THE DRENKA WILLEN PRIZE FOR POETRY IN TRANSLATION

From The Masnavi of Maulana Jalalu‘ddin Muhammad Rumi of Balkh

(2001 Persian edition edited by Mohammad Este‘lami)
Translated from the Persian by Fayre Makeig

I. The Song of the Ney

Listen:
     the ney complains,
telling a story
     of separations —

     since they reaped me
from the reeds,
     men and women have mourned
in my sound. I am looking for

somebody whose chest is cut,
     cut by separation,
so that I can explain
     the pain of yearning.

Any one who lives
     removed from his origin
seeks the days of reunion.
     I have sung for every gathering,

completing the condition
     of the sad and glad.
Each was my friend
     for his own reason

and none sought my secrets
     from inside me.
My secret is not separate from my song,
      though eyes and ears do not illumine this —

body from soul, soul from body
      is not veiled,
but there is no permission
      to see the soul.

It is fire,
     this cry of the ney — not air —
and whoever lacks this fire
     is not.

It is the fire of love
     playing through the ney,
the energy of love
     fermenting the wine.

Ney, drink with anyone parted
      from a friend
(the movement of its tones
     rends our veils —

whom have you seen
     like the ney?
both poison and antidote,
      lover and friend!)
Ney, accounts of this road
     are filled with blood,
like the tales of Majnun’s love.
      Do not confide this

except to those
      without senses
(bitter tongue,
     no customer but the ear).

In our sadness
      the days stretch out,
ill-timed, accompanied
      by burning pain, biting cold.

Without fear,
     discard the days.
Say Go! You remain,
     nothing is so pure as you.

All but fish
     bloat in His Water.
When there is no day —
     time for the tavern!

This ripeness —
     you will never find it
in the green. Let us be brief:
     peace be with you.

Break the bond —
     be free, O son!
How many leaders bound
     by silver, bound by gold?

If even the smallest sea
     is poured in a jar,
how long will it be contained?
     A destiny of just one day.

The jars of greedy eyes
     are never full;
a discontented oyster
     cannot produce a pearl.

The man with
     clothes torn by love —
he is the one untouched
     by any greed or blemish.

Be happy, love
     (our joy and pain, doctor of all
ills, cure of honor and conceit —
     you, our Plato and Galen)!

Because of love
     this body of dust rises
into the skies:
     the mountain came dancing, quick and light.

Love, love,
     the soul of Mount Sinai came,
drunken Mount Sinai,
     thunderbolts and Moses swooning —

if I were touched
     to the lip of my friend,
I, like the ney, would tell
     all there is to say;

but parted from he
     who speaks the same language,
one has no tongue,
     even with a hundred songs.

When the rose left,
     the garden died.
Since then, you will not hear
     the nightingale singing.

All is the Beloved,
     and the lover is the veil.
All is the living
     of the Beloved (lover, lifeless).

If it seems there is no love —
     that is the Beloved’s concern.
Whoever loiters like a wingless bird —
     shame on him!

I have consciousness —
     where? in front or behind?
When there is no light, where is
     my friend — in front or behind?

Love wanted
     this speech put forward.
A mirror that does not reflect —
     how could that be?

Mirror, do you know why
     you bear no news?
Till rust is cleaned from the face,
     there is no luster.