Selected Poems (Tagore, Rabindranath)
Page 10
Will you come with your massy tawny hair
Unkempt, unbound into a bright coil-crown?
Will no one bear your victory-flag before
25
Or after; will no torches glow like red
Eyes along the river, Death, Death?
Will earth not quake in terror at your step?
When fierce-eyed Śiva came to take his bride,
Remember all the pomp and trappings, Death,
30
Death: the flapping tiger-skins he wore;
His roaring bull; the serpents hissing round
His hair; the bom-bom sound as he slapped his cheeks;
The necklace of skulls swinging round his neck;
The sudden raucous music as he blew
35
His horn to announce his coming – was this not
A better way of wedding, Death, Death?
And as that deathly wedding-party’s din
Grew nearer, Death, Death, tears of joy
Filled Gaurī’s eyes and the garments at her breast
40
Quivered; her left eye fluttered and her heart
Pounded; her body quailed with thrilled delight
And her mind ran away with itself, Death, Death;
Her mother wailed and smote her head at the thought
Of receiving so wild a groom; and in his mind
45
Her father agreed calamity had struck.
Why must you always come like a thief, Death,
Death, always silently, at night’s end,
Leaving only tears? Come to me festively,
Make the whole night ring with our triumph, blow
50
Your victory-conch dress me in blood-red robes
Grasp me by the hand and sweep me away!
Pay no heed to what others may think, Death,
Death, for I shall of my own free will
Resort to you if you but take me gloriously.
55
If I am immersed in work in my room
When you arrive, Death, Death, then break
My work, thrust my unreadiness aside.
If I am sleeping, sinking all desires
In the dreamy pleasure of my bed, or if I lie
60
With apathy gripping my heart and my eyes
Flickering between sleep and waking, fill
Your conch with your destructive breath and blow,
Death, Death, and I shall run to you.
I shall go to where your boat is moored,
65
Death, Death, to the sea where the wind rolls
Darkness towards me from infinity.
I may see black clouds massing in the far
North-east corner of the sky; fiery snakes
Of lightning may rear up with their hoods raised,
70
But I shall not flinch in unfounded fear –
I shall pass silently, unswervingly
Across that red storm-sea, Death, Death.
Arrival
Our work was over for the day, and now the light was fading;
We did not think that anyone would come before the morning.
All the houses round about
Dark and shuttered for the night –
5
One or two amongst us said, ‘The King of Night is coming.’
We just laughed at them and said, ‘No one will come till morning.’
And when on outer doors we seemed to hear a knocking noise,
We told ourselves, ‘That’s only the wind, they rattle when it blows.’
Lamps snuffed out throughout the house,
10
Time for rest and peacefulness –
One or two amongst us said, ‘His heralds are at the doors.’
We just laughed and said, ‘The wind rattles them when it blows.’
And when at dead of night we heard a strange approaching clangour,
We thought, sleep-fuddled as we were, it was only distant thunder.
15
Earth beneath us live and trembling,
Stirring as if it too were waking –
One or two were saying, ‘Hear how the wheels of his chariot clatter.’
Sleepily we said, ‘No no, that’s only distant thunder.’
And when with night still dark there rose a drumming loud and near,
20
Somebody called to all, ‘Wake up, wake up, delay no more!’
Everyone shaking now with fright,
Arms wrapped close across each heart –
Somebody cried in our ears, ‘O see his royal standard rear!’
At last we started up and said, ‘We must delay no more.’
25
O where are the lights, the garlands, where are the signs of celebration?
Where is the throne? The King has come, we made no preparation!
Alas what shame, what destiny,
No court, no robes, no finery –
Somebody cried in our ears, ‘O vain, O vain this lamentation:
30
With empty hands, in barren rooms, offer your celebration.’
Fling wide the doors and let him in to the lowly conch’s boom;
In deepest dark the King of Night has come with wind and storm.
Thunder crashing across the skies
Lightning setting the clouds ablaze –
35
Drag your tattered blankets, let the yard be spread with them:
The King of Grief and Night has come to our land with wind and storm.
Highest Price
‘Who will buy me, who will buy me, rid me of my cares?’
Thus I shout and thus I wander through my nights and days;
And with each day that passes
My basket presses
5
Upon my head more heavily.
People come and go: some laugh; some watch me tearfully.
At noon I make my way along the king’s great stone-paved road,
And soon he comes in his chariot, sword in hand, crown on his head.
‘I’ll buy by force,’ he says
10
And grabs me, tries
To drag me off. I wriggle free
With ease; the king climbs into his golden chariot and rides away.
In small back lanes I wander past bolted and shuttered doors.
A door opens; an old man with a money-bag appears.
15
He examines what I have
And says, ‘I’ll give
You gold.’ He returns again and again,
Empties his purse. With far-off thoughts I carry my basket on.
At evening over the richly blossoming forest moonbeams fall.
20
Near to the base of a bakul-tree I meet a beautiful girl.
She edges close: ‘My smile
Will make you sell,’,
She says. Her smile soon turns to weeping.
Slowly, softly she moves away into the woodland gloaming.
25
Along the sea-shore the sun shines, the sea breaks and rolls.
A child is on the sandy beach: he sits playing with shells.
He seems to know me; he says,
‘I’ll buy your cares
For nothing.’ Suddenly I am released
30
From my heavy load; his playful face has won me free of cost.
1914–1936
The Conch
How can we bear to see your conch lying there in the dirt?
The tragedy of it cuts off air and blocks out light.
Warriors, rise, brandish your banners!
Singers, get up and sing! Doers,
5
Charge into action! Do not falter!
How can we let your inspiring conch stare up at us from the dirt?
I came to the prayer-room with an offering of flowers neatly laid out,
Longing to end my long day’s labours with heavenl
y quiet.
I thought this time my heart’s lacerations
10
Would heal; I thought my ablutions
Would purge me – till I saw the degradation
Of your great conch lying on the path, lying in the dirt.
What am I doing with this prayer-lamp, what do I mean by this prayer?
Must I drop my flowers of peace – weave scarlet garlands of war?
15
I hoped for a calm end to my struggles;
I thought my debts had been paid my battles
Won, and now I could thankfully settle
In your lap: but suddenly your mute conch seemed to sound in my ear.
O change me, touch me with youth, alchemize me! Let fiery melody
20
Blaze and twirl in my breast, life-fire leap into ecstasy!
Let night’s ribs crack; let skies,
As they fill with dawning enlightenment, raise
Terror in remotest dark. From today
I shall fight to seize and carry aloft your conch of victory.
25
Now I know I can no more close my eyes in slumber.
Now I know that monsoon showers of arrows must batter
My heart. Some people will rush to my side;
Others will weep and sigh in dread;
Horrifying nightmares will rock the beds
30
Of sleeping hearers: but today your conch will joyously thunder.
When I looked to you for rest I received nothing but shame;
But dress me for battle now, let armour cover each limb.
Let new obstructions chafe and challenge me;
I shall take all blows and hurts unflinchingly;
35
My heart shall drum redress for your injuries;
I shall give all my strength, win back your conch and make it BOOM.
Shah-Jahan
You knew, Emperor of India, Shah-Jahan,
That life, youth, wealth, renown
All float away down the stream of time.
Your only dream
5
Was to preserve forever your heart’s pain.
The harsh thunder of imperial power
Would fade into sleep
Like a sunset’s crimson splendour,
But it was your hope
10
That at least a single, eternally-heaved sigh would stay
To grieve the sky.
Though, emeralds, rubies, pearls are all
But as the glitter of a rainbow tricking out empty air
And must pass away,
15
But as the glitter of a rainbow tricking out empty air
And must pass away,
Yet still one solitary tear
Would hang on the cheek of time
In the form
Of this white and gleaming Taj Mahal.
O human heart,
20
You have no time
To look back at anyone again,
No time.
You are driven by life’s quick spate
On and on from landing to landing,
25
Loading cargo here,
Unloading there.
In your garden, the south wind’s murmurs
May enchant spring mādhabī-creepers
Into suddenly filling your quivering lap with flowers –
30
Their petals are scattered in the dust come twilight.
You have no time –
You raise from the dew of another night
New blossom in your groves, new jasmine
To dress with tearful gladness the votive tray
35
Of a later season.
O human heart,
All that you gather is thrown
To the edge of the path by the end of each night and day.
You have no time to look back again,
40
No time, no time.
Thus, Emperor, you wished,
Fearing your own heart’s forgetfulness,
To conquer time’s heart
Through beauty.
45
How wonderful the deathless clothing
With which you invested
Formless death – how it was garlanded!
You could not maintain
Your grief forever, and so you enmeshed
50
Your restless weeping
In bonds of silent perpetuity.
The names you softly
Whispered to your love
On moonlit nights in secret chambers live on
55
Here
As whispers in the ear of eternity.
The poignant gentleness of love
Flowered into the beauty of serene stone.
Poet-Emperor,
60
This is your heart’s picture,
Your new Meghadūta,
Soaring with marvellous, unprecedented melody and line
Towards the unseen plane
On which your loverless beloved
65
And the first glow of sunrise
And the last sigh of sunset
And the disembodied beauty of moonlit cāmelī-flower
And the gateway on the edge of language
That turns away man’s wistful gaze again and again
70
Are all blended.
This beauty is your messenger,
Skirting time’s sentries
To carry the wordless message:
‘I have not forgotten you, my love, I have not forgotten you.’
75
You are gone, now, Emperor –
Your empire has dissolved like a dream,
Your throne is shattered,
Your armies, whose marching
Shook the earth,
80
Today have no more weight than the windblown dust on the Delhi road.
Your singers no longer sing for you;
Your musicians no longer mingle their tunes
With the lapping Jumna.
The jingle of the anklets of your women
85
Has died from your palaces:
The night sky moans
With the throb
Of crickets in their crumbling corners.
But your tireless, incorruptible messenger,
90
Spurning imperial growth and decline,
Spurning the rise and fall of life and death
Utters
Through the ages
The same, continuous message of eternal mourning:
95
‘I have not forgotten you, my love, I have not forgotten you.’
Lies! Lies! Who says you have not forgotten?
Who says you have not thrown open
The cage that holds memory?