I am Your Naked Lover, And, The Avalanche Of Wings

I just started to respond to what may turn into a longer-than-anticipated twenty-page-or-so interview with me about Rumi, and mysticism. (Mysticism can be defined as direct experience with God.) The interview is for an online European-based magazine, called Culturium. And the interview is inspiring me to think about writing a book— as some thoughts and images popped out of my old poet-brain that some might like reading. And a book like this would help complete my work with Rumi and Hafiz this life.

This life. I really just know about this one, that this Danny can often struggle with. (Though sometimes I can hang ten in this ocean of existence with a delightful smile.)

This life. Once when I was sitting with my teacher, Eruch, (see my former blogs for who he is) a close friend of Eruch’s read one of my Hafiz poems out of I Heard God Laughing, and rather seriously (but a bit tauntingly) said: “How can Danny write something so fine like that? He is really just an idiot like me.” 

And Eruch seriously but playfully responded: 

“Danny has had some practice; he worked intensely with Hafiz 300 years ago. And looks like he has not given up.” 

And then too: once, one the few people in my life (who I felt might ever really be able to say anything like this with any true authority or real knowledge), told me I knew Hafiz when Hafiz was alive, that this was why I was so entrusted with this— my Hafiz work. 

Well, one life at a time seems plenty for us to deal with. Just seems a lot of moonbeams/gold/manna has gotten into my saddlebags and now I keep packhorsing— trying to get that to the market ... to help feed everyone. 

So, for awhile, the title to my latest inspiration was, I Am Your Naked Lover. But now that title has evolved. It got honed. Seems something in my mind rubbed it, compressed it into more of a diamond. And can't say that title now for some goblin might steal it; but the old title ain't too bad either; and I expound on it in this blog as one reads on. And think I make some solid esoteric sense of it.

I Am Your Naked Lover

Poems of Rumi & Hafiz

Renderings by Daniel Ladinsky  

And that title, above, just popped in mid-stream in writing all here this morning. 

The editor and founder of the Culturium strikes me as dedicated and smart. She has taken some thoughtful, insightful time, it seems, to outline ten specific little chapters for our new book project, that will then each feature one of my Rumi poems-renderings in my Penguin Rumi book: The Purity of Desire, 100 Poems of Rumi.

And below is some thoughts from one chapter. But when I started writing, I soon found myself veering off at times from what she wanted me to zero-in on. Maybe veering so far off— jumping so out the corral so to speak— she would not use it, or would want to edit it way back.

What she asked was pretty straightforward: "Daniel, write a general introduction to the mystical poetry of Rumi, and briefly expound on that famous R.A. Nicholson Rumi translation of Rumi, titled: The Ascending Soul.

Well, what is an old cowboy to do sometimes, mounted on a still-wild unbroken horse, but to just try and stay on it? So that is the below: me just trying to stay on that horse and describing some of the scenery that came to mind ... on this sweet, but not easy ride. 

I find writing something like this a musical composition, where every note needs and should be precisely positioned, and can be more and more fine-tuned. What you will see here, when posted on my blog, will have been reviewed some seven-or-so times by me, and then too, by my editor and friend, Melissa LaScaleia. 

Every poem in my most popular Penguin book, The Gift, Poems of Hafiz— after I had gone over it several times alone, I then read out loud, back and forth, with a very talented musician, Kathy Barker. She once played some eight-or-so notes to one of the poems on a Tibetan dulcimer. And then those eight notes became what every poem was read to, and fine-tuned to, as it were. 

And every poem got read out loud (back and forth) between us several times; maybe some of the poems a dozen times. This all just seemed a part of the job— in trying to do Hafiz some justice. We did that also for The Subject Tonight Is Love, and to maybe half of Love Poems from God. Kathy and I were close for about ten years; she was a wonderful person.

In thinking about the above now: I guess unless there is something of the extraordinary connected to a translation or rendering of Hafiz and Rumi, doubt that work will really have a lasting impact on the intelligent mind and heart. Prayer, or great effort and love, becomes a golden bow; and God, the arrow that can fly out into the world from an artist's soul.

I then gave this chapter its own title, as now shown. Ahhhh, the saga and little wars between writers and editors. But somehow we still manage to get books out there, and articles printed.

***

A Brief Introduction On Mysticism & The Poetry of Rumi

And My Foundation Of Working With Him

by Daniel Ladinsky

I think it is presumptuous for anyone to feel they can really translate or render some great poet like Rumi or Hafiz without knowing something of their hearts and having lived something of their life, (which I feel would require one having been intimately interwoven into the life of a great saint or teacher, as both Rumi and Hafiz were. I had that platonic intimate experience with two men who were both profoundly close to God; they may have even become one with God.) In that way, you could imbibe something of the rare aspects and elements of a divine sun and earth (which the true teacher is) into your own body, into your pen, into your own movements, sounds, feelings, prayers, and at times, tears— and receive their essential blessing and very direct help. 

Or, one could have a great mystical experience with Rumi or Hafiz. They could have camped in you as it were, and from a divine flame that was there, some coals will ever linger that one could warm-tune their talents upon, wanting to give and help others more. 

I think for one to really do any real justice to a poet like Rumi, one needs to be able to lower their bucket into him beneath the surface of perhaps the most prevailing scholarly ideas and translations, and then offer to this world something very pure, fresh, original, and tasty that one can then pawn for manna that can free. 

Then too, God could surely poke anyone with Her cattle prod directly ... and then the dance can really start in one's ability to have some affect on the world.

I think in some ways, all the great artists, even if they might be a professed agnostic or atheist, have truly been empowered by some touch from Buddha, great beauty, great love, great care— or from some kind of mystical experience.  

I know a bit about Mysticism 101, though I am not a holy wine barrel as both Rumi and Hafiz, to me, were and still are. But I have gone swimming in their wine barrels almost everyday for thirty years. I have dived in thousands of times, and when I come up for air, often there are poems just about everywhere that I could write. They might be likened to Easter eggs Jesus himself, or the good fairy, hid. 

I think anyone with authentic esoteric and/or mystical experience would have to agree that, hell, someone like Rumi or Hafiz, easy as pie, could have easily reached some hundreds of years into the future, been involved in some wonderful covert activity, and put some drops of their blood into ball point pens (before those existed), and into different languages they never spoke. Time and space is really an illusion, think Einstein knew that. And I love one of my rendered lines in A Year With Hafiz, to now call on the witness stand for me, being: 

Love kicks the ass of time and space.   

Yeah, I think so true: as easily as someone like Rumi could have reached for his tea cup and lifted it to his mouth, so too, he could have hidden Easter eggs under pillows and in hearts, hundreds of years down the road, just to keep things lively and help crank up the party our souls so need, so we can more deeply embrace giving, beauty, laughter, dance and song. 

A warm tea cup my poems, 

you can lift to your mouth.

I think Rumi surely could have said that, or at least surely knew that. For to me, Rumi was one with the Truth. And to whatever is true, I think Rumi could have said: “Yes, I said that. I am guilty of never saying anything that is not right on. I am all about awareness."

Something now occurs to me about those above possible Rumi lines, which is: I think part of what can make a rendering of Rumi or Hafiz seem more alive at times and nourishing, still warm from their actual touch or breathe is: that sometimes a good rendering of Rumi or Hafiz is maybe something they never said at all out loud, but they knew and lived in their hearts, and that they planted into the future. Of course they could. And thus, was just as true, alive, sacred, and maybe even more alive and more true than what might have been lost over the years in literal translations. For what is a translation of Rumi or Hafiz if you cannot look into their eyes? If you cannot delight in their humor or hear their great encouragement? If you cannot feel something of their divine warmth, their love? 

A gripe I sometimes feel toward scholars of Rumi or Hafiz is that it seems they want to control Rumi and Hafiz— they want to pigeonhole the duo to fit their own beliefs, on what might have never been in Rumi or Hafiz’s heart or mind at all. I think we should let more beauty and its ability to give, become more of the litmus test of this scholarship/authenticity stuff. 

To me, the words of Rumi and Hafiz should be more about what might have been in their heart that can now affect the world today, and about turning that into beautiful poetry—besides what wonderful open-armed beauty freedom-encouragement is already there. Not what scholars, hundreds of years later, interpret based on a language that is not native to how they speak, nor express themselves. 

Rumi and Hafiz are, to my ken: 

Kicking the ass of all the cage walls in this world, 

and saying: fly, fly, my dear.

If you cannot see them on their knees with you in prayer, or know them as your naked lover, as they know they are:

I am your naked lover.

Any true Master could not only say that, but that is their actual experience:

I am your naked lover.

Please be kind to me.

It’s like doing math at the one plus one level. That is: being one with the One; as I feel Rumi became. One with Everything.

It does seem sad to me that scholars could not find a way to honor a work of Rumi or Hafiz in a way that is more beautiful, giving, fun, and was a balm so to speak, for the troubles and challenges that we as humans face. For to me that is the essence of Hafiz and Rumi: they present in beautiful, witty, fun, and charming ways. And if others don’t agree, at least don't try to discredit a work that does. Instead, find a respected place for it. For we are all really plowing the same field hoping something wonderful will grow to help feed the heart— help unfurl the wing. The millions of wings that cry to fly, so deeply yearn for freedom.

The Avalanche of Wings

The avalanche of wings: heaven's decent to help us climb out of all sadness. And isn't that the vital essence of Rumi's life? The ascent of his soul into heaven, and then descent (in remarkable poetry), to help us, to lift us closer to the Sun? 

Think that verse is from one of my some 200 unpublished Rumi poems, sitting in a box somewhere I should find. My own computer files seem lost. And those four main words I once thought of titling a book.

Yep. I think the only sensible argument or debate about Rumi or Hafiz should be: how to make them appear as more, never less. For the more one can make them appear, I think, is the closer to the Truth of them one has gotten. Their poems are truly part of a divine ladder and mosaic that can become alive and real and so very needed to us on our own return back into realizing God, every second, as God knows Itself. As God knows Itself, we are meant to too. That would be True Oneness! That is what our standing in line throughout evolution is all about.

****

I first got connected to Rumi over fifty years ago, when reading a book by Meher Baba, titled: God Speaks. To me, that book is the personification of mysticism, explained in extraordinary detail. That book quoted some words in this Rumi poem enclosed here. This poem contains the first Rumi lines (now rendered) I saw in my life. And this poem (even the original), speaks about the evolution of the soul.

Seems the word mysticism is inherent with a belief in what might be called God. And with that as something of a foundation, cornerstone, I will continue and say: that what one might then call a mystical experience, to me, could be said is getting a little smooch from God; seeing-feeling some aspect of just one facet of the infinitely faceted Luminous Divine Sphere. 

Or if you wanted to get more graphic, and a little Buddha-after-hours-in-a-bar-esque, you could say:  

Seeing the Moon lift her skirt, how could not real love begin?

(The above until now, was a line in one of my some 4,000 unpublished Hafiz renderings I have.) 

And in some ways, by varied accounts, that was the milestone event in Rumi's life— looking into the eyes of Shams and seeing more God there than in anything he had ever seen up to that point. One could say: seeing the skirt lift the veil part. And then there— the life changing glimpse for Rumi, as there can be for us too— of the astounding eternal beauty, that She, God, is.

Mysticism is all about love. It is about having greater experiences of reality or beauty— greater experiences of fulfillment and clarity, and becoming less caged, and more empowered with the abilities to benefit oneself, one's community, and then maybe rock-n-roll one’s talents around the whole crazy (though still exquisite) world.  

I think what one might call mysticism is no kind of mystery at all, but is the awareness that is common to millions of children everyday— especially those children who have not been shattered or fragmented by emotional trauma. And therein can be an explanation of why most adults are rarely in touch with the finer perceptions. Most of us are just so bruised, and walking around with too many deep-pain spears that were thrown deep into us that require a special psychological surgeon to help remove.

And therein one of the grand aspects of Rumi or Hafiz: they are Carl Jung times ten gone poet. They are that special surgeon; and we so need them. They are there for the price of a book, or the few minutes it takes to cruise the web and get a big, big hug from one of them, or maybe some very timely advice. Saved by A Poem is a book title, and an expression I have use before; good poetry is a life raft.

We are meant to caress the Sun's cheeks, Buddha's cheeks. Mysticism is really just a natural part of growing up, of spiritual maturity, of true mental health. It is an outcome of some genuine balance, experience, and awareness of what is in the human unconscious (right now), made conscious, flowering. Mysticism is a petal on the Rose.

And getting to know your Beloved. Who would not want to do that? The mystic, you might say, can enter Her bedroom now and then, and then tell some things about how the Soul of Existence looked naked. 

This enclosed Rumi poem to some, might be all about mysticism, but to me is really more about that flowering. To me, this poem is all about the unfurling of our spirit, our golden wings, and what they can see and know in that process that awaits all of us— that we are destined for.  

The below is a unique rendering of this very famous Rumi poem, that was originally translated and published by R.A. Nicholson (1868-1945). There are worlds in this poem, but for now, I will just say: that one of the fascinating and significant truths of this poem is that I have never seen (in the English language) Rumi so very clearly endorsing the doctrine of reincarnation, and the evolution of the soul in all creatures— and that implies all forms also.

A little personal note here is: I have about 125 Rumi poems-renderings published in two of my Penguin books (and about 200 unpublished ones), and once in a while, in reading one of those poems over, I get the feeling I could make the poem better, more complete, and more giving to an agile and intelligent mind and heart that has had some genuine mystical experience in its life. 

So this below version, I consider better, and more doing Rumi some justice. At the least, this is a legitimate annotation I feel, on the original by Nicholson, and even more of an expounding on how I first rendered it in my Penguin book, The Purity of Desire. 

             The Ascending Soul

I died as a mineral and became a plant.

I died as a plant and rose to this:

Creatures with fins and wings and hoofs.

But I kept rising as is the destiny of all

souls. Thus behold, behold ...

I became a beautiful woman, I became a

beautiful man,

what should we ever fear my darlings

for when were we ever less by dying?

Though once again, you shall know the 

demise of anything that can limit.

You will become one with what it is to be 

an angel,

you will intrinsically experience what it 

is to be a living mountain and a singing 

river, 

you will be the one who can suckle any

breast, and be the sacred nourishment

of all, of all ... too.

You will be a moon and a sun perched on 

my arm; and holding hands— if you want

with anything you have ever loved. 

Still, you will need to relinquish every aspect

of any self, of any name, of any form that 

cannot call itself ... God. 

Upon the throne of the Inconceivable is your

place to sit with me.

Only the womb from which all came, and

even created any Beloved

should make any sense to us, as our, as our

own divine Self.

Creation came from a pocket in your robe 

you have forgotten about, 

but you will find again sitting so quiet, or 

being so wild, so wild in thanks ...

and in the knowing of more and more and 

more of the Sublime Beauty and Wonder 

in your own palm and breathe. And my

blessed gaze upon you.

The sun's glorious light upon your body

is but a hint of my soul's light— our soul's

effulgence you will know, eternally, my love.  

— Rumi rendering

   by Daniel Ladinsky 

Mysticism can bring us into a vital needed adoration. The heart was born to adore, and that can happen intertwined with some beautiful aspects of nature and other human beings, and caring for, or simply admiring other miraculous creatures. And all creatures are really part of some gigantic miracle pulled like magic from some cosmic Hat. Indeed, everything is magic. Everything is mystical to the eye that sees and can really love! Every good and intelligent poem of Rumi and Hafiz says: take my hand darling, let us walk into more light; more freedom, into more and more of God, into more and more of your own divine Self. And so true: prayer, great effort, and love, become a golden bow, and God the arrow that can fly out into the world from an artist's heart.