whirling Dervish, Istanbul
Unworn as any adolescent son, the youngest Mevlani Dervish
trembling on the cusp of manhood, is nervous, jaw uncertain.
Eyes flickering to his three brother semazens – left – right –
anxiety is a tremble in his spine: suppose he begins too soon
before the leader, or his sikke, tombstone of the ego, should fall.
Four lovers seek the embrace. Four cycles whirling,
ego to oblivion: first to view all worlds, freed of doubt,
second, opening at the rapture of love’s greatness,
third to dissolve with divine unity, and fourth – to arrive in submission –
junction of non-existence within Divine Existence.
Step into the world of the Sema; step outside all worlds.
Voice chants a deep song of praise calling – choose love.
Saz musicians prepare. The drum beats: Be.
And now to begin – no hurry –
for that which waits was always there, is always.
From the point of stillness,
from the caul of blackness,
strings of the rebab are pulling
light from the dark,
the shroud of their black cloaks from their shoulders.
White released, more pure than snow-drift,
long full-skirted gowns start a slow turn
barely slow, turning, turning, as instruments begin their weave
across the frame of voice
ney a silken thread always pulling higher with the breath.
We watch his growing calmness,
his increasing whirl spinning towards abandon
left foot never leaving the earth
uncertainty transformed in yielding toward oneness.
Then rest. Each in a couple leaning on the other, steady.
Now to begin again, the moment of waiting
only fusing his mindlessness to movement.
This last cycle his passion grows more eager,
forehead unlined, eyes closed in bliss. Divine Unity.
His arms open first, rising, unfurling like tulips in untouched night.
Faster than his elders, opening to the loss of himself, emptying,
fearless twirling inside the light
his outstretched arms rise fluid as weed ribbons in a current of sea
spinning a wide white spiral cloud toward the heavens
its base a channel through him, bringing to us everything unknown.
Right palm open to God, the other opening down towards earth,
he is showering the crowd with light, ecstasy in his unblemished passion.
Silence, chanting ceased, the final drum recalls him,
returns him to the space, suddenly stilled in his earthly case.
We are becalmed in his wake.
No longer wanting sound,
free of desire but for this quietude,
we are left empty of words fading as if in flight,
stepping quietly now
in the backstreets of Istanbul.
sikke: tall camel hair hat representing the tombstone of the ego.
semazens: fellow whirlers
sema: Seven centuries old whirling ceremony of the Sufis
which represents the spiritual journey combining heart, body and soul towards love.
saz: small orchestra: ney, wind; rebab, string, davul, drum
(Published in Robyn Rowland’s poetry collection Under This Saffron Sun, Knocknarone Press (Ireland), 2019)
