Selected Poems of Tagore

Author: Tagore
Translator: Wu Yan
Country: India
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2001-06-01
Features: The still sea in the early morning, rippling with the murmur of birds; the flowers by the roadside all rejoice; brilliant golden light pours down from the clouds, and we are busy on our way, careless of it. We do not sing songs of joy, nor play; we do not go to the village market; we do not speak or smile; we do not linger on the road. Time flies, and we quicken our pace. The sun climbs to its zenith, doves coo in the shade of the trees. Dry leaves dance and twirl in the midday breeze. The shepherd boy naps under the shade of a banyan tree, while I lie by the water's edge, spreading my tired limbs on the grass. My companions mock me scornfully; they walk tall and swift; they never look back or rest; they vanish into the distant blue mist. They cross many pastures and hills, through many distant and strange lands. The heroes of the endless road, all honor to you! Mockery and blame urge me to hasten, yet I remain unresponsive. Deep in the heart that accepts humiliation with resignation, in the dim shadow of joy, I feel myself hopeless. The peace of the sun-dappled shade slowly envelops my heart. I forget the purpose of my journey, my soul submits to the maze of shadows and songs without resistance.
Later, I wake from sleep, open my eyes, and see you standing beside me, your smile flooding my slumber. How I had feared the road would be long and exhausting, how I had dreaded the struggle to reach you! I beg along the village paths when your golden chariot appears in the distance, like a luxurious dream, and I wonder who this king of kings could be! Hopeful, I think my days of suffering are over, and I stand waiting for the unasked-for gift, the treasure scattered in the dust all around. The chariot stops where I stand. You glance at me, smile, and step down. I feel my lifelong fortune has finally arrived. Then, suddenly, you extend your right hand and say, "What do you have to give me?" Ah, to beg from a beggar, what a king's jest! I am bewildered, standing undecided, then slowly I reach into my bundle and offer you a small grain of wheat. But as the day passes, I empty the contents of my bag onto the ground, and in this wretched pile, I discover a small piece of gold. I weep bitterly, hating myself for not having offered everything to you then.
Eighteen will bring beauty and order to my lonely and desolate life, woman, just as you brought them to my family when you were alive. dust, fill the empty bottles, mend all that is worn. Then open the inner door of the temple, light the candles, and let us meet silently before the gods.
Fifty-three My eyes and limbs once kissed the world, I wrapped it closely in my heart, my thoughts stirring its days and nights until the world and my life became one—I love my life because I love the light of the sky intertwined with me. If leaving this world is as real as loving it, then the comings and goings of life must hold great meaning. If love is deceived in death, then this poison will corrupt all, and the stars will wither and fade.
Fifty-four Clouds tell me, "I have vanished"; night says, "I have plunged into the fiery dawn." Pain says, "I will keep silent, like the silent footprints." "I will die in perfection," my life says to me. The earth tells me, "My light kisses your thoughts at every moment." Time passes, love says, "Yet I have always waited for you." Death says, "I am crossing the sea with your lifeboat."
Fifty-five The poet Dulasi Das stands lost in thought on the desolate cremation ground by the Ganges. He sees a woman sitting beside her husband's feet, dressed in fine clothes, as if for a wedding. When she sees him, she rises and pays respects, saying, "Master, allow me to follow my husband to heaven with your blessings." "Why in such haste, my daughter?" Dulasi Das asks, "This world is not not also the realm of the creator of heaven?" "I do not wish for heaven," the woman replies, "I want my husband." Dulasi Das smiles and says, "Go back to your home, my child. Within this month, you will find your husband." The woman returns home with joyful hope. Dulasi Das visits her daily, teaching her noble thoughts, guiding her to reflect until her heart is filled with sacred love.
January is not yet over, and the rest was wasted in an carefree summer. This little bit is just enough to sing a song for you, to string into a flower bracelet and gently place on your wrist; or just enough to hang on your ear, like a round pink pearl, like a shy whisper. This little bit is just enough to take a risk in gambling and lose it all in one night. My boat is a fragile little vessel, not fit to cross the stormy waves in the rain. If you step onto it gently, I will carry you slowly along the riverbank, where the dark water ripples like sleep disturbed by dreams; where doves coo on the low branches, casting a melancholy shadow in the midday gloom. The day is ending, and when you feel tired, I will pluck a water-drenched lotus and place it in your hair, then I will leave.
Eight There is a place for you to sit. You carry a few sheaves of grain alone. My boat is crowded, it is heavy, but how can I turn you away? Your young body is slender and swaying; a faint smile sparkles at the corner of your eyes, your robe as colorful as rain clouds. The travelers will disembark and head to different roads and homes. You may sit for a while at the bow of my boat. When the journey ends, no one will leave you behind. Where will you go, to which home will you take your sheaves of grain? I will not ask you; but when I lower my sails, moor my little boat, and sit down in the evening, I will ponder and ponder: Where will you go, to which home will you take your sheaves of grain?
The boat of the sailor and fisherman Madhu is moored at the Rajgonggi dock. It is filled with useless jute and has stood idle for a long time. If he is willing to lend me the boat, I will equip it with a hundred oars, raise five, six, or even seven sails. I will not sail to a foolish market. I will set sail across the seven seas and thirteen rivers of the celestial world. But, mother, don’t cry for me in a corner. I am not like Rama, who returns home after fourteen years in the forest. I will be a prince in the stories, filling the boat with all that I love. I will take my friend Ashu with me, and we will sail happily across the seven seas and thirteen rivers of the celestial world. We will set sail in the morning sun. When you bathe in the pond at noon, we will be in the land of a strange king. We will pass the Tirtha Bank, leaving the desert of Tepant behind. When we return, it will be dusk, and I will tell you everything we saw. I will set sail across the seven seas and thirteen rivers of the celestial world.
Flowers School Thunder and lightning clash in the sky, the June rain pours down with a rush, the damp east wind whistles across the wilderness, coming to the bamboo grove to play its flute, and suddenly, in a frenzy, the flowers burst forth from unknown places, dancing on the green grass. Mother, I really feel that the flowers are studying in a school underground. They close their school doors to do their lessons, and if they break the rules and run out to play too early, their teachers will punish them by making them stand in the corner. When the rain comes, the flowers get a holiday. The branches clash in the forest, the leaves rustle in the storm, the thunderclouds beat their giant fists, and the little flower children, dressed in pink, pale yellow, and white, rush out. Mother, do you know where the flowers’ home is? It is in the sky, where the stars live. Don’t you see how eager the flowers are to go to heaven? Don’t you know why they are in such a hurry? Of course, I can guess to whom the flowers extend their arms: because flowers have their own mothers, just as I have my own mother.