Maybe They’re Shy

Now the nightbirds will be singing
of the way we love each other.
Why should they sing about flowers
when they’ve seen us in the garden?

Maybe they’re shy. They can’t look at the face,
so they describe feet.
If they keep dividing love into pieces,
they’ll disappear altogether. We must be gentle
and explain it to them.

Think of a mountain so huge the Caucasus Range
is a tiny speck. Normal mountains
run toward her when she calls.
They listen in their cave-ears and echo back.
They turn upsidedown when they get close,
they’re so excited.

No more words. In the name of this place we
drink in with our breathing, stay quiet like a flower.
So the nightbirds will start singing.

Rumi
Version by Coleman Barks
“Open Secret,”
Threshold Books, 1984

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5 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. Oh how beautiful :) Thank for posting it, dear Brother.
    May the nightbirds accompany our breathing in zikr.

    Ya Haqq!

  2. […] Read more at Raza Rumi […]

  3. How simply beautiful and inspiring. I’ve always loved Rumi’s poetry and images.

  4. May 24, 2007

    See Me Real…

    Don’t love me for what I am,
    I may not stay that way for too long,

    Don’t hate me for what I am not,
    You didn’t look too long to see its already gone,

    Don’t envy me for all that’s not true,
    I am a liar and work hard to be what I’ve shown,

    Don’t pride me for all that people say,
    They all will leave my audience and I’ll some day be alone,

    Don’t be obsessed over my appearance,
    Inside me I wish I was like most, ordinary, in my form,

    Don’t try to convince me that I am different,
    I can cry and laugh like everyone,

    Don’t ask me where I am headed to,
    Understand I don’t have answers to every question,

    Don’t admire me for a few written expressions,
    They’ll lose their charm with time,

    Don’t look up to me for strength,
    For every support, I am used to making them drown,

    Don’t be surprised when you see me down,
    I, too, from inside, am torn,

    Don’t forget me when I need your hand,
    Pull me out from the well I am forever dwelling in,

    Don’t remember me when you recall your past,
    I want to make sure that’s something you have forgotten,

    Don’t compare me from those in your social circle,
    Remember, you were among the one’s who called me the one in a million,

    Don’t surrender your shine for my allure,
    You are wrong if you think I’m born with my charm,

    Don’t bother to wait for my approval,
    My judgment can prove to be wrong,

    Don’t feel inferior by my rhetoric aptness,
    That’s the last gem of my plundered treasure I am surviving on,

    Don’t be fascinated by my supernatural abilities,
    Just believe me when I say I am a human,

    Don’t wonder what I can bring out in you,
    Just love me for my soul, which is pure from any norms

    May 1, 2007

    A Tribute To My Inspiration

    Last night, after receiving all the birthday wishes, the lovely words of praises and the wonderful expressions of admiration, I decided to enlighten the chowkies of my all-time supporter, my living legend and my Great Wall of encouragement; my best friend.

    If you ever find him walking down a street, the first thing that would possibly come into your mind would be “another classic, archetypal young man”. How wrong your first impression would be! Actually, all great, beautiful minds don an invisibility cloak; its not until the inner light starts immensely penetrating through their cloak, that we catch a glimpse of them, out of a crowd. That’s what I did when I met him the first time; brutally ignored him, until I felt the warmth of the light emanating from him.

    We both, every day, are writing our own stories, our own soaps and are magicians of our own shows, yet somehow silently living in each other’s lives. I always know if I mess myself up, he’ll have a bright idea to get me out. And so I thought, why not unleash myself to the extremes. And today I not only indulge in writing, but I am sketching, singing, reading, and the most important, am dreaming. Dreaming like there never were any boundaries, limits or stopping. There was a time, when I used to aspire to be like someone; but the day I started trusting myself, I started enjoying my uniqueness. This is one lesson I learnt from him, which I think has been ingrained under my skin. I have learnt to believe in myself.

    One thing I enjoy saying about him is that he’s been a teacher before he experienced the student in him. He teaches me the art of looking at a single picture in a millions of perspectives before he himself draws it. And hence, he was the first one to say he wanted to be a writer. A childhood dream he thinks I helped him to re-realize. Somehow I don’t know how, but this sentence gives me the power to paint the whole emotion down, only through my pen. What nobody else realizes is, if you encourage someone saying that they helped you find a talent in you, it automatically gives him/her the feeling that they already possessed that skill. Amazing strategy, isn’t it?

    His anonymity gave me the strength to face the literary world unarmed. Today I write with my full name, with fearless zest and without any hindrance. The secret behind is, to have no fear. Not only that, but to imagine no fear either. Never think someone out there might not ‘like’ you; think no one has time to think about your weak points. So, if you have a desire to create a talent within you, originate it without any fear in your mind. And believe you’ll get it. That’s what he taught me.

    “You’ve the power to mould a personality,
    Out of nothingness,
    You’ve the power to bring out a jewel,
    Out of dust…
    I know you’ll disagree on this even today….

    But then a fact remains a fact,
    I sometimes wonder,
    How should I count you in my blessings…
    Or should I count my blessings in you….
    From the first second you came till today?”***

    All that’s been said and written as in praise for friendship, I think I have read it a thousand times. But, he truly truly sets all the examples of being a real friend; a kind that millions might envy. The kind that remains with me no matter wherever I go. Each of my post here is tainted by his effort to make me come out of my hard shell; I once lost all my words after a major shock in my life. He showed me I can write even without words. Words are, after all, slaves of our minds. They spill out like a fountain, in every form of feeling; and so I took the plunge to write how that feeling was. It turned out better than what I thought it would be.

    “How will I ever thank you for all that you gave,
    For all that you took,
    And all that you continue to do,
    I can’t find the expression,
    But just “thank you” is too small a word today…”***

    Thank you for supporting me through my learning process. And yes, you will always remain an awesome wizard of miracles for me.
    _____________________________________________________

    *** Parts of the poem I wrote in appreciation of his existence in my life. The full poem is with him only.

    May 1, 2007

    Ohh Thank you so much, ALL OF YOU!!!

    Thank you, thank you, thank you. And THANK YOU for the wishes!

    Love you all!! :D

    May 1, 2007

    STUDY OF THE CHRONIC RHEUMATISM IN AN ADOLESCENT (PART II)

    And so Now to the CONTINUATION:::

    [The RULES are still same, switch Romantic, Romanticism or Roman Tick, into RHEUMATIC or RHEUMATICISM]

    Yesterday, out of frustration I thought to open mum’s patheticology book. Oh woops, I meant pathology. Now as I skimmed through the very first page (i.e. after the writers have thanked all the possible professors, universities and research institutes they could think of), there it inevitably was; definition of the subject.

    It said: Pathos means “sufferings” and Logos means “study”. Hmmm… the sufferings of study. Right, my kind of thing! You know, I always felt there should have been some research on how WE as students suffer during our school and college years. Alas, pathology turns out to be the ‘study of suffering’. But, wait, ain’t examinations, hourlies, tests, Summer Vacation Homeworks (notice how I stress on this; you have no idea how many years this SVH has tortured me! It was almost like SVH anxiety syndrome as the year reached to the month of June), Vps, bossy teachers, assignments, boring lectures… *sigh*….

    So anyway, as I was saying, mum’s pathology book might have some details on my ailment. After all, I am SUFFERING, and I wanted to STUDY it. Makes sense? To me, yes; but to the book, no! After digesting a few medical mumbo jumbo’s I realized, I still was right there where I was an hour ago; meaning, I was still “clueless”. And then, I thought of the symptoms index. But the most beautiful theory of the symptoms index is, you’ll feel awed at the pace it goes deep into heart, making you revisit all your pains and aches, and in the end, giving you a hundred possibilities to choose from. Yep, I had a huge list out of which I could shop around and pick the “most” interesting illness I felt would look nice on my C.V. Now, that’s what I call romantic fever… so very out of this world, the feeling remains.

    Screw it; back to the wonderful life of socializing. Let’s start the cha cha cha, shall we? I pull your leg, you pull mine!

    Next victim of my fever; Fraandship gangsta’s. You see, when you once illustrate on your profile clearly, that you are young, smart and very much FEMALE, you get the first dose of fraandship in here. No matter, wherever on the whole cyber world you’ll exist, this new fraandship generation will find you. They lurk on the whole web to get as many fraandships as possible. Rather, if you plead not to bother you with such generous offers, they’ll bark back at you and call you a “feminist”. Firstly, what’s the definition of feminist again? Secondly, why don’t I call you a masculinist (or whatever!)? Hey, if you wanna play, play a fair game. Aiite?

    Having suffered from an over dosage of the “hey wanna fraandship” phrase, I beg of you all, please think of some other line at least? You see what you have done? You all have caused me a serious emotional meltdown. We are such a fraandly youth, I think I am blessed to be part of it. I am getting senti-MENTAL again, I need tissues. *sniff sniff*

    I remember I once applied for an internship somewhere, and was accepted right away. All the credit goes to “the female advantage”. So many guys used to ogle me in wonder/surprise/astonishment/disgust/envy/jealousy all mix. Yeah, I couldn’t find a single word for all those around there, all their expressions and all the dread that got built in me. Every day, as I stepped in and out, I had a question; what’s my fault? Nope, Faiqah dear, it wasn’t your fault. It was the poor guys that they got a different set of genitalia from yours. (Not to forget the blaming game!)

    Aah, but then some of us will kick and scream if we take revenge! Imagine this; A highly functioning womanizer is labeled gay by his coworkers as his birthday present and he blames other girls for the prank. But, then, we do pray to God to get us rid of such stalkers from our office environment too. Maybe he listened this time. You’ll run after every person who “looks and smells” like a woman, despite the age factor, and then expect to be a gentleman when around us. Hmm, sounds unfair, but we don’t enjoy the chase to ’all limits’. And hey, gays have rights too! Plus, I wonder, I got the romantic fever, how come I don’t feel like doing the same? Huh?

    Under my fever, don’t bang into me. I repeat; DON’T. I’ll take your eye out, simple. When I didn’t have such a tender heart (and joints), I never worried when some one pushes me in the bus, at work place, in school or market. That’s when I didn’t care who the someone was. Now, I do. You see, I am highly sensitive these days, and banging (on purpose or by mistake) won’t be funny again. This reminds me, during my high school, I used to wonder why the lab boys love squeezing in a canteen rush-hour in the all-girls school. The first question that came into my mind then was “what good does it do?”. I mean, great you came in contact with my shoulder, so? I guess, I don’t have the vivid imagination like them. Maybe the lab rats and cockroaches bored them to death and they almost forgot how humans look (and feel) like after a while, working in those stinky laboratories. Or maybe the spirit and alcohol fumes get them high. Oh but I can only guess…

    Hey, did I tell you I have started loathing gossiping too? Girls can only abhor gossiping when they become a significant part of the gossip. I have made a promise. I’ll be a good girl and not gossip again; meanwhile I hope I get off the hot news bulletin during the girls’ lunch break. I never used to be on that list before, until the fever made me feel pretty down, and I couldn’t concentrate on the latest. One rule of staying off the list is to be the ‘informer’. Just dump the wholly headed females with more and they’ll forget you got a life too, which can turn out to be pretty gossipy too. Just fill them on the latest and be on the safe side. But a day or two off as sick leave, and there you are; some romance brewing between you and some 60 year old teacher whom you never saw. My fault? Nope… you know the rule.

    I was watching Happily N’ever After that day, since I have started liking kiddish stuff again. Well, romanticism makes you feel young, now my bad luck, I already was young and some how I slipped quite back and I feel like an 8 year old. So anyway, the Prince Potato-head (yes my heart goes out to the dishwasher, he’s more sexy and ummm… not so potato-head) tries reading “ROMANTIC” from his fairytale book and all he read was ROMAN TICK. Interesting. Sometimes, it can turn out to be roman tick. Irritating, itching, giving discomfort, and so sticky. Maybe this is more like a tick than I know. Maybe I should check my cat again, is it making me fall ill? Perhaps I did fall too much for it. Better stop cuddling it too much.

    More thanks to the fever, I am so low on my body image that I have decided I’ll get a rhinoplasty. Or simply a nose job at least. After all, all the Hollywood stars afford it too, what could be more expensive than my Gucci purse? Oops, yeah its fake. But I can get a fake nose job too, right? Recently while chatting (ugh, again!), I met a Bayqarar, who wanted to see my picture. He went about “hey can I see you pic? Please?? Please??” and I said, well I am camera shy (another big fat lie). Then he showed that seriously stupid goggles emoticon and completely irritated me (he was a roman tick too?). So I replied:

    “wow nice goggles! Lol :P”

    “ohh yeah very expensive Rs. 10. You want too?”

    “ohh yeah sure, haha!” (I told you I am out of jokes too!)

    “ohh yeah it will suit you a lot”

    “oh nah, I got a very small nose, and no shades fit my face properly”

    I am jerk! Why did I say that? Seriously I didn’t know these days the new favorite feature among men is the nose. And some how it’s a bit different than other features; the smaller, the more turned on men get. Damn, I am so backward, nobody ever told me that. Now since then, I get daily pestering by the guys (all those whom I told about my sexy nose) to show them my pic. Looks like I’ll be more famous for my nose than Pamela Anderson for strutting her stuff. Hey no wonder, the figure of yearly nose jobs are rising steadily. Well, at least, guys won’t get distracted too below our face!

    By the way, just recently my mum commented on an unnoticed tendency, which of course I didn’t notice until mum didn’t name it a cute name. Men complex. This guy, lets name him Froady (well yes of course you can rhyme it with fraudiye too, if you wish, but no hard feelings from my side) turned out to be quite an acquaintance for me. He has been helping me out solve all the above romantic fever complications. I learned how to get rid of the unwanted and attract more of the wanted ones; I learned how to drive them insane too, if they drive me insane; how to enjoy my chat sessions than boil my head over loonies. But no matter how bold and brilliant he is with me, while we discuss the perverts, the womanizers, and the prince potato-heads, he’ll turn into a chicken the moment my mum arrives or is around me. I just wish you could see how his facial expression will change; 360 degrees turn in the photoshop emboss shading mode. There, you’ll see, the ‘perfect gentleman’ (or trying to be one, if you ask me!) standing sweetly, listening to all that my mum has to say, hardly grasping a single thing (some form of internal shutdown process going on in his head) and then when she’s gone, asking me what she just said. Heh, interesting. I never wondered until mum didn’t point me out that the only kind of women that frightens a youthful man, is a girl’s mother. [Oh but she’s not your mother-in-law! Plus, her chappals aren’t shock proof, so nope she won’t take them off either!]

    CORRECTION (mum speaking): Men aren’t scared of their mother-in-laws, it’s the girls who are frightened of mother-in-laws.

    Now that, mum named one, I would like to present you with the ‘nasal complex’. I didn’t know it wasn’t only a plague in the girl world. Its like some form of anorexia; the media elaborates on how females suffer through this, forgetting men suffer from it too. The NOSE again. “Your nose is so cute, mine is not!”. Reminds me of “I am cool, I am hot, I am all you are Not”. Except for it doesn’t concern in here, sorry I digressed. I was saying, how much we suffer from low body image, we’ll put it out on a show, and those who suffer silently of their huge, disfigured, long, Pinocchio kind nose, will silently watch over and still say nothing. Oh but “Stand Up, Speak Up” had something to do with this too, no? Well here’s a little secret no one else shared before. Woman are attracted to men with HUGE, DISFIGURED,LONG,PINOCCHIO kind noses. That somehow has to do with, the longer the nose, the longer other stuff too? I am not sure, but what I am sure of is, the longer the nose, the better they are personality wise, or that’s what my grand ma used to say. I rest my case on public’s opinion and further research.

    Then one day I read Ahadaustin’s “poor men” ilog and felt nothing. Seriously I had to sms Froady the “where did you go” one AND guess what came as a reply?

    “Ohh man soooo true :’( I guess you women have to think of some new phrases :P”

    Ok, I thought of one. “YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE”! Familiar? Well familiar enough to us; ever wonder what kind of reply we (read: specifically I) get? Yes exactly. So be grateful we don’t change our strategies that much.

    And comes the end of romantic volcano. Emotional burst. Mental and not-so-mental complications. Get well soon, Faiqah.

    P.S.: Thanks to all the free hunks on the orkut, MSN, Gmail, WordPress, blogspot, hi5, etc. Your muscular display pics were my inspiration. Rock on!

    May 1, 2007

    HAPPY BIRTHDAY FAIQAH!

    Happy 19th birthday! And so you are a year ahead. The weird thing is I am staring at this white ilog box thinking what should I be writing… somehow I can reflect on all topics but this day. This day remains a surprise to me.

    Things that come into my mind are:
    Am I still there?
    Am I still the same?
    Am I what I thought I would be?
    Am I this, am I that yet?

    Am I? Am I? Am I?? Or Am I not?

    Another question, “Ok, so there, I moved a year forward, when is that fateful day coming? Death, I ask?”.

    Nope, not a depressing thought, a fascinating thought, I would rather say. I feel like a movie today. Normally movies are 3 hours long; I, on the other hand am the movie. So, I continue to act, sing, dance, cry, smile… as long as the end isn’t there. I am the actress and I got a script of my own.

    And then goes back my thought; am I acting the way I wanted to? Am I?

    And I get no answers.

    I am here, I am here,
    thinking again,
    how many of you have changed my year,
    how many quenched my thirst to live again.

    I am here again,
    writing my thought of what others dont want to hear,
    I am here, musing upon this day,
    the day I started my journey from there.

    I’ll continue questioning, here,
    I’ll continue to wonder with amusement,
    I’ll see how much more I can dance on the tunes,
    the tunes, I think, is life, with astonishment.

    Happy Birthday imran.

  5. Che naaz, I love Rumi


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