Aug 3, 2010

আমারই চেতনার রঙে পান্না হল সবুজ

আমি, শ্যামলী / ১

 The Self 

It is my senses which colour
Emerald green and ruby red.
I look at the sky --
Light appears;
I gaze at a rose with praise --
It becomes beautiful.
You say, " It's philosophy,
No poetic utterance",
I say, "It's truth,
And so, it's poetry.
It's my pride,
Pride on behalf of humanity,
Pride being the canvas of the Artist Creator".
The philosopher chants at every breath,
" No, no, no.
It isn't emerald, ruby, light, nor rose,
Neither I, nor you."
On the other hand ,'tis the Infinite
Who endeavours His confinement
In human limitations: that's my 'Self'.
Out of this folding mystery of 'Self'
Light manifests in dark,
Forms appear, feelings are born,
Negation changes into affirmation
By some magic touch --
With shades and colours, happiness and sorrow.
Don't call it philosophy,
I am full of mirth ,
Creating the universal self ,
With a brush in hand ,
Paint in the palette.
The wise say,
'The old moon with a hard , cunning smile
Creeps towards the earth
Like the Death-incarnate,
It will exert a tremendous pull some day
On the seas and the mountains .
A big naught will prevail .
That page in the history of the earth
Will swallow all mathematics of day and night.
Time-honoured deeds of man
Will lose all pretensions and immortality,
Human history will be smeared
With the darkest ink of eternal Night.
The eyes of the parting humanity
Will snatch away all colours,
Their minds cast away all feelings,
Waves of force-fields will fill the sky ,
But there will be no light ,
Like fingers of the player without his lyre
Moving fast without music . "
'The prosaic Creator will be alone
In the colourless heaven ,
Busy in mathematics of expressionless reality."
Then , throughout this vast universe,
Here, and in remote corners
Of millions of stars and galaxies,
nowhere will there be heard,
"You are beautiful", "I love you" !
Will the Creator start His endeavour
Once again for ages? --
Will He chant at the dusk of destruction
- speak, speak ! inculcate,
Say, "You are beautiful"
Say, " I love you ".

Translated by Subrata Majumdar,
1961

Original published as Ami in Shyamali / 1, 1936

ধূপ আপনারে মিলাইতে চাহে গন্ধে

ধূপ আপনারে মিলাইতে চাহে গন্ধে   উত্সর্গ / ১৭   ['আবর্তন' (সঞ্চয়িতা)]

                   The cycle

Incense yearns to sublimate as fragrance,
   Fragrance longs to stick around the incense.
Melody likes to bind its soul in rhythm,
  Rhythm chooses to dwell in melody-abodes.
Ideas need fetters of forms to express,
  Form adores freedom in ideas.
The Infinite clings to the vicinity of limits,
  The Finite desires to mystify with the Boundless.
I know not the logic of such birth and death,
  Eternal transitions of spirit and form ---
Chains wait eagerly to be shattered,
  Freedom seeks encasement in bounds.

Translated by Subrata Majumdar,
2 August 2010

 Original published in Utsarga - 17, 1914 and as Abartan (in Sanchayita)

পাগল হইয়া বনে বনে ফিরি

পাগল হইয়া বনে বনে ফিরি  উত্সর্গ / ৭   ['মরীচিকা' (সঞ্চয়িতা)]
 
Mirage

My own sweet smell
Drives me utterly mad
In search of fragrance-source
Like the scented deer
In forests far and near.
In southern breeze in nights of spring
To find no trace anywhere.
Our pining is full of fault
We gain what we yearn not.

My desires appear mirages
Away from my heart
I stretch my hands to catch them
To heart they never come back.
Our pining is full of fault
We gain what we yearn not.

My eager and maddened flute
Strives to entrap my songs.
For songs thus confined
The melodial essence is lost.
Our pining is full of fault
We gain what we yearn not.


Translated by Subrata Majumdar
3 August 2010

Original in Utsarga / 7, 1914 and Marichika (from Sanchayita)