I was thinking about this poem as I created this image. It’s one of my favourite Rumi poems translated by Coleman Barks. It’s in a little volume I have, called The Glance.
The singer sings about love, until
the Friend appears in the doorway.
Kitchen smoke drifts up into clouds
and becomes a thousand-year-old wine.
I am here, not reckoning the credit
accumulated or future speculation.
I am the vineyard and the barrel
where the grapes are crushed, the
entire operation, whose transaction
pours this glass of wine, this moment,
this poem. A man stumbles by with
baggage, papers from the house, regret
and wishing, not knowing which to
tend to. Neither. After you see
the face, concerns change, as
lakewater rises into mist.
(If you click on the picture, you can see it larger.)
image (cc) 2009 Hilary Farmer