the proud piling up

of fire worship, the humble disrobing

and emptying out of purification.

As the sun dries wet dung to make it

ready to heat water, so dazzling

sparks fly from the burning filth.

Which is worth more, a crowd of thousands,

or your own genuine solitude?

Freedom, or power over an entire nation?

A little while alone in your room

will prove more valuable than anything else

that could ever be given you.