Selected Poems (Tagore, Rabindranath) Read online

  Will you come with your massy tawny hair

  Unkempt, unbound into a bright coil-crown?

  Will no one bear your victory-flag before

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  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,

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  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

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  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

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  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

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  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

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  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.

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  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

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  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,

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  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,

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  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 –

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  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,

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  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.

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  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,

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  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.’

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  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:

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  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 –

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  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

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  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

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  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.

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  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.

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  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.

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  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

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  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,

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  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

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  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?

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  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

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  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.

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  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

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  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;

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  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

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  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

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  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,

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  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,

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  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,

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  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 –

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  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

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  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,

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  No time, no time.

  Thus, Emperor, you wished,

  Fearing your own heart’s forgetfulness,

  To conquer time’s heart

  Through beauty.

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  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

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  Your restless weeping

  In bonds of silent perpetuity.

  The names you softly

  Whispered to your love

  On moonlit nights in secret chambers live on

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  Here

  As whispers in the ear of eternity.

  The poignant gentleness of love

  Flowered into the beauty of serene stone.

  Poet-Emperor,

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  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

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  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

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  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.’

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  You are gone, now, Emperor –

  Your empire has dissolved like a dream,

  Your throne is shattered,

  Your armies, whose marching

  Shook the earth,

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  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

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  Has died from your palaces:

  The night sky moans

  With the throb

  Of crickets in their crumbling corners.

  But your tireless, incorruptible messenger,

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  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:

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  ‘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?