آمده‌ام که تا به خود گوش کشان کشانمت
بی دل و بیخودت کنم در دل و جان نشانمت
آمده‌ام که تا تو را جلوه دهم در این سرا
همچو دعای عاشقان فوق فلک رسانمت
آمده‌ام که بوسه‌ای از صنمی ربوده‌ای
بازبده به خوشدلی خواجه که واستانمت
صید منی شکار من گر چه ز دام جسته‌ای
جانب دام بازرو ور نروی برانمت
کل چه بود که کل تویی ناطق امر قل تویی
گر دگری نداندت چون تو منی بدانمت
Qul’s Orders
I have come to drag you by your ears.
To shake you out of yourself, and into your life and heart.
I have come to show you off to this house.
To take you, like the prayer of the lovers, to the highest layer of sky.
I have come, for you’ve been a thief of a kiss.
Give it back with discretion, or I will take it back myself.
You’re my prey, my hunt, though you’ve jumped out of my trap.
Head back towards the trap. If you do not, I’ll chase you there.
You are everything, the deliverer of Qul’s orders.
So what if they do not understand? You are of me, I understand.
گفتم که در انبوهی شهرم که بیابد
آن کس که در انبوهی اسرار مرا یافت
بگریختنم چیست کز او جان نبرد کس
پنهان شدنم چیست چو صد بار مرا یافت
ای مژده که آن غمزه غماز مرا جست
وی بخت که آن طره طرار مرا یافت
Peek-a-boo
I had wondered who could find me in this crowded city.
He, who found me in the crowd of secrets.
Why am I running? No one cheats him of life.
Why am I hiding? He has found me a hundred times.
Good news! I am hooked by that hunter’s wink.
Oh, what luck! I am caught in that trickster’s hair.
مرا عاشق چنان باید که هر باری که برخیزد
قیامت‌های پرآتش ز هر سویی برانگیزد
دلی خواهیم چون دوزخ که دوزخ را فروسوزد
دو صد دریا بشوراند ز موج بحر نگریزد
چو هفت صد پرده دل را به نور خود بدراند
ز عرشش این ندا آید بنامیزد
بنامیزد
Knock on Wood
My lover must be such that every time he rises,
Resurrections of fire would arise from every corner.
I want a hellish heart, swallowing the hell down of hell,
To turn a thousand seas upside down, an ocean wave won’t be a bother.
Whose light would cut through the hundred veils of heart,
A sound of such melody from his throne; mashalla!
Knock on wood!
ای قوم به حج رفته کجایید کجایید
معشوق همین جاست بیایید بیایید
گر صورت بی‌صورت معشوق ببینید
هم خواجه و هم خانه و هم کعبه شمایید
یک دسته گل کو اگر آن باغ بدیدید
یک گوهر جان کو اگر از بحر خدایید
با این همه آن رنج شما گنج شما باد
افسوس که بر گنج شما پرده شمایید
The Faceless Face
O the tribe who has gone to Hajj, where are you?
The Beloved is right here, come back, come back.
If you see the Beloved’s faceless face
You are the host, the house, Kaaba itself.
Where is a bouquet of flower if you saw the garden?
Where is a pearl of life if you come from the Godly sea?
Despite all this, your pain is your treasure.
It’s a shame, on your treasure, you are the curtain.
جمله بی‌قراریت از طلب قرار تست
طالب بی‌قرار شو تا که قرار آیدت
جمله ناگوارشت از طلب گوارش است
ترک گوارش ار کنی زهر گوار آیدت
جمله بی‌مرادیت از طلب مراد تست
ور نه همه مرادها همچو نثار آیدت
عاشق جور یار شو عاشق مهر یار نی
تا که نگار نازگر عاشق زار آیدت
The Beloved’s Cruelty
Your lack of rest is your desire for rest.
Demand unrest, the rest comes to you.
Your lack of ease is your desire for ease.
Leave slaking, the poison slakes your thirst.
Your lack of success is your desire for success.
Otherwise, all triumphs come to you like gifts.
Love your beloved’s cruelty not her compassion.
So that trickster comes to you madly in love.
والله که شهر بی تو مرا حبس می‌شود
آوارگی و کوه و بیابانم آرزوست
دی شیخ با چراغ همی‌گشت گرد شهر
کز دیو و دد ملولم و انسانم آرزوست
گفتند یافت می‌نشود جسته‌ایم ما
گفت آن که یافت می‌نشود آنم آرزوست
زین همرهان سست عناصر دلم گرفت
شیر خدا و رستم دستانم آرزوست
زین خلق پرشکایت گریان شدم ملول
آن های هوی و نعره مستانم آرزوست
The Unfindable is My Wish
Wallah, this town, without you, imprisons me,
Wreckage, valleys, deserts are my wish.
Last night, the Shaikh looked around town with a light:
“Bored of beast and savage, a human is my wish.”
They replied: “Can’t be found, we have looked.”
He said: “The unfindable is my wish.”
These loose-virtued suffocate my heart.
God’s lion and hands like Rustam’s are my wish.
Fed up with this whiny, complaining crowd,
That buzz, that fuss, that drunken yell, these are my wish.
ببستی چشم یعنی وقت خواب است
نه خوابست آن حریفان را جواب است
جفا می‌کن جفاات جمله لطف است
خطا می‌کن خطای تو صواب است
بسی سرها ربوده چشم ساقی
به شمشیری که آن یک قطره آب است
یکی گوید که این از عشق ساقیست
یکی گوید که این فعل شراب است
Make Mistakes
You closed your eyes for sleep: is it time?
Never mind, it is not time for sleep, but rejecting the rivals.
Be cruel, be cruel: your cruelty is full of blessing.
Make mistakes, make mistakes: your mistakes are all virtue.
The cup bearer’s eyes have beheaded plenty
with a sword that is only a small drop of water.
Someone says: “It is the cup bearer’s love.”
Another says: “It is the wine’s doing.”
عجب سروی، عجب ماهی، عجب یاقوت و مرجانی
عجب جسمی، عجب عقلی، عجب عشقی، عجب جانی
عجب حلوای قندی تو، امیر بی‌گزندی تو
عجب ماه بلندی تو، که گردون را بگردانی
ایا ساقی قدوسی، گهی آیی به جاسوسی
گهی رنجور را پرسی، گهی انگور افشاری
به هر چیزی که آسیبی کنی، آن چیز جان گیرد
چنان گردد که از عشقش بخیزد صد پریشانی
Stingless Amir
What a cedar, what a moon, what a ruby, what a pearl.
What a body, what a brain, what a love, what a life.
What a sweet halwa, what a stingless Amir.
What a high moon; spinning the universe around.
Cup bearer, sometimes you come by to spy,
Sometimes to ask of my pain, and at times just to press the grapes.
Whatever you crash into, that thing comes to life,
Such that its love awakens a cluster of entanglement.
These eight poems by Rumi are translated by Fatima Haidari with David Keplinger. Jalaluddin Rumi is a thirteenth-century poet, mystic, Sufi, Islamic scholar, and theologian. His collections of poetry, Masnavi Ma’navi with sixty-four thousand lines, and Divan-e-Shams with over three thousand ghazals, remain one of the most influential works of Farsi literature. He is a best-selling poet in the United States and has been translated to twenty-six languages. In the east, Afghanistan, Turkey and Iran continue to quarrel over his national identity, the highest form of compliment for an artist. Fatima Haidari grew up in Kabul, Afghanistan. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at American University, Washington, DC. David Keplinger is the author of eight collections of poetry, most recently, Ice (Milkweed Editions, 2023). His work has been awarded the UNT Rilke Prize, the Emily Dickinson Award from the Poetry Society of America, the Colorado Book Award, the T.S. Eliot Award, and other distinctions. His translations include Carsten René Nielsen's Forty-One Objects (Bitter Oleander, 2019) and Jan Wagner's The Art of Topiary (Milkweed Editions, 2017).