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Water
A follow-up to her ground-breaking translations of Rumi in Gold, poet and musician Haleh Liza Gafori translates a new selection of work by the great Persian mystic that will muster the soul and stir the spirit.
Water expands on Gold, Haleh Liza Gafori's inspired and widely praised translation of the lyric poetry of the Persian mystic Rumi. As in Gold, Gafori renders with fluid grace and moving immediacy these indisputable masterworks of world literature, drawing on the deep well of Rumi’s work to bring out the worldly wit and wisdom that accompany his otherworldly summons. Behold the divine within and without, he tells us. Question the gnawing hunger for material possessions, fame, and fortune, and the fear of emptiness that drives it. Muster the soul, and experience a more compassionate and liberated state of mind. An eco-poet before his time, Rumi celebrates the immensity and wonder of the natural world while warning us of the havoc that greed and the pursuit of power wreak upon us and our world. His flights of dazzling imagery open up heart-stopping glimpses of the divine, challenging readers to wake from oblivion, and above all, to surrender to the transformative power of Love.
Gafori is an acclaimed vocalist and musician as well as a gifted linguist and poet, and in her translations Rumi's poetry sings and beckons as nowhere else. Hers is the work, as the poet Marilyn Hacker has said, "of someone who is at once an acute and enamored reader of the original Farsi text, a dedicated miner of context and backstory, and, best of all, a marvelous poet in English.”
Water expands on Gold, Haleh Liza Gafori's inspired and widely praised translation of the lyric poetry of the Persian mystic Rumi. As in Gold, Gafori renders with fluid grace and moving immediacy these indisputable masterworks of world literature, drawing on the deep well of Rumi’s work to bring out the worldly wit and wisdom that accompany his otherworldly summons. Behold the divine within and without, he tells us. Question the gnawing hunger for material possessions, fame, and fortune, and the fear of emptiness that drives it. Muster the soul, and experience a more compassionate and liberated state of mind. An eco-poet before his time, Rumi celebrates the immensity and wonder of the natural world while warning us of the havoc that greed and the pursuit of power wreak upon us and our world. His flights of dazzling imagery open up heart-stopping glimpses of the divine, challenging readers to wake from oblivion, and above all, to surrender to the transformative power of Love.
Gafori is an acclaimed vocalist and musician as well as a gifted linguist and poet, and in her translations Rumi's poetry sings and beckons as nowhere else. Hers is the work, as the poet Marilyn Hacker has said, "of someone who is at once an acute and enamored reader of the original Farsi text, a dedicated miner of context and backstory, and, best of all, a marvelous poet in English.”
104 pages, Paperback
Published April 22, 2025
About the author
Jalal ad-Din Muhammad ar-Rumi
1,148 books16.1k followersSufism inspired writings of Persian poet and mystic Jalal ad-Din Muhammad ar-Rumi; these writings express the longing of the soul for union with the divine.
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī - also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Balkhī, Mevlânâ/Mawlānā (مولانا, "our master"), Mevlevî/Mawlawī (مولوی, "my master") and more popularly simply as Rumi - was a 13th-century Persian poet, jurist, Islamic scholar, theologian and Sufi mystic who lived in Konya, a city of Ottoman Empire (Today's Turkey). His poems have been widely translated into many of the world's languages, and he has been described as the most popular poet and the best-selling poet in the United States.
His poetry has influenced Persian literature, but also Turkish, Ottoman Turkish, Azerbaijani, Punjabi, Hindi, and Urdu, as well as the literature of some other Turkic, Iranian, and Indo-Aryan languages including Chagatai, Pashto, and Bengali.
Due to quarrels between different dynasties in Khorāṣān, opposition to the Khwarizmid Shahs who were considered devious by his father, Bahā ud-Dīn Wālad or fear of the impending Mongol cataclysm, his father decided to migrate westwards, eventually settling in the Anatolian city Konya, where he lived most of his life, composed one of the crowning glories of Persian literature, and profoundly affected the culture of the area.
When his father died, Rumi, aged 25, inherited his position as the head of an Islamic school. One of Baha' ud-Din's students, Sayyed Burhan ud-Din Muhaqqiq Termazi, continued to train Rumi in the Shariah as well as the Tariqa, especially that of Rumi's father. For nine years, Rumi practised Sufism as a disciple of Burhan ud-Din until the latter died in 1240 or 1241. Rumi's public life then began: he became an Islamic Jurist, issuing fatwas and giving sermons in the mosques of Konya. He also served as a Molvi (Islamic teacher) and taught his adherents in the madrassa. During this period, Rumi also travelled to Damascus and is said to have spent four years there.
It was his meeting with the dervish Shams-e Tabrizi on 15 November 1244 that completely changed his life. From an accomplished teacher and jurist, Rumi was transformed into an ascetic.
On the night of 5 December 1248, as Rumi and Shams were talking, Shams was called to the back door. He went out, never to be seen again. Rumi's love for, and his bereavement at the death of, Shams found their expression in an outpouring of lyric poems, Divan-e Shams-e Tabrizi. He himself went out searching for Shams and journeyed again to Damascus.
Rumi found another companion in Salaḥ ud-Din-e Zarkub, a goldsmith. After Salah ud-Din's death, Rumi's scribe and favourite student, Hussam-e Chalabi, assumed the role of Rumi's companion. Hussam implored Rumi to write more. Rumi spent the next 12 years of his life in Anatolia dictating the six volumes of this masterwork, the Masnavi, to Hussam.
In December 1273, Rumi fell ill and died on the 17th of December in Konya.
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī - also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Balkhī, Mevlânâ/Mawlānā (مولانا, "our master"), Mevlevî/Mawlawī (مولوی, "my master") and more popularly simply as Rumi - was a 13th-century Persian poet, jurist, Islamic scholar, theologian and Sufi mystic who lived in Konya, a city of Ottoman Empire (Today's Turkey). His poems have been widely translated into many of the world's languages, and he has been described as the most popular poet and the best-selling poet in the United States.
His poetry has influenced Persian literature, but also Turkish, Ottoman Turkish, Azerbaijani, Punjabi, Hindi, and Urdu, as well as the literature of some other Turkic, Iranian, and Indo-Aryan languages including Chagatai, Pashto, and Bengali.
Due to quarrels between different dynasties in Khorāṣān, opposition to the Khwarizmid Shahs who were considered devious by his father, Bahā ud-Dīn Wālad or fear of the impending Mongol cataclysm, his father decided to migrate westwards, eventually settling in the Anatolian city Konya, where he lived most of his life, composed one of the crowning glories of Persian literature, and profoundly affected the culture of the area.
When his father died, Rumi, aged 25, inherited his position as the head of an Islamic school. One of Baha' ud-Din's students, Sayyed Burhan ud-Din Muhaqqiq Termazi, continued to train Rumi in the Shariah as well as the Tariqa, especially that of Rumi's father. For nine years, Rumi practised Sufism as a disciple of Burhan ud-Din until the latter died in 1240 or 1241. Rumi's public life then began: he became an Islamic Jurist, issuing fatwas and giving sermons in the mosques of Konya. He also served as a Molvi (Islamic teacher) and taught his adherents in the madrassa. During this period, Rumi also travelled to Damascus and is said to have spent four years there.
It was his meeting with the dervish Shams-e Tabrizi on 15 November 1244 that completely changed his life. From an accomplished teacher and jurist, Rumi was transformed into an ascetic.
On the night of 5 December 1248, as Rumi and Shams were talking, Shams was called to the back door. He went out, never to be seen again. Rumi's love for, and his bereavement at the death of, Shams found their expression in an outpouring of lyric poems, Divan-e Shams-e Tabrizi. He himself went out searching for Shams and journeyed again to Damascus.
Rumi found another companion in Salaḥ ud-Din-e Zarkub, a goldsmith. After Salah ud-Din's death, Rumi's scribe and favourite student, Hussam-e Chalabi, assumed the role of Rumi's companion. Hussam implored Rumi to write more. Rumi spent the next 12 years of his life in Anatolia dictating the six volumes of this masterwork, the Masnavi, to Hussam.
In December 1273, Rumi fell ill and died on the 17th of December in Konya.
Ratings & Reviews
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 122 reviews
April 6, 2026
“The person who’s in love always wins” in a book!!!!
Read
May 13, 2025“When I leave this body,
people will ask—
what did he do with his life?
I knew you, Beloved.
That was enough.”
update 10/13/25: loved my second read of this! a great reminder to lead our lives and hearts with love, courageously and selflessly
people will ask—
what did he do with his life?
I knew you, Beloved.
That was enough.”
update 10/13/25: loved my second read of this! a great reminder to lead our lives and hearts with love, courageously and selflessly
May 8, 2025
“Why did I make brooding my vocation
when awe was an option?”
when awe was an option?”
Read
July 6, 2025read this whole thing at barnes and noble so i didn’t have to spend $15
April 5, 2026
i read this while laying beside a boy i like. my head rested on his and we took turns reading each poem aloud: turning each word over in our mouths, seeing if we liked the taste. the magic of that moment emulates rumi’s poetry.
rumi captured the beauty in everyday moments, in love and humanity. not every poem resonated, but that’s okay. not every poem will. one thing we concluded is that Rumi excels at ending a poem - endings that leave you pondering and reflecting and inspired.
- 3.5 stars
rumi captured the beauty in everyday moments, in love and humanity. not every poem resonated, but that’s okay. not every poem will. one thing we concluded is that Rumi excels at ending a poem - endings that leave you pondering and reflecting and inspired.
- 3.5 stars
August 2, 2025
of course it’s excellent, but I guess I needed it to be more punchy (?) if that makes sense
August 23, 2025
I wasn’t always this Love-drunk,
this crazed, rapt, and enchanted.
Driven by reason, on guard,
I was a hunter—
calculating, charming, strategic.
The heart is a tender thing—
pulsing with blood, pulsing with life.
That wasn't me.
I wanted answers—
what is this, what is that,
and what will they be tomorrow?
Awe? I knew nothing of awe.
And the awestruck—
those free from the gnawing need to know the unknowable
—they didn't impress me.
Sit down with me. You're a smart one.
Consider what I was
and what I no longer am.
this crazed, rapt, and enchanted.
Driven by reason, on guard,
I was a hunter—
calculating, charming, strategic.
The heart is a tender thing—
pulsing with blood, pulsing with life.
That wasn't me.
I wanted answers—
what is this, what is that,
and what will they be tomorrow?
Awe? I knew nothing of awe.
And the awestruck—
those free from the gnawing need to know the unknowable
—they didn't impress me.
Sit down with me. You're a smart one.
Consider what I was
and what I no longer am.
December 25, 2025
Beautiful translations
February 9, 2026
Rumi is interesting, if a little flowery at times.
March 9, 2025
Beautiful collection of poems that belong to another place and time.
Bellissima raccolta di poesie che appartengono ad un altro luogo e ad un altro tempo.
I received from the Publisher a complimentary digital advanced review copy of the book in exchange for a honest review.
Bellissima raccolta di poesie che appartengono ad un altro luogo e ad un altro tempo.
I received from the Publisher a complimentary digital advanced review copy of the book in exchange for a honest review.
July 27, 2025
This is my favorite translation of Rumi yet. The language is melodic, accessible, evocative and true to the deep spirit of the poet.
August 1, 2025
Beautiful.
May 29, 2026
I was in Manhattan looking for mystical engagement. I tried several bookstores until I happened up Jackson McNally where they had an extensive collection of poetry. I needed a thin book that I could carry in my back pocket. I saw this NYRB collection of Rumi poems and immediately was captivated. Love is his great subject but this isn’t specifically romantic love but a deep and brilliant spiritual love that floods the soul.
And these poems hit the spot like a perfectly cooked piece of Salmon, crimson and glistening, bursting with flavor. Oh how I wish I could read Rumi in Persian, that I could associate that gorgeous script with sounds and images that fully heighten my sensory momentary pleasure. Yet this collection thank God will have to do.
And these poems hit the spot like a perfectly cooked piece of Salmon, crimson and glistening, bursting with flavor. Oh how I wish I could read Rumi in Persian, that I could associate that gorgeous script with sounds and images that fully heighten my sensory momentary pleasure. Yet this collection thank God will have to do.
January 18, 2026
Your fragrant breeze is everywhere,
God
God
May 12, 2026
Never have I wanted to reread something as soon as i was finished with it.
June 21, 2026
“music, the sweetest orator of all,/ has climbed into the pulpit.” or whatever
July 16, 2026
A reminder to always find your way back to love. Always love.
August 11, 2026
So beautiful. A most read for any poetry lover
October 16, 2026
he’s obv very good with words, but the same five topics get repetitive, even while reading one (ish) a day
October 26, 2026
Rumi is the goat. Can’t recommend this collection enough, 100/10
August 18, 2026
Right now I think this is 4 stars as it repeats a lot but definitely if I read it multiple times I’ll start to think it better
(Does Rumi mention wine more than water here?)
(Does Rumi mention wine more than water here?)
April 9, 2026
“Look, the stars spin.
Seasons come and go.
The earth surrenders and suffers no loss.
What do you have to lose?”
Having read both Gold and Water now, I liked Water best. I felt this collection was more varied and interesting. The translator, as before, provided very lyrical and beautiful translations and I will stress again how important I think it is to read something translated by a native speaker like this when possible.
As an aside, I’d encourage everyone to pick up a little something from Iranian or Persian literature right now, whether poetry or a novel, and really appreciate how much we share in the human experience with our fellow humans from there.
Seasons come and go.
The earth surrenders and suffers no loss.
What do you have to lose?”
Having read both Gold and Water now, I liked Water best. I felt this collection was more varied and interesting. The translator, as before, provided very lyrical and beautiful translations and I will stress again how important I think it is to read something translated by a native speaker like this when possible.
As an aside, I’d encourage everyone to pick up a little something from Iranian or Persian literature right now, whether poetry or a novel, and really appreciate how much we share in the human experience with our fellow humans from there.
Read
April 8, 2026"A flower has no tongue yet it tastes the rain.
A flower has no throat yet it drinks the rain.
So I tasted and drank the wine of kindness and laughter.
Without my knowing, without my doing.
It seeped into me."
A flower has no throat yet it drinks the rain.
So I tasted and drank the wine of kindness and laughter.
Without my knowing, without my doing.
It seeped into me."
July 9, 2025
The poems of Rumi are translated in an approachable way with this excellent little book. A mix of existentialism, deep thoughts and clever prose makes this a unique read worth diving into.
October 7, 2026
Poets have great responsibilities. Being beautiful as a poet is not enough, nor is contemplating universals, using large and exquisite language, excessive elaboration or extrapolation of themes and topics unnecessary and unheard, feigning admiration and respect. The poet must make use of the entire page with respect to the tree that birthed it.
They are not novelists, without the ability to fill a page with background, suspense, devices, and emotions; the poet must contain all of these things in stanzas, combining each element in a beautiful, innovative, unforgettable succession of words, and to do so continuously until the poem is over.
The poet's responsibility is not to mass produce poetry as if it were an occupation, but to offer the world necessary, direct, helpful lines invaluable to anybody who devotes their life's precious seconds to read your poetry.
Rumi understood this.
His poems are short, but powerful. His use of natural language is unlike any other. After reading this collection it is easy to understand many poets thereafter as imitators, sad copies, unsuccessful comedians.
Rumi's poetry is gentle. Soft and loving, each word blesses the reader's conscious with a gentle kiss. Woe dissipates with the tenderness of his lines. Let a selection from the first poem illustrate:
You show your face, your flushed face,
and stones spin with joy.
Once again, for the sake of awestruck lovers,
Lift the veil from your face, speak out loud,
so learning and logic lose their way,
so men of reason shatter their culture of unreasonable reason,
so water, reflecting you, becomes the jewel,
so fire retires from war.
The old rusty heavens are no mirror for your face.
His poetry is not simply didactic. It is not cheap or repetitive. He makes simple sentences sound fresh and genuine. His lines have an effect akin to the sun warmth on ones face after a long and cold night.
Searching for treasure,
you’ve endured so much trouble.
Hear this truth—
you are the treasure
and the veil hiding it.
This is not a poet from the high storeys trying to sell you an aphorism to hang on your wall. As a lover one finds comfort and solace in these lines, answers to questions we are too afraid to ask and thoughts too afraid to confront. It is essential especially for those who are not lovers or who feel as if they are incapable of love or being loved.
Why are you ravaged by a single thought,
dragged down, sinking inward,
heavy with sorrow?
Piece by piece, I stitched you together.
Why has one doom-ridden thought
torn you into a hundred pieces?
You packed your belongings
and left the kingdom of my Love.
Now you wander alone.
I made the Earth your cradle
but you won’t relax.
You lie there, cold and wooden,
ill at ease.
I unleashed water from stone.
You marched off towards dry land.
Now you’re hard as granite.
Child of flesh and bone, you are a child of soul.
Love is your trade, your mission, your calling.
Why do you busy yourself with so many other tasks
In one house, you were wounded a hundred times.
You keep circling that house.
You keep eyeing the door.
In another house, you tasted a hundred kinds of sweetness.
You trusted none of them.
Bitter, you never grew sweet.
Dear one, I want to see you love-drunk.
If my words make you vigilant and wary,
I’ll say no more.
Here I am, gazing at you in silence.
Open yourself to the Love in my eyes.
Drink it up.
Spotless, gleaming, revolutionary work.
They are not novelists, without the ability to fill a page with background, suspense, devices, and emotions; the poet must contain all of these things in stanzas, combining each element in a beautiful, innovative, unforgettable succession of words, and to do so continuously until the poem is over.
The poet's responsibility is not to mass produce poetry as if it were an occupation, but to offer the world necessary, direct, helpful lines invaluable to anybody who devotes their life's precious seconds to read your poetry.
Rumi understood this.
His poems are short, but powerful. His use of natural language is unlike any other. After reading this collection it is easy to understand many poets thereafter as imitators, sad copies, unsuccessful comedians.
Rumi's poetry is gentle. Soft and loving, each word blesses the reader's conscious with a gentle kiss. Woe dissipates with the tenderness of his lines. Let a selection from the first poem illustrate:
You show your face, your flushed face,
and stones spin with joy.
Once again, for the sake of awestruck lovers,
Lift the veil from your face, speak out loud,
so learning and logic lose their way,
so men of reason shatter their culture of unreasonable reason,
so water, reflecting you, becomes the jewel,
so fire retires from war.
The old rusty heavens are no mirror for your face.
His poetry is not simply didactic. It is not cheap or repetitive. He makes simple sentences sound fresh and genuine. His lines have an effect akin to the sun warmth on ones face after a long and cold night.
Searching for treasure,
you’ve endured so much trouble.
Hear this truth—
you are the treasure
and the veil hiding it.
This is not a poet from the high storeys trying to sell you an aphorism to hang on your wall. As a lover one finds comfort and solace in these lines, answers to questions we are too afraid to ask and thoughts too afraid to confront. It is essential especially for those who are not lovers or who feel as if they are incapable of love or being loved.
Why are you ravaged by a single thought,
dragged down, sinking inward,
heavy with sorrow?
Piece by piece, I stitched you together.
Why has one doom-ridden thought
torn you into a hundred pieces?
You packed your belongings
and left the kingdom of my Love.
Now you wander alone.
I made the Earth your cradle
but you won’t relax.
You lie there, cold and wooden,
ill at ease.
I unleashed water from stone.
You marched off towards dry land.
Now you’re hard as granite.
Child of flesh and bone, you are a child of soul.
Love is your trade, your mission, your calling.
Why do you busy yourself with so many other tasks
In one house, you were wounded a hundred times.
You keep circling that house.
You keep eyeing the door.
In another house, you tasted a hundred kinds of sweetness.
You trusted none of them.
Bitter, you never grew sweet.
Dear one, I want to see you love-drunk.
If my words make you vigilant and wary,
I’ll say no more.
Here I am, gazing at you in silence.
Open yourself to the Love in my eyes.
Drink it up.
Spotless, gleaming, revolutionary work.
November 26, 2025
RESTLESS HEART, tell me,
what are you made of?
Are you fire, water, human, angel?
From what direction have you arrived?
What fed you? Where did you graze?
Why do you leap toward non-existence-
toward annihilation and union?
Tell me what you know of it.
And why aim for my undoing?
Why uproot me,
why abandon reason,
why tear off your veil?
Wary of emptiness, every animal, every being avoids it,
except you.
You carry all of your belongings into the void-
why?
Warm with fever, urgent, drunk, and in ruin, you go.
When will you stop and take some advice?
When will flirtatious eyes stop stealing you away?
You are a torrent of water flowing
from the mountaintop of the world toward the Ocean beyond place,
faster than I can breathe one breath.
You are the rose and the narcissus,
wide-eyed and fragrant,
intoxicating the lily and the cypress.
The whole garden and the whole season of spring
are bewildered by you.
What breeze touches you, they ask,
what breeze carries you off?
(pg 8-9)
TO BROOD is to wander through a grove
where one sheep strays
and a hundred wolves follow.
Why did I make brooding my vocation
when awe was an option?
Thought spinner,
mull the wine of wonder.
(pg 16)
WHY ARE you avenged by a single thought,
dragged down, sinking inward,
heavy with sorrow?
Piece by piece, I stitched you together.
Why has one doom-ridden thought
down you into a hundred pieces?
You packed your belongings
and left the kingdom of my Love.
Now you wander alone.
I made the earth your cradle
but you won't relax.
You lie there, cold and wooden,
ill at ease.
I unleashed water from stone.
You marched off towards dry land.
Now you're hard as granite.
Child of flesh and bone, you are a child of soul.
Love is your trade, your mission, your calling.
Why do you busy yourself with so many other tasks?
In one house, you were wounded a hundred times.
You keep circling that house.
You keep eyeing the door.
In another house, you tasted a hundred kinds of sweetness.
You trusted none of them.
Bitter, you never grew sweet.
Dear one, I want to see you Love-drunk.
If my words make you vigilant and wary,
I'll say no more.
Here I am, gazing at you in silence.
Open your eyes to the Love in my eyes.
Drink it down.
(pg 25-26)
YOU CAN'T put out a fire, dear boy,
with another fire.
You can't wash my heart's open wound
with another's blood.
(pg 30)
I WASN'T always this Love-drunk,
this crazed, rapt, and enchanted.
Driven by reason, on guard,
I was a hunter-
calculating, charming, strategic.
The heart is a tender thing-
pulsing with blood, pulsing with life.
That wasn't me.
I wanted answers-
what is this, what is that,
and what will they be tomorrow?
Awe? I knew nothing of awe.
And the awestruck-
those free from the gnawing need to know the unknowable-
they didn't impress me.
Sit down with me. You're a smart one.
Consider what I was
and what I no longer am.
I wanted to be a kingpin,
top dog, bigger than big.
Like smoke, I climbed greedily,
going nowhere-
a crooked plume, wayward,
drifting over parched land,
thirsty for meaning.
I didn't know when Love hunts you down,
when you fall prey to Love,
you only rise higher.
Continuing my futile climb, I fell.
I fell,
like a gem, out of a pile of dirt-
not a hoarder of treasure.
Treasure.
(pg 40-41)
YOU PLAY the strings of my heart.
You play a new chord-
light of mine, love of mine,
eyes of mine -
you are music-
the melodies, the fade-out,
and the memory of it all.
Each breath with you,
a new note, a new color.
Every chord you strum
lifts a curtain from my eyes,
waking me from oblivion,
from all my forgetting.
At night, alone, with my soul's swaying lanterns,
I'm astonished. Who are you-
both flame and fuel
keeping my flickering light alive?
Your songs tell me,
you are a body, you are a body.
If I am a body, if I am heart, if I am soul,
I am happy you are the one
weaving me.
You are the cypress, the blooming lily and rose.
Everything blossoms in your presence,
why shouldn't I?
You are iron too, and boulder-
why shouldn't I know your quiet power?
(pg 55-56)
what are you made of?
Are you fire, water, human, angel?
From what direction have you arrived?
What fed you? Where did you graze?
Why do you leap toward non-existence-
toward annihilation and union?
Tell me what you know of it.
And why aim for my undoing?
Why uproot me,
why abandon reason,
why tear off your veil?
Wary of emptiness, every animal, every being avoids it,
except you.
You carry all of your belongings into the void-
why?
Warm with fever, urgent, drunk, and in ruin, you go.
When will you stop and take some advice?
When will flirtatious eyes stop stealing you away?
You are a torrent of water flowing
from the mountaintop of the world toward the Ocean beyond place,
faster than I can breathe one breath.
You are the rose and the narcissus,
wide-eyed and fragrant,
intoxicating the lily and the cypress.
The whole garden and the whole season of spring
are bewildered by you.
What breeze touches you, they ask,
what breeze carries you off?
(pg 8-9)
TO BROOD is to wander through a grove
where one sheep strays
and a hundred wolves follow.
Why did I make brooding my vocation
when awe was an option?
Thought spinner,
mull the wine of wonder.
(pg 16)
WHY ARE you avenged by a single thought,
dragged down, sinking inward,
heavy with sorrow?
Piece by piece, I stitched you together.
Why has one doom-ridden thought
down you into a hundred pieces?
You packed your belongings
and left the kingdom of my Love.
Now you wander alone.
I made the earth your cradle
but you won't relax.
You lie there, cold and wooden,
ill at ease.
I unleashed water from stone.
You marched off towards dry land.
Now you're hard as granite.
Child of flesh and bone, you are a child of soul.
Love is your trade, your mission, your calling.
Why do you busy yourself with so many other tasks?
In one house, you were wounded a hundred times.
You keep circling that house.
You keep eyeing the door.
In another house, you tasted a hundred kinds of sweetness.
You trusted none of them.
Bitter, you never grew sweet.
Dear one, I want to see you Love-drunk.
If my words make you vigilant and wary,
I'll say no more.
Here I am, gazing at you in silence.
Open your eyes to the Love in my eyes.
Drink it down.
(pg 25-26)
YOU CAN'T put out a fire, dear boy,
with another fire.
You can't wash my heart's open wound
with another's blood.
(pg 30)
I WASN'T always this Love-drunk,
this crazed, rapt, and enchanted.
Driven by reason, on guard,
I was a hunter-
calculating, charming, strategic.
The heart is a tender thing-
pulsing with blood, pulsing with life.
That wasn't me.
I wanted answers-
what is this, what is that,
and what will they be tomorrow?
Awe? I knew nothing of awe.
And the awestruck-
those free from the gnawing need to know the unknowable-
they didn't impress me.
Sit down with me. You're a smart one.
Consider what I was
and what I no longer am.
I wanted to be a kingpin,
top dog, bigger than big.
Like smoke, I climbed greedily,
going nowhere-
a crooked plume, wayward,
drifting over parched land,
thirsty for meaning.
I didn't know when Love hunts you down,
when you fall prey to Love,
you only rise higher.
Continuing my futile climb, I fell.
I fell,
like a gem, out of a pile of dirt-
not a hoarder of treasure.
Treasure.
(pg 40-41)
YOU PLAY the strings of my heart.
You play a new chord-
light of mine, love of mine,
eyes of mine -
you are music-
the melodies, the fade-out,
and the memory of it all.
Each breath with you,
a new note, a new color.
Every chord you strum
lifts a curtain from my eyes,
waking me from oblivion,
from all my forgetting.
At night, alone, with my soul's swaying lanterns,
I'm astonished. Who are you-
both flame and fuel
keeping my flickering light alive?
Your songs tell me,
you are a body, you are a body.
If I am a body, if I am heart, if I am soul,
I am happy you are the one
weaving me.
You are the cypress, the blooming lily and rose.
Everything blossoms in your presence,
why shouldn't I?
You are iron too, and boulder-
why shouldn't I know your quiet power?
(pg 55-56)
September 23, 2025
Love has been written about for as long as people have been writing. From Virgil’s Eclogue II to William Shakespeare’s sonnets, love is not a new topic of contemplation; but then, Rumi is not a normal contemplative. “Water” , a moody collection of Rumi’s poems, translated by Haleh Liza Gafori, opens new personalities and actions for the character of Love. Through the speaker’s meditative tone, surprising motifs and imagery, and intense spiritual questions, “Water” reveals aspects of Love that better teach us how to be human.
When a monk speaks in parables, you know its time to lock in. Rumi’s speaker often writes with a similar authority and context beginning lines with “In the depths of the soul” or “We are blind men under a blue sky”. The speaker’s tone speaks from a place of assuredness, as if they have done the thinking and come bringing fruitful questions that reveal the soul’s mysteries. This use of tone allows the reader to approach these lessons with more trust, suspending their doubt and stepping toward Love.
The imagery in this collection revolves around water, the moon, night, and love; all the classic of good poetry. Later in the collection, on page 75, Rumi writes “When you fast, / drink the sound of water.” We’ve all read about the beauty of water but Rumi surprises the reader with impossible commands and stark imagery. The language is absurd and impossible, yet somehow real and truthful; Rumi ends another poem saying “Don’t fault the poem for remaining unfinished. / The bird of the imagination flies where it likes.” He plays with the reader’s expectations and often subverts the normal to press for engagement.
The mark of great poetry is that questions =outweigh answers; Rumi checks this box emphatically. Good poetry is not a shortcut to the mysteries of life, rather, it provokes thoughtfulness and contemplation. Rumi’s collection is filled with these pressing questions like “Isn’t love the crucible where my pennies turn to gold”, or “What do you feed the mind to make a mind / kind, noble, eager to serve?”, or “Who was I? Who wasn’t I?”. The mysteries the speaker alludes to flit behind the veil of contemplation. Rumi walks you to the water but he cannot force you to drink.
Sharp, concise, and cohesive this translation by Gafori is a tremendous gift and achievement. It brought me joy and prompted me on a few occasions to read a poem to someone I loved. It is impossible to not consider Love and its shaping power after reading this collection. Rumi’s writing 800 years later is as relevant as ever; cutting through our boiled down Instagram quotes with full and demanding poetry.
When a monk speaks in parables, you know its time to lock in. Rumi’s speaker often writes with a similar authority and context beginning lines with “In the depths of the soul” or “We are blind men under a blue sky”. The speaker’s tone speaks from a place of assuredness, as if they have done the thinking and come bringing fruitful questions that reveal the soul’s mysteries. This use of tone allows the reader to approach these lessons with more trust, suspending their doubt and stepping toward Love.
The imagery in this collection revolves around water, the moon, night, and love; all the classic of good poetry. Later in the collection, on page 75, Rumi writes “When you fast, / drink the sound of water.” We’ve all read about the beauty of water but Rumi surprises the reader with impossible commands and stark imagery. The language is absurd and impossible, yet somehow real and truthful; Rumi ends another poem saying “Don’t fault the poem for remaining unfinished. / The bird of the imagination flies where it likes.” He plays with the reader’s expectations and often subverts the normal to press for engagement.
The mark of great poetry is that questions =outweigh answers; Rumi checks this box emphatically. Good poetry is not a shortcut to the mysteries of life, rather, it provokes thoughtfulness and contemplation. Rumi’s collection is filled with these pressing questions like “Isn’t love the crucible where my pennies turn to gold”, or “What do you feed the mind to make a mind / kind, noble, eager to serve?”, or “Who was I? Who wasn’t I?”. The mysteries the speaker alludes to flit behind the veil of contemplation. Rumi walks you to the water but he cannot force you to drink.
Sharp, concise, and cohesive this translation by Gafori is a tremendous gift and achievement. It brought me joy and prompted me on a few occasions to read a poem to someone I loved. It is impossible to not consider Love and its shaping power after reading this collection. Rumi’s writing 800 years later is as relevant as ever; cutting through our boiled down Instagram quotes with full and demanding poetry.
October 25, 2025
“Long ago, Shams found me.
Long ago, Shams told me,
You’re not crazy enough.
You don’t belong in this house.
So I left. I lost my mind.
I came back, bound in chains.
You’re still tied up? Shams said.
That’s not the crazy I’m talking about.
Go. You’re not one of us.
So I left again. I got drunk
And came back, overflowing with glee.
You’re not drunk on Love, Shams said.
You’re not dead drunk.
Come back when ecstasy has soaked you to the bone.
His face shined with life.
I fell dead at his feet.
That’s clever, Shams said,
But you’re drunk on doubt and delusion,
Not on Love.
Dumbstruck,
I gave up.
I hid from all.
You can’t hide, Shams said.
You’re the idol to your worshippers.
You’re the candle lighting their way.
I’m no idol. I’m no candle, I said.
I’m the scattering of smoke.
But you’re a preacher, a sheik,
A torchbearer, a leader.
No, I am your servant, I said.
My servant?
Well, you have your own wings and feathers.
You don’t need mine to fly.
Longing for his wings,
I fell, plucked and wingless.
Love spoke in a new voice:
No need to trudge and toil.
I am here, walking towards you
In kindness and grace.
Love spoke in its ancient voice:
Stay close to me. Settle here.
So I did. So I found peace.”
~
ah. this is by far my favorite translation i’ve ever read of Rumi’s works. “Water” is moody, sincere, complex, and devout. Often, rumi’s translated works don’t show his process, his messy, years-long process of trying for liberation and God and running in circles, from respected, arrogant scholar to mystic. being able to read about his reflections on his at times messy journey towards love and liberation, his prior inability to relax and find peace on earth, his prior longings and passions, was a real treat. i also loved being able to read mystical poetry from the disciple rather than the master. reading his reflections on this relationship - between master/disciple - resonated deeply with my heart, as i, too, exist in this bond. the above poem felt SO relatable to me. it’s rare i feel so seen by poetry - with Rumi’s i am.
More women translators of Rumi’s work please. this was perhaps my favorite poetry book of all time - next to The Gift by Hafiz. The Sufi mystics of the earlier centuries were something so special. i also loved how “water” and liquid was a consistent theme in almost all the poems - what a beautiful collection.
i also highly reccomend the novel, The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak, which reimagines Rumi and Shams’ master/disciple relationship.
Long ago, Shams told me,
You’re not crazy enough.
You don’t belong in this house.
So I left. I lost my mind.
I came back, bound in chains.
You’re still tied up? Shams said.
That’s not the crazy I’m talking about.
Go. You’re not one of us.
So I left again. I got drunk
And came back, overflowing with glee.
You’re not drunk on Love, Shams said.
You’re not dead drunk.
Come back when ecstasy has soaked you to the bone.
His face shined with life.
I fell dead at his feet.
That’s clever, Shams said,
But you’re drunk on doubt and delusion,
Not on Love.
Dumbstruck,
I gave up.
I hid from all.
You can’t hide, Shams said.
You’re the idol to your worshippers.
You’re the candle lighting their way.
I’m no idol. I’m no candle, I said.
I’m the scattering of smoke.
But you’re a preacher, a sheik,
A torchbearer, a leader.
No, I am your servant, I said.
My servant?
Well, you have your own wings and feathers.
You don’t need mine to fly.
Longing for his wings,
I fell, plucked and wingless.
Love spoke in a new voice:
No need to trudge and toil.
I am here, walking towards you
In kindness and grace.
Love spoke in its ancient voice:
Stay close to me. Settle here.
So I did. So I found peace.”
~
ah. this is by far my favorite translation i’ve ever read of Rumi’s works. “Water” is moody, sincere, complex, and devout. Often, rumi’s translated works don’t show his process, his messy, years-long process of trying for liberation and God and running in circles, from respected, arrogant scholar to mystic. being able to read about his reflections on his at times messy journey towards love and liberation, his prior inability to relax and find peace on earth, his prior longings and passions, was a real treat. i also loved being able to read mystical poetry from the disciple rather than the master. reading his reflections on this relationship - between master/disciple - resonated deeply with my heart, as i, too, exist in this bond. the above poem felt SO relatable to me. it’s rare i feel so seen by poetry - with Rumi’s i am.
More women translators of Rumi’s work please. this was perhaps my favorite poetry book of all time - next to The Gift by Hafiz. The Sufi mystics of the earlier centuries were something so special. i also loved how “water” and liquid was a consistent theme in almost all the poems - what a beautiful collection.
i also highly reccomend the novel, The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak, which reimagines Rumi and Shams’ master/disciple relationship.
May 12, 2026
4 🌟
I read this after Riz Ahmen reccomended Gold by Rumi in the inklings interview, but this was the only one my library had so I got it. This book and Gold I believe were the first examples of Rumis poetry being translated by a native speaker of Persian I believe, meaning the emotion and intention behind the poems were more accurate. Yet it still feels like a crime to read translated poetry, I feel as though I'll never know its full meaning and there is always too much lost in translation. It also feels wrong to read so many poems in such quick succession, poetry feels like something you should sit with much longer.
I enjoyed the poems and it really does feel like "the one who is in love always wins" but it does start it become repetitive as you go through the book. Still want to read Gold though if I can get my hands on it and I do want to read more poetry in the future, maybe reread this one as well. This collection feel like the night where 'Gold' is the sun yet this was far from dark. It was almost a reminder of how comforting the night can be, as well as exposes themes of yearning, love and spirituality.
quotes:
"We are sum, product, quotient, difference-
no matter
His arithmetic, his algebra
always yields the same results-
one and only One-"
"Praising you, we praise ourselves,
Whoever praises the sun
praises the eyes that see the sun."
"Tell me I was sleeping.
Tell me my eyes are stained with sleep.
I won't grieve. I'm awake now,
no shame for having slept."
"Every element, every particle of every element
is a whirling lover, drunk on union."
"Like smoke, I climbed greedily,
going nowhere-
a crooked plume, wayward,
drifting over parched land,
thirsty for meaning"
"THE DEAD all leave something behind.
Better a trail of good deeds
than a pile of coins.
The world remembers virtue-
and no one can steal it."
"PURE SOUL, grief purifies you.
Sacred body, grief erodes you.
In the fire of Love where you burn,
your paradise is born."
"If your eyes are polluted,
let your tears wash them.
The cure is in your tears."
"Let your hair loose, your curls lasso hearts,
your locks unlock the soul."
I read this after Riz Ahmen reccomended Gold by Rumi in the inklings interview, but this was the only one my library had so I got it. This book and Gold I believe were the first examples of Rumis poetry being translated by a native speaker of Persian I believe, meaning the emotion and intention behind the poems were more accurate. Yet it still feels like a crime to read translated poetry, I feel as though I'll never know its full meaning and there is always too much lost in translation. It also feels wrong to read so many poems in such quick succession, poetry feels like something you should sit with much longer.
I enjoyed the poems and it really does feel like "the one who is in love always wins" but it does start it become repetitive as you go through the book. Still want to read Gold though if I can get my hands on it and I do want to read more poetry in the future, maybe reread this one as well. This collection feel like the night where 'Gold' is the sun yet this was far from dark. It was almost a reminder of how comforting the night can be, as well as exposes themes of yearning, love and spirituality.
quotes:
"We are sum, product, quotient, difference-
no matter
His arithmetic, his algebra
always yields the same results-
one and only One-"
"Praising you, we praise ourselves,
Whoever praises the sun
praises the eyes that see the sun."
"Tell me I was sleeping.
Tell me my eyes are stained with sleep.
I won't grieve. I'm awake now,
no shame for having slept."
"Every element, every particle of every element
is a whirling lover, drunk on union."
"Like smoke, I climbed greedily,
going nowhere-
a crooked plume, wayward,
drifting over parched land,
thirsty for meaning"
"THE DEAD all leave something behind.
Better a trail of good deeds
than a pile of coins.
The world remembers virtue-
and no one can steal it."
"PURE SOUL, grief purifies you.
Sacred body, grief erodes you.
In the fire of Love where you burn,
your paradise is born."
"If your eyes are polluted,
let your tears wash them.
The cure is in your tears."
"Let your hair loose, your curls lasso hearts,
your locks unlock the soul."
August 20, 2026
“When I leave this body, / people will ask— / what did he do with his life?
I knew you, Beloved. / That was enough.”
***
“Last night in my dream, / I saw my hunger. I saw my need. / I saw an emptiness only God can fill. / Enchanted by the beauty of this poverty, / I nearly fainted. / Enchanted by its perfection, / I lay awestruck till dawn. / This poverty is a mine of rubies. / Its red glow drapes me in silk.”
“Searching for treasure, / you've endured so much trouble. / Hear this truth- / you are the treasure / and the veil hiding it.”
“Tomorrow I'll visit Love's tailor. / My robe of longing, / a thousand yards long— / my robe of melancholy, passion, entanglements, and infatuations.
He snips at it. / He snips away one lover, / stitches in another. / This seam might hold. / This seam might split. / I give my heart anyway,
watching his miraculous hands / embroider silk with silk.
Separation might tear my robe to shreds. / His scissors might wound me— / I know. / I give my heart anyway.”
“Fresh, blissful—the moment / we sat in the courtyard, you and me. / Two bodies, two faces, one soul, you and me.
The garden's murmurs, the garden's music, / the babbling brook of birdsong flows through us / like the water of life, we walk among roses, you and me.
The stars bend low to see us, we fill their eyes, / outshine the moon, you and me.
No me versus you here. / No me, me, me or you, you, you here. / We are free of gripes, free of nagging thoughts and delusions, / raucous laughter is here, / parrots drunk on celestial honey.
A stroke of magic that we are here, / while breathing the air of Baghdad's orchards, / while breathing the air of Khorasan's streams, you and me.
One form on earth, another in paradise, / eternal, in the land of honey, you and me.”
“If I am body, if I am heart, if I am soul, / I am happy you are the one / weaving me.”
I knew you, Beloved. / That was enough.”
***
“Last night in my dream, / I saw my hunger. I saw my need. / I saw an emptiness only God can fill. / Enchanted by the beauty of this poverty, / I nearly fainted. / Enchanted by its perfection, / I lay awestruck till dawn. / This poverty is a mine of rubies. / Its red glow drapes me in silk.”
“Searching for treasure, / you've endured so much trouble. / Hear this truth- / you are the treasure / and the veil hiding it.”
“Tomorrow I'll visit Love's tailor. / My robe of longing, / a thousand yards long— / my robe of melancholy, passion, entanglements, and infatuations.
He snips at it. / He snips away one lover, / stitches in another. / This seam might hold. / This seam might split. / I give my heart anyway,
watching his miraculous hands / embroider silk with silk.
Separation might tear my robe to shreds. / His scissors might wound me— / I know. / I give my heart anyway.”
“Fresh, blissful—the moment / we sat in the courtyard, you and me. / Two bodies, two faces, one soul, you and me.
The garden's murmurs, the garden's music, / the babbling brook of birdsong flows through us / like the water of life, we walk among roses, you and me.
The stars bend low to see us, we fill their eyes, / outshine the moon, you and me.
No me versus you here. / No me, me, me or you, you, you here. / We are free of gripes, free of nagging thoughts and delusions, / raucous laughter is here, / parrots drunk on celestial honey.
A stroke of magic that we are here, / while breathing the air of Baghdad's orchards, / while breathing the air of Khorasan's streams, you and me.
One form on earth, another in paradise, / eternal, in the land of honey, you and me.”
“If I am body, if I am heart, if I am soul, / I am happy you are the one / weaving me.”
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