প্রথম দিনের সূর্য

The sun of the first dawn

The sun of the first dawn
Had asked the living soul
On its first appearance
'Who are You?'--
There was no response.
Years passed,
On a still twilight
In the far horizon of the western seas,
The last sun asks,
'Who are You?'
There is no response.

শেষ খেয়া

The Last Ferry

At the end of day in the land of sleep
The silhouette of that veiled face
Soothes, lulls, makes me forget myself

On the far shore glinting like gold
What illusion plays in the darkness
Sings on distracting me from work

With a bowed head those who depart,
Forsaking all earthly comfort
They go, never to return a glance

Towards them with the pull of tide
I will go deserting my home
Evening arrives, the day departs
O come, come who will carry me
On the last ferry at day end

At eventide, with ebb and tide
From the other shore incessant
Plies forth a ferry or two
Oh how can I tell which of those
Was at my quay in my own land

At sundown, just beneath the banks
Grazing the lap of dense foliage
In shades, like a shadow they go
At my behest, to stop a while
And set sail to row towards me
Where is such an oarsman, such a boat?
O come, come who will carry me
On the last ferry at day’s end

When have gone home those bound homeward
Gone too, those set for shores beyond
Neither at home nor on far shores
One who is somewhere in between
Who will beckon him at twilight

No more flowers left to bloom
No more harvest to reap
Tears have become irony
For whom fades daylight
But lit are not dusk lamps
Waits that one on the banks
Come who will carry me
On the last ferry
At the end of day

আফ্রিকা

Africa

In those primitive days of chaos
When Creator dissatisfied
With His own self
Was destroying time and again
His creation
On a day when He shook His head
Time and again with impatience
From eastern hemisphere’s bosom
Terrible arms of sea snatched you away
Africa
Imprisoning you in dense deep
Watchful eyes of vegetation
In private hall of frugal light

There in solitary leisure
You gathered mysteries impenetrable
Acquainting self with code-words of
Earth, water and the blue azure
Magic of nature hidden beyond sight
Sparking sacred hymns in your sub-conscious

Mocking the tremendous
In guise of the monstrous
Wanting to defeat doubt
Growing violent
With grace of the formidable
In tumultuous battle drums of Tandava

O umbrageous one
Beneath veil of darkness
Unknown was your humanity
In perverted eyes of contempt

They came with iron chains
Claws sharper than your wolves’
Came hordes of man-hunters
In pride, blinder than your sun bereft woods

Barbaric greed of civilisation
Stood denuded in unashamed cruelty

Your wordless cries in mist stricken forests,
Muddied your dust mingled with blood and tears
Trampled with spiked boots of demonic feet
Lumps of gruesome clay
Left eternal marks on your insulted history

Across oceans
In that very moment
In each nook and corner
Ringing out were church bells
Morning and evening
In name of the kind Lord
Playing were kids in mother’s laps
Sung in ballads of bard
Worshipful prayer of Beauty

Today in western horizons
In eventide choked with rainstorms
When animals come out of hidden lairs
Announce end of day with ominous wails
Come epoch-making poet
In last light of imminent dusk
Come forth and stand at the door
Of the woman violated
Amidst ferocious delirium
Say two words “Forgive me”
The ultimate sacred words of civilisation, let those be

বিদায়

Farewell

Do you hear
the rumblings of the wheels of time
It’s chariot disappearing in a flash
Arousing vibration of heartbeats
in the vast ether
Heartbroken sobs of stars
glistening in trampled darkness

My friend
That fleeting time
Embraces me, weaving it’s web --
Lifts me to that speeding chariot
En route the dare-devil journey
Far, far away from you

I feel, a thousand deaths
Faced have I to come here
At this new dawn’s summit –
The chariot’s restless pace
Sets aflutter in breeze
My name of yore

No means of turning back
From afar if you see
Recognise me not will you
My friend, fare well.

Some day, in respite from work
In fullness of leisure
With soft spring breeze
On a night when deep sighs
Float forth from shores of past
Wails of withered Bakul flowers
Piercing the skies
In that moment search and see
Some of me is left behind
In the margins of your life.
In oblivion of dusk
It may hold some light
It may, in nameless dreams, take form.

Yet a dream it is not
My truth above all it is,
Death-defying
It is my love.
That I have left behind
Unchanging homage in your name
I float on with the flow of change
With the journey of time
My friend, fare well.

Loss it is not for you
Merely mortal my clay
With it an idol immortal
If created have you
Worshipped be it in eventide
That play of devotion
Hindered will it not be
Tarnished not by my daily touch
Not one flower detached from
Salver of floral offering

Festive spread of your mind
That you garnish with care
With sweet juice of emotion
To quench desire of expression
Adulterate it not will I
With my riches that are just dust
With that which is moist with my tears

Even today you may
Design your creation
With words woven in dreams
Of just a memory of me
Weighed not down nor
Moored to obligation
My friend, fare well.

Grieve not for me
I have my work
I have this whole wide world
My vessel, empty it is not
Make whole each void
This vow I take forever.

If there be one who is
For me anxiously awaiting
That very one will fulfil me
Who brings a tuberose stalk
In time of the waxing moon
To decorate salver of sacrifice
In night of the waning moon
Who sees me as I am
Virtues and vices all
With boundless forgiveness
In worship of the one
Now I wish to give up myself.

What I have given you
Your right to that remains endless
An iota it is
That I give here and now
Pitiable moments
That sip in mere fistfuls
From this heart of mine
It’s hands folded in prayer

What I have given you
Was your own gift to me
More you accepted
More indebted you made me
My friend, fare well

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)