Going to Konya
by Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore
Tomorrow we’re getting on a bus in Ankara and going to Konya—
Most of my adult life I’ve wanted to be going to Konya
Will it be raining tiny celestial cities or crescent rainbows like flying birds?
Will it be sizzling hot with bronze sunlight or snowing in Konya?
Will Mevlana be tall or short—visible or invisible?
Will he greet me as I enter his tomb—his smile like a sweet breeze blowing in Konya?
Will there be a giant elephant in a dark house
And will three blind men try to describe it—totally not knowing in Konya?
Will the tomb rise up into the starry heavens themselves -
its turqoise dome entering dimension after dimension - each glowing in Konya?
Will a cape of gorgeous feathers from the Great Simurgh fall from the ceiling
and float slowly onto Rumi’s tomb gracefully flowing in Konya?
Will the Path to Allah open up like the yellow brick road
and every lion—scarecrow and tin man of our souls into Oz-like enlightenment be growing in Konya?
Am I expecting too much - O faint heart - or am I expecting too little?
Will the tomb of Rumi be silent as stone or softly echoing in Konya?
Will I see Rumi face to face at some moment in some way
And forever after my heart be like an open ocean rowing in Konya?
Some saints leave traces - some saints leave majestic mountains -
Rumi’s stature with God a whole world seems to be shadowing from Konya
When we step off the bus will my feet tingle?
Will I hear the hammer beating the copper pot Rumi heard - its heart-pulse bestowing on Konya?
Will Shems appear in ragged cloak and fierce sun-scorched face -
Heart like a catapult whole galaxies into infinity throwing in Konya?
Ah Ameen - you’ve waited long enough all your 61 years to now -
go to sleep and tomorrow insha’Allah you’ll finally be going to Konya!