O Rumi, Rumi, where art thou Rumi?

I posted a little Rumi poem to my Facebook page yesterday, because it felt right for how I'm feeling these days:

“Forget safety.

Live where you fear to live.

Destroy your reputation.

Be notorious.”

― Rumi

Afterward, I started thinking how much I've always loved Rumi and how I really ought to own at least one book of his poetry. Who would have thought such a simple idea could lead me so far afield?

Before I go any further with this story, let me make a confession: I know very little about poetry. I am not educated in poetry. But I've been immersed in it since I was a child. My dad read to us: from AA Milne to ee cummings, Robert Frost to Robert Service, we got an earful of the stuff. All four of us kids can probably recite The Cremation of Sam McGee from memory to this day.

I loved the stuff. By high school I was writing it too. Later, I embarked on an English major at CSU, but had to drop out within a year due to other life commitments and I never got to take any poetry classes. Which is all just to say that I'm approaching my subject today with no more than a beginner's mind and an abiding love of words, not any particular expertise.

So, back to Rumi, aka Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, aka Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, aka Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī, aka Mevlānā , aka Mawlānā. Rumi was a mystic Sufi poet who lived in Persia (now Tajikistan) from 1207 to 1273. He wrote in the Persian language, which is the heart of the issue I am facing as I begin to wonder which book of his work I might like to buy.

What I have just discovered, neophyte that I am, is that quite a bit of what we English speakers think of as Rumi's work, is best referred to, not as translations of his original words, but as “poetic interpretations.” Inspired by his words, but not at all true to them. Coleman Barks seems to be the most prolific of these interpreters. Most of what I have read and enjoyed of Rumi's work has been though Barks. This news is disheartening to me. I love what I have read. But it is not true to Rumi? How am I to feel about this?

I go to the library. I take out books translated by Ibrahim Gamard and Nevit O. Ergin. I reserve from other libraries Rumi translations done by Kabir Edmund Helminski and Arthur John Arberry. I may add to this list as I learn more.

So this is the task I have set out for myself. Read, compare, decide. Or maybe don't decide. As yet, I don't know how I can. I have so many questions and I would be ever so pleased if anyone who has an interest in this topic would respond in the comment section. The very idea of poetry in translation from other languages has got me all hot and bothered now. Can it be done? This is poetry we're talking about, not an instruction manual for a toaster oven. Can it really be done? If it's a literal word for word translation, it loses its poetry. If it's a poetic interpretation, it loses its roots. Is the resulting poem, in either case, still attributable to the original author?

Rumi, in some cases, was translated from Persian to other languages and then to English. And this being about 700 years ago and all the lost context that entails, it just seems very nearly impossible that the resulting works can come close to the original intent, or carry traces of the original “soul,” if you will. On the other hand, I am unlikely to learn Persian. If I want to make  contact with my beloved Rumi, what else am I to do?

Feel free to also talk about poetic translations in general. Same principles would apply, I think.

Thanks for reading. I look forward to hearing from you all. I'm off to dive into these books now....

Breaking in

Have you noticed something different about me lately? Well, yeah, I did henna my hair, but I was referring to this. Right here. Ta-da! I have a blog now. I've suddenly become a Person With A Blog. I think it looks good on me, don't you?

So I'm going to start you off with a story, because this particular story will explain the name of my blog. Plus it's a good story.

When I lived in Seattle in the late 1980's, I frequented a little coffee shop called Espresso Roma. I had a lot of studying to do; they had free refills. So I spent a lot of time there. It just so happened that I read a book of James Wright's poetry around that time, and I fell in love with his poem, “A Blessing,” in particular, the last three lines. And one day, I wrote those lines on Espresso Roma's bathroom wall:

Suddenly I realize / That if I stepped out of my body I would break / Into blossom.

I signed it “JW.”

Well, it must have been a week or two later that I returned and found that someone had written directly below those lines, in tiny, perfect, print:

I'm out, Broken, Blossoming.

TC

And I fell in all over love again. With words, with poetry, with TC whoever he or she was, with the whole of everything. 

It's surprising, isn't it? How a small, seemingly pointless, action can make a world of difference? How a few words, placed just so, can step you out of wherever you were and break you into blossom?

I guess that's why I'm here, wearing my freshly pressed blog. I hope you enjoy it. Stop by again, Okay?

A Blessing   by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me

And nuzzled my left hand.

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.