Poems of the day: Rabindranath Tagore

[pallas_athena]

I recently had the pleasure of seeing Philip Glass's Satyagraha at ENO with a friend. It was an amazing production, and we enjoyed it very much. Glass gives each of the three acts the name of a person relevant to Gandhi's life; the second act is named for the Mahatma's contemporary, Rabindranath Tagore.

Tagore wrote in Bengali, but he was also fluent in English. These translations are mostly his own. His fans included W B Yeats (who wrote an introduction to Tagore's collection Gitanjali, as well as lending a hand with some of the translations) and Anna Akhmatova (who translated much of Tagore's work into Russian).

If you know a Tagore poem, chances are it's this one. (It was later set to music by Richard Hageman; here is Kiri te Kanawa singing it.)

Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I have watched all night, and now my eyes are heavy with sleep.
I fear lest I lose you when I am sleeping.
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.

I start up and stretch my hands to touch you.
I ask myself, "Is it a dream?"
Could I but entangle your feet with my heart and hold them fast to my breast!
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.

Susan Owen, mother of Wilfred Owen, wrote to Tagore in 1920, saying that her son had read her the following poem as a farewell before his departure for the war. When Wilfred's possessions were returned to her after his death, she found the poem copied down in his pocket notebook.

When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable.

I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean of light, and thus am I blessed:
Let this be my parting word.

In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play, and here have I caught sight of him that is formless.

My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here, let it come:
Let this be my parting word.

***********

Art thou abroad on this stormy night
on thy journey of love, my friend?
The sky groans like one in despair.

I have no sleep tonight.
Ever and again I open my door and look out on
the darkness, my friend!

I can see nothing before me.
I wonder where lies thy path!

By what dim shore of the ink-black river,
by what far edge of the frowning forest,
through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading
thy course to come to me, my friend?

*******

The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.

I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet.

It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.

The traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.

My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said 'Here art thou!'

The question and the cry 'Oh, where?' melt into tears of a thousand streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance 'I am!'

********

On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her, 'Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? My house is all dark and lonesome--lend me your light!' she raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. 'I have come to the river,' she said, 'to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.' I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide.

In the silence of gathering night I asked her, 'Maiden, your lights are all lit--then where do you go with your lamp? My house is all dark and lonesome--lend me your light.' She raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful. 'I have come,' she said at last, 'to dedicate my lamp to the sky.' I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void.

In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her, 'Maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart? My house is all dark and lonesome--lend me your light.' She stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark. 'I have brought my light,' she said, 'to join the carnival of lamps.' I stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights.

*********

I have plucked your flower, O world!
I pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked.
When the day waned and it darkened, I found that
the flower had faded, but the pain remained.

More flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, O world!
But my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the dark night
I have not my rose, only the pain remains.

Comments

[larissa-00.livejournal.com]

Both 'When I go from hence . .' and 'The time that my journey takes . .' make me think of both The Four Quartets (particularly the To arrive where you are . . . ' section) and the Bhagavad Gita both at once, but then I guess early 20th C India is the meeting point of both traditions.

[artnouveauho.livejournal.com]

Yeah-- and we know Eliot was very influenced by the Indian tradition, dropping little Sanskrit phrases wherever he could. It would surprise me if he hadn't read Tagore.