Occasionally I write in the style and in tribute to Mawlānā Jalāl-ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī [1207-1273] who I view as one of the greatest poets in human history.
All the Rumi tribute poems I write are my own creations [click here and scroll down for rest] and parse the same theme: Rūmī, the devout Muslim searching for meaning. Whatever is the truth of G*d, I do not pretend to understand. What I do know, is that my love for the Beloved is not dependent on organized worship. I have been given more than I deserve and less than I want. Perhaps I will some day learn to accept my many blessings.
“The sun in the sky burns my skin when I sit inside”
there is a man you know, he comes every third day to the river behind the walls below the cataract at Ranjing
why do you know? Do you? Truly? He comes alone
did you know? He has a wife!
many children – it is said [with some malice] he can’t keep away from the fig, thus, the seven, or is it eight now?
perhaps you don’t, but, he sits, on a rock, less than a boulder, more than a stone
deposited there beyond the ken of men – alliteration, it rocks! – oh, save your moans for a really bad pun
it is said [with some smugness] he sits to escape his progeny, six girls, two boys – I think,
perhaps it doesn’t matter
doing His will, multiplying, spreading across the land, he is the embodiment of holiness, a virtue wrestled from Original Sin
after evening meal
when the night sounds of pye-dogs drown the ripple of contentment stemming from a comely wife awaiting your pleasure on the tick
grab your cudgel before a voice, his voice, not His voice, but his voice drifts from the ceiling, it awakens, it is a clarion, a trumpet, a horn of plenty, for you remember, him, sitting on the rock, below the cataract at Ranjing, chanting softly
what you learned
‘the sun in the sky burns my skin when I sit inside’
so, you leave the mongrels to the feast and slip by your wife
no novice are you
if it is G*d’s will
behind the walls, your child is waiting