I take great joy in the poetry of Jelaluddin Rumi, and I like chickpeas, so I'm doubly pleased by this poem.
When I read this poem in the book "The Soul Is Here For Its Own Joy," it was called "A chickpea leaps," but I like this title "Chickpea to Cook" better, as it describes a conversation. This poem is translated by Coleman Barks.
A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot
where it's being boiled.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
The cook knocks him down with the ladle.
"Don't you try to jump out.
You think I'm torturing you.
I'm giving you flavor,
so you can mix with spices and rice
and be the lovely vitality of a human being.
"Remember when you drank rain in the garden.
That was for this."
Grace first. Sexual pleasure,
then a boiling new life begins,
and the Friend has something good to eat.
Eventually the chickpea
will say to the cook,
"Boil me some more.
Hit me with the skimming spoon.
I can't do this by myself.
"I'm like an elephant that dreams of gardens
back in Hindustan and doesn't pay attention
to his driver. You're my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love your cooking."
The cook says,
"I was once like you,
fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time,
and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings.
"My animal soul grew powerful.
I controlled it with practices,
and boiled some more, and boiled
once beyond that,
and became your teacher."
Robert Bly ended the poem after the line "and the Friend has something good to eat." I suppose he has poetic license, but the whole poem has greater significance than the portion Bly selected.
As I reflect on this poem, I noticed that the cook refers to the boiling as what gives the chickpea flavor, not the spices.
In my mind, the line "Remember when you drank rain in the garden" could have either a period or a question mark at the end. The contact form at Coleman Barks's website mentions that he is spending the rest of his days (he's currently 71) on translating the rest of Rumi's poetry , and thus doesn't respond to email questions. So I'm going to let him continue translating, and not bug him about whether that line could have had a question mark at the end.
A few years ago, I read the Star Trek TOS novel Best Destiny by Diane Carey. In that novel, a small Federation vessel is attacked by pirates. The pirates have managed to acquire some advanced shielding technology which allows them to hide in places they're not expected. The pirates are not particularly clever, but the teenage/young-adult son of one of the pirates realizes that this technology is something amazing. There's a scene in the book where he gets the shields working and says "Oh, my shields..." His father sees him and says something to the effect of "You don't know how weird it looks when you talk to the scrap." I remembered that scene as I read this poem, and I had a picture in my mind's eye of the restaurant owner observing the cook and saying "You don't know how weird it looks when you talk to the food."
I don't know about you, but if I were the cook, I would think to myself "This chickpea knows not of which he speaks" when the chickpea started talking about elephants in Hindustan. Did Rumi put that little bit in on purpose, knowing I would think that, or is that a Coleman Barks thing?
I recall a number of Bible passages as I read this poem. I think of Jeremiah at the potter's house, watching the potter work and rework the clay into a fit vessel. I think of Paul writing to the Romans about how we rejoice in our tribulations, for they produce patience, character and hope. I recall the words of the author of Hebrews about how the discipline of God, while painful at the time, produces the peaceful fruit of righteousness for those who are trained by it. I think of the marriage supper of the Lamb in the book of Revelation, and contrary to this poem, we're on the guest list, not the menu...
