Pub­lisher: Mazda Pub­lish­ers
Price: $16.95
For­mat: Paper
ISBN: 1−56859−163−2

Con­tact me with ques­tions about A Bird In The Gar­den Of Angels.

Pub­lished in 2007, A Bird in the Gar­den of Angels, the poetry in which I co-translated with Pro­fes­sor John A. Moyne, is a Rumi reader for the gen­eral pub­lic. It con­tains a brief chap­ter on the his­tory and doc­trine of Sufism and mys­ti­cism, and a sec­ond chap­ter on the life and times of Rumi and his close asso­ciates. The rest of the book is divided into sec­tions, each one con­tain­ing an intro­duc­tion and selec­tions from Rumi’s work. Pro­fes­sor Moyne is the book’s pri­mary author; he wrote the essays that intro­duce the text, trans­lated all the prose selec­tions and did the first ren­der­ings of the poetry. My con­tri­bu­tion was to take his ini­tial ver­sions of the poems, includ­ing those that are quoted in the essays, and make them work as poetry in Eng­lish. A few of the pieces in this vol­ume were pre­vi­ously trans­lated by John Moyne and pub­lished jointly with Cole­man Barks, but they are pre­sented here in revised ver­sions. Some of the prose and poetry in this book has not been pre­vi­ously trans­lated into English.

Sam­ple Poems

That Which Can­not Be Found Is What I Desire

Show me your face: a flower-filled gar­den is what I desire.
Give me your lips: over­flow­ing sweet­ness is what I desire.

“Go away!” you cried out, fak­ing it. “Leave me alone!”
The sound of your voice is what I desire.

A voice stands guard, “Leave now! She’s not at home.”
The doorkeeper’s rude pre­tense is what I desire.

We’re each unique in our way of being sweet.
That mine of sweet­ness in you is what I desire.

To set­tle for fate is to tri­fle with bread and water.
I am a fish. To bat­tle a croc­o­dile is what I desire.

With­out you, this city is a prison; to be left
on a moun­tain, or in a desert, is what I desire.

I am tired of my fee­ble com­pan­ions.
The lion of God, the heroic Rus­tam, is what I desire.

Bank­rupt as I am, I still won’t accept cheap flow­ers.
A mine of pre­cious stones is what I desire.

Weary of these weary peo­ple, I am weep­ing.
The shout­ing and jump­ing of drunk­ards is what I desire.

Pharaoh in his tyranny fatigues my soul.
The light of Moses of Imran is what I desire.

“We have searched,” they said.” It can­not be found.”
That which can­not be found is what I desire.

All things come from Him, yet He remains hid­den.
The hid­den whose works are man­i­fest is what I desire.

News Of A New World

A sweet voice brought the news, “A car­a­van
has come from Egypt! A hun­dred camels laden
with sugar and sweets! O God, what a great gift!”
A can­dle car­ried to the mid­night dark
threw life into a dead body.
I said, “Tell me the news.”
It said, “He is com­ing!”
My heart leaped from my body, made
with its beat­ing a lad­der and climbed to the roof,
seek­ing a sign, search­ing for love. It saw
sud­denly a new world beyond our own
and above it: An ocean held in a jug;
a heaven on earth, with a king
sit­ting on the roof,
wear­ing the robes of a guard.
Within the breast of the gar­dener,
the infi­nite Gar­den of Par­adise;
thoughts turn­ing within his chest,
addressed to the King of hearts.
Don’t let these thoughts escape me!
Let my heart rejoice for one moment!
Shams of Tabriz saw the Place­less,
and in the Place­less he found a place.

This Year In Last Year

Last year I drank wine;
I’m still intox­i­cated.
Last year I touched fire;
my flesh is still burn­ing!
Thirst drove me to water.
In it, I saw the moon.
I am a lion lov­ing the moon,
seek­ing moon­light.
Don’t ask about my pain,
the color of my face is your answer.
My soul is drunk.
My body is in ruin,
is a drunk­ard sit­ting in a rack.
My heart is an ass mired in mud.
Just this once, don’t despair! Lis­ten!
Hear God’s bless­ings calling.

I Come From Nowhere

From the moment you became my world, oh world
of water and mud, my life has been a world

of suf­fer­ing and afflic­tion. This donkey’s pas­ture
is not a home for Jesus. Why should I live

where don­keys feed? You’ve bound my hands and feet
with which I once roamed freely in the cra­dle of truth.

I will free them. I know
how escape artists escape.

I will push my arms like a tree up from under the ground,
reach­ing for the one who taught me to reach;

like a blos­som­ing infant, I will grow and say,
“I have left my child­ish­ness behind.

A branch grow­ing upward, for it came from above,
I will go to the source that I know.”

But why this point­less talk of above and below?
I am from nowhere; my place is placeless.

And if I come from no place,
how can I know a place?

Be silent! Go nowhere and become noth­ing.
Look how much I have learned from noth­ing!