There are countless “what-do-I-know”s, yet I truly do not know—
for from that sea, bound and sealed, I tasted only a single foamy drop of opium.
Mawlānā Rumi expressed his ideas in the form of poetry in order to draw the attention of the general public to his thoughts. Although he was highly skilled in poetry and poetic craft, he did not bind himself strictly to rhyme and meter. His focus was on the core meaning of the words, and he regarded rhyme as merely the outer skin of the message. For example, he says:
I am freed from verse and ghazal, O King and eternal Sovereign—
“Muftaʿilun, muftaʿilun, muftaʿilun” has slain me.
Tell rhyme and verbal trickery to be swept away by the flood;
they are but skin, mere skin—fit only for the kernel of the poets.
Before meeting Shams, Rumi was an ordinary figure like many of the clerics of his time: he preached from the pulpit, taught classes, and had followers. Through his encounter with Shams, however, he came to know love, a love that transformed his entire life.
He abandoned his lessons and his followers; his spirit outpaced his body. In the realm of love he wandered in search of his spiritual Beloved, and he addresses his body, saying:
I am going toward the garden and the rose-bower;
you are not coming—do not come, I am going.
The day is dark for me without His face;
I am going in search of a shining candle.
My soul has set forth and goes ahead;
the soul keeps saying: I am going without the body.
Shams taught Rumi the meaning of love, and the fire of love burned away everything that was not the Beloved. He told him that to reach love, one must abandon school and scholarship, cease to be a leader or a shaykh, and be slain on the path of love.
He said: “You are not mad—you are not worthy of this house.”
I went away; I became mad; I became bound by the chain.
He said: “You are not intoxicated—go, you are not of this hand.”
I went away and became intoxicated, filled with ecstasy and joy.
He said: “You are not slain—you are not steeped in rapture.”
Before the face that gives life, I was slain and cast down.
He said: “You have become the candle, the qibla of this gathering.”
I am not the gathering, I am not the candle; I became scattered smoke.
He said: “You are a shaykh and a chief, a guide who leads the way.”
I am no shaykh, no leader; I became obedient to your command.
Love said to me: “Do not repeat to us that ancient tale.”
I said: “Very well, I will not”; I became one who abides and remains.
My heart found the radiance of the soul; my heart opened and split apart.
My heart wove a new brocade; I became the enemy of these ragged clothes.
Love grants him such power that he can “turn dust into jewels”:
O lovers, O lovers, I turn dust into gems;
O rain-beaters, O rain-beaters, I fill your drums with gold.
O thirsty ones, O thirsty ones, today I become your water-bearer;
I turn this dry dust-heap into a garden, I make it Kawthar.
O forlorn ones, O forlorn ones—deliverance has come, deliverance has come;
every weary, grief-stricken soul I make a king, I make a Sanjar.
You were a drop of seed, you became blood, and then you grew so well-formed;
come toward me, O human, that I may adorn you still more beautifully.
I turn sorrow into joy, I guide the lost;
I turn the wolf into Joseph, I turn poison into sugar.
O Universal Intellect, O Universal Intellect, all that you said is true;
you are the ruler, you are the generous Hatim—so I speak less and less.
Iqbal of Lahore says about Rumi:
Make the Elder of Rum your companion on the path,
so that God may grant you burning passion and yearning.
For Rumi knows the kernel from the husk;
with his step firm, he enters the lane of the Beloved.