Unseen Rain is the second volume of poems by the thirteenth century poet Jalaluddin Rumi published by Threshold Books in Putney, Vermont.

Regarded by many as a saint, Rumi wrote thousands of poems. He lived most of his life in Konya, Turkey, which in the thirteenth century was a meeting point of Christian, Islamic, Hindu and Buddhist cultures.

These are collaborative translations by John Moyne, a Persian scholar and head of linguistics at the Graduate School of the City University of New York, and Coleman Barks, who teaches poetry at the University of Georgia. Open Secret, Versions of Rumi was their first translation, published by Threshold Books in 1984. The translations, while faithful to the original, are considered “versions” — more accessible to modern Westerners than literal translations.

Like their earlier book, Unseen Rain is an ecstatic and mysterious celebration of the human spirit. In some languages of the Middle East, apparently, the word for “rain” and the word for “grace” are the same.

We’re thankful to Threshold Books for permission to reprint these poems. Unseen Rain is available for $8 plus $1 for postage and handling from Threshold Books, RD 3, Box 1350, Putney, Vermont 05346.

— Ed.

 

Don’t think of good advice for me.
I’ve tasted the worst that can happen.
So they lock me somewhere, bound and gagged,
they can’t tie up this new love I have.
We donate a cloak to the man who does the washing.
We feel proud of our generosity.
We stare at the infinite, suffering ocean.
We fall in.
I am filled with you.
Skin, blood, bone, brain, and soul.
There’s no room for lack of trust, or trust.
Nothing in this existence but that existence.
I am so small I can barely be seen.
How can this great love be inside me?

Look at your eyes. They are small,
but they see enormous things.
You are cold, but you expect kindness.
What you do comes back in the same form.
God is compassionate, but if you plant barley,
don’t expect to harvest wheat.
If you have a spirit, lose it,
loose it to return where with one word,
we came from. Now, thousands of words,
and we refuse to leave.
Seeing you heals me.
Not seeing you, I feel the walls closing.
I would not wish for anyone else
such absence.
I planted roses, but without you they were thorns.
I hatched peacock eggs. Snakes were inside.
Played the harp, sour music.
I went to the eighth heaven. It was the lowest hell.
There is no companion but love.
No starting, or finishing, yet, a road.
The Friend calls from there:
Why do you hesitate when lives are in danger!
After being with me one whole night,
you ask how I live when you’re not here.

Badly, frantically, like a fish trying to breathe
dry sand. You weep and say,
But you choose that.
There is a channel between voice and presence,
a way where information flows.

In disciplined silence the channel opens.
With wandering talk, it closes.
The light you give off
did not come from a pelvis.
Your features did not begin in semen.
Don’t try to hide inside anger
radiance that cannot be hidden.
I reach for a piece of wood. It turns into a lute.
I do some meanness. It turns out helpful.
I say one must not travel during the holy month.
Then I start out, and wonderful things happen.
The Friend comes into my body
looking for the center, unable
to find it, draws a blade,
strikes anywhere.
I can’t tell my secrets.
I have no key to that door.
Something keeps me joyful,
but I cannot say what.
I say, Bring the simple wine that makes me loose and free.
You say, There’s a hurricane coming!
And I say, Let’s have some wine then,
and sit here like old statues and watch.

© Copyright 1986 Threshold Books