The Masnavi, Book One: Bk. 1 (Oxford World's Classics)

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The Masnavi, Book One: Bk. 1 (Oxford World's Classics) Page 5

by Jalal al-Din Rumi


  Witness amazing magic and applaud,

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  See in his temperament the might of God.’

  The next day came, the promised meeting neared,

  The sun shone bright, the stars had disappeared,

  The king gazed from the watchtower eagerly

  To see what had been promised secretly,

  Beyond the crowd he saw a virtuous one,

  Among the shadows he was like a sun!

  Just like a crescent moon he came to view—

  A non-existent image seen by you,

  In form existing only in one’s mind—

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  The world is turned by forces of this kind:

  Their war and peace are based on fantasy,

  And shame and pride are both illusory,

  While images that saints may often love

  Are visions of the moon-faced ones above;*

  The image which while dreaming he’d just seen

  The king saw in him just as it had been,

  And so, instead of chamberlains he went

  Himself to greet this guest who had been sent.

  Both swimmers used to seas of union,

  75

  Their souls without a thread were sewn as one:

  ’The one I love is not that maid but you;

  One thing led to another, as they do,

  You’re Mostafa and I’m Omar your friend,*

  Prepared to serve you till the bitter end!’

  From God, who grants success, we ask for success in maintaining good manners always; explanation of the harm in being ill-mannered

  Let’s pray to God for manners in their place

  Since those who lack them lose out on his grace,

  It’s not as though it’s just themselves they harm,

  They set the world on fire, disrupt the calm:

  A feast was sent down from above one day

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  Without demands or any price to pay,

  Moses had men who still bemoaned their lot,

  ‘Why weren’t some lentils spiced with garlic brought?’

  The host then cleared the feast that had been laid

  And each was forced to farm with scythe and spade;

  Jesus once interceded for a man,

  A bounteous feast was sent down in God’s plan,

  But then some greedy brats who lacked respect

  Like beggars grabbed the most they could collect,

  Even though Jesus cried, ‘It’s infinite,

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  You greedy fools, you’ll not run out of it!’*

  Regard this lust and faithless attitude

  Before God’s feast as sheer ingratitude:

  When blinded by their greed these low ingrates

  Cause God to shut to all his mercy’s gates:

  If you withhold zakat,* then rain won’t fall

  And fornication spreads a plague to all,

  So what’s the source of your deep misery?

  Acting without respect conceitedly!

  Whoever fails to show respect to God

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  For robbing other men deserves the rod!

  Good manners are what made the heavens bright

  And angels sinless, purer than the light,

  Irreverence caused eclipses of the sun

  And Satan, through his pride, to be undone.

  The meeting of the king with that saint who had appeared in his dream

  The king embraced his guest and wouldn’t part,

  He welcomed him like love inside his heart;

  Kissing his hand and forehead fervently

  He asked about his home and family

  Then led him to his dais with this thought:

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  ‘The greatest treasure patience here has brought!

  The light of God, defence against all harm,

  Showed patience is the key to joy and calm:

  The answer to our needs is meeting you,

  All faults you fix before we ask you to,

  Translating what we keep inside our souls,

  Stretching your hand to lift those trapped in holes.

  O chosen one with whom God’s pleased, don’t leave,

  For then you’d make us suffocate and grieve!

  Since you’re our master, he who shows disdain

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  Will be destroyed if he does not refrain.’*

  They served the feast, the king then took his hand

  And led him to the harem as was planned,

  The king leads that doctor to the patient so he can see how she is

  Recounting all the sick girl had been through,

  He sat him down so he could witness too;

  Her pulse and pale complexion first he checked,

  Discovering the cause through its effect.

  The drugs that they’d prescribed were like a curse,

  Sapping her strength and making her feel worse:

  They’d failed to see the ailment deep within—

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  God save us from what they are dabbling in!

  He saw her pain, her secret was revealed,

  But from the king he kept it all concealed,

  Her pain was not from bile the doctor learned:

  The scent of wood is from its smoke discerned;

  Her grief revealed that it was from her heart—

  Physically fine, her heart was torn apart:

  Being a lover means your heart must ache,

  No sickness hurts as much as when hearts break,

  The lover’s ailment’s totally unique,

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  Love is the astrolabe of all we seek,

  Whether you feel divine or earthly love,

  Ultimately we’re destined for above.

  To capture love whatever words I say

  Make me ashamed when love arrives my way,

  While explanation sometimes makes things clear

  True love through silence only one can hear:

  The pen would smoothly write the things it knew

  But when it came to love it split in two,

  A donkey stuck in mud is logic’s fate—

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  Love’s nature only love can demonstrate:

  Sunshine reveals its nature in each ray,

  So if it’s proof you want just look this way!

  Shadows can indicate what’s shining bright

  But it’s the sun which fills your soul with light,

  Shadows like late-night chat make people doze,

  The moon was split* when that divine sun rose!

  Eternal sun—there’s nothing quite so strange,

  The soul’s sun has no past, it doesn’t change,

  There’s only one sun there before your eyes

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  But similar suns you still can visualize,

  The soul’s sun though is from a loftier sphere,

  You’ll not find any similar suns down here—

  How can his essence ever be perceived

  For things comparable to be conceived!

  When news about my Shamsoddin* first came

  The heaven’s highest sun withdrew through shame!

  I’m now compelled through uttering Shams’s name

  To tell you of his gifts and spread his fame:

  Hosamoddin has flung me by my skirt

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  So I can breathe in scent from Joseph’s shirt:*

  He asked me, ‘Life-long friend, please share with me

  From your rich stock a single ecstasy,

  To raise a smile from both the land and sky,

  To make each person’s soul expand and fly.’

  ‘Don’t give me duties now I’ve passed away,

  My senses dulled, I’ve no clue how to pray,

  For anything a drunk might sing is wrong

  Whether he’s meek or boastful in his song:

  Since all my veins now pulse with drunkenness*

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  How can
I represent his loftiness?

  Describing separation’s torture then

  Is best postponed until we speak again.’

  He said, ‘I’m hungry and must now be fed!

  “Time is a cutting sword” the Prophet said,

  The sufi is the present moment’s son,

  Talk of “tomorrow” sufis learn to shun—

  Are you not then a sufi as I’d thought?

  Delaying payment turns your wealth to naught!’

  ‘The loved one’s secret’s best kept veiled,’ I said,

  135

  ‘Listen to it in ecstasy instead,

  The lover’s secret that’s been kept concealed

  Is best through tales of other loves revealed.’

  ‘Tell it unveiled and naked, candidly,

  You tricky man, don’t try distracting me!

  Be frank and lift the veil, you ditherer,

  I wear no nightshirt when in bed with her!’

  I said, ‘If the beloved strips for you,

  You’ll be effaced, your waist and body too!

  Please don’t request what you can’t tolerate:

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  A blade of straw can’t hold a mountain’s weight,

  And if the sun which gives us light should near,

  All things would burn and leave no traces here—

  Don’t try to make more strife for everyone,

  Ask nothing more about Tabriz’s Sun!’

  The tale is incomplete, begin anew,

  Narrate the rest, as only you can do!

  The saint asks the king to let him spend time alone with the slave-girl in order to discover her ailment

  The doctor said, ‘Vacate your house today,

  Even your family must be sent away,

  So no one’s listening from the corridors

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  While I interrogate the girl indoors.’

  The house was emptied, no one else remained,

  Alone now with the girl who looked so pained,

  He gently asked, ‘From which town did you come?

  The cure depends on where the patient’s from;

  Which relatives do you have living there,

  Who’s family? Whose friendship do you share?’

  Feeling her pulse he went through one by one

  Questions about the course the stars must run:

  When someone stumbles barefoot on a thorn

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  He stops and checks what he has trod upon,

  To use a needle to dislodge its head,

  Or failing that, by moistening it instead:

  If in your foot it proves so hard to find

  Imagine one that’s pierced your heart and mind!

  If such thorns could be traced by any fool

  How then could sorrow ever hope to rule!

  If someone pricks a donkey near its tail

  The helpless beast will buck and start to wail,

  But this will serve to drive it further in—

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  A sage is needed to remove the pin;

  The donkey would continue with its fit

  And prick itself a hundred times with it!

  Our thorn-removing doctor is the best,

  He presses first all over as a test:

  Through sharing stories with the poor sick maid

  He asked about her friends and where she’d stayed,

  And she divulged to him the history

  Of all her past friends and her family;

  While listening to what the girl would share

  160

  He monitored her pulse with utmost care—

  Whoever’s name would raise her pulse would be

  The one for whom she suffered constantly.

  Once she had named her friends from home, he’d then

  About another town inquire again:

  ‘After you left your home where did you go?

  Where did you stay the longest, let me know!’

  She mentioned further places by their name,

  Her pulse and her complexion stayed the same,

  She listed every detail of each town

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  From local bread to features of renown—

  Of town by town and home by home she’d speak

  Without a quiver in her veins or cheek,

  Her pulse felt stable to his knowing hand

  Until he asked the girl of Samarkand—

  Her pulse increased to rates beyond compare,

  She’d been kept from a certain goldsmith there!

  Once the physician solved this mystery

  He found the source of her deep agony.

  ‘So where precisely is this man’s abode?’

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  ‘It’s near the bridge, on the Ghatafar road.’

  ‘I recognize your illness, count on me—

 

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