The Story of God and the Clumsiness of Words

239. Ruzbihan

If I keep silent,

You accuse me of being elitist,

But if I speak,

You say I make no sense at all.

But do you know how hard it is

To describe the indescribable?

Words are the most clumsy and troublesome method of conveying information. Often it barely encompasses the meaning and normally it can be misinterpreted in thousands of ways, swayed by the thousands of sentiments and inchoate bias which all men hold in themselves. 

The Lion. If you wish to understand the lion, you must become the lion. If you desire to know the sheep, you have to be the sheep. And God? Is it surprising that some Sufi poetry and stories defeat the most determined of analytic minds? For the Story of God is not for the mind, but for the vast infinite expanse of the human heart... There are no words here, sunshine, but a horizon of silence blanketing the Oneness of our Creator.

wa min Allah at-taufiq

Hate has no place in Islam

If the Model is Exquisite, do not wonder why the Painting is Beautiful - of Ghosts, Rumi, God and Friendship

Sigh. Why can't this crank just leave me alone.

Rumi is quite Da Man, you know. And although I have known of him for some time, I can never really wrap my turban around his prose. Just like Ruzbihan’s, they are so elevated and transcendental that my brain kinda break down and refuses to budge despite my loudest exhortations. So I say that if Rumi’s prose is so high and heavenly, then obviously I must drag Rumi and his fabled lore down to my low standards. So I am sorry if you are looking for elevated love in this almanac. I don’t think you will find any here. There is an elevator in the building, correct, but the arrow is always pointing down, because you know, I am that ‘low kinda guy’. Hehehe.

Rubbing Rumi

Did Rumi not say,

“How will your mirror

Be polished if you are

Irritated by every rub?”

Well, I am Rumi’s proverbial mirror.

And yes, Mr. Rumi…

I do get irritated by every rub.

But maybe it is you who is

Rubbing me the wrong way!

Ha.  Ha.  Ha. My beard is funnier than his jokes.



I don’t write poetry, actually. I just write. I have no notion of the aesthetics nor am I an avid reader of poetry. What actually happens is that I just pay attention and listen to any ghost willing to impart some understanding of God, the Prophets, the Companion, the Saints and humanity generally. And just like an artist with his model, if the subject is beautiful, how else can the artist draw her. If God is so utterly beautiful, how else can I write of Him?

Friends. Well, Rumi or Ruzbihan, Ariffin, Rusty, Rose, Lee, Petr, Ema, Matasan, George,  Zulkarnain or Katmon… so many friends and so many faces. How I wish sometimes I had ten thousand extra hours to sit with my old and new friends, to listen to their stories and jokes, to commiserate at their loss or sickness. Just to be a part of their wonderfully rich lives. I am a sinner, but by God I am surrounded by beautiful people. Far and near, alive or dead, their tales seed my life with hope, and their love and compassion shame me to be a better person.

Ghosts? I do not actually see them. But their voices are loud and clear. I read them in books, and I hear them in the oral traditions from people of all sorts of spiritual colour. And all of the good ghosts are saying, "Do not let our good stories die with us. Do not let everything that we struggled for, Love, Faith, Truth, Kindness, Humility and Beauty perish with us."  So I listen. Then I write.

Thank you for reading what I write. Have a happy, happy Sabbath, pet.

Pax Taufiqa.

In the Library of Love

The Library of Love

I wandered into the Library of Love,

And what a strange collection

That Love possesses,

For in all its cabinets and shelves

Are filled with books

All embossed by the singular title of

“Ahad & Ahmad”

I have been honoured with the permission

To open and read many

Although there is still

A mountain of books

Yet to be read.

In one book

I found an illustration

Of my mother,

In another I read the life of

My paternal grandfather,

In one giant book I became

Enamoured with the Angels,

And in the next I studied

The map of Hallaj’s heart.

In a colourful tome I was

Educated in the stories of

The People of God,

And their names were

Both Muslims and

Non-muslims.

I became acquainted with Raj,

Amir, John, Karen, Martin,

William and Maria.

In the donors' list

Of the Library I found

The names of the people

Who came to donate

Their own books… and

Their names were

Ominously familiar to me -

Rumi, Ruzbihan,

Abdul Qader Geylani,

Ibnu Arabi…

Pax Taufiqa

Rumi, Ruzbihan, Superheroes of God and Heralds of Love!

7. Choice II
You do not choose the Lord,
The Lord chooses you.
There is no bargain,
No trade to make.

He will simply catch you,
Asleep and unaware,
Whispering into you,
O’ love, awake!

At the end of it all, what choice have we? When Love itself knocks on the door of our soul?

For so long we have been asleep, dreaming of Love. Suddenly, you are awaken from your slumber, and you see Love…. What a joyous moment it was! What a joyous moment it is! What a joyous moment it will be!

People are all around you, working, playing, eating, living and dying. But they are in truth sleep-walkers, caught in the twilight of forgetfulness. They have forgotten Him, they have forgotten Love. They trade their affections instead with such love that this world can offer… they are making a terrible bargain.

O' Jews, Christians, Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims, go and wake up your co-religionists! I cannot, because I am just a sinner, but you can - Be the Heralds of Love!

You have a lot of work ahead of you, sunshine. But you will be in the honoured company of Rumi, Ruzbihan and other superheroes of God.

Pax Taufiqa.

Footnote: Poem and sketch is from chapter 34, entitled ‘Only a Thought Away’ (Sep 2008). It may have been used in an earlier posting.

The Laments of Rumi and Ruzbihan. Do not be fooled.

11. My Lord Most Curious
I would rue the day
Of complete understanding,
When all my joy
Is in my searching.

...........................................................

(from the chapter entitled "My Lord has Answered me" circa March 2007)

If you are familiar with Sufi poetry, you would know that the poet likes to make a complete hullabaloo about yearning, searching and spouting sorrowful verses about his separation from the Beloved. Jelaluddin Rumi, founder of the Mehlevi Order, for one, writes this way (a little). On the right, is an often reproduced picture of him, looking thoughtful and sleepy.

It is however from a book given to me by my friend, Azrano, that I came across Ruzbihan Baqli (Ruzbihan the Grocer), a fellow Persian poet of unsurpassed melodramas. Being a hopeless sinner, I am unable to contemplate the vast visage and horizon of his plaintive cries and tears of love for the Beloved and the Loving One. I can only look on wearily, with muted responses of "Aha..., Hmmm, Yesss...", as page after page, Ruzbihan confesses his immortal and near-unbearable love for the Creator.
But do not be tricked by old Ruzbihan. For all their miserable oh-woe-is-me scribblings about their desperate yearning for the Divine Presence, truth be told, the Sufis are utterly happy in their experiences. However they may fluster about the difficulties of the path, however often they may admit their personal inadequacies and peccadilloes, theirs is a wondrous journey simply because they do not place God in the narrow confines of their intellect. They are not insisting on any meaning to the word 'God'. Rather, they are allowing God to put meanings into them. That is submission. That is Islam. So please, don't anyone talk anymore about the difference between Sufism and Orthodox Islam. Sufism is Orthodox Islam.

This is turning out to be a good day for me. Rarely am I so forceful. It must be the caffeine. Hehehe. But may it be an even better day for you, my fellow traveler.

Pax Taufica.