Bondage to Finery

Playing, for child, brings no pleasure

when adorned with prince’s robes
and jewelled chains round the neck
for it will fetter him with fear.

His robes, he will think, may be frayed

or stained with dust, hence, keeping
himself away from the world, and the child
will be afraid even to make a single move.

Mother your bondage to finery is no gain
if you keep your child shut off from the healthful
dust of the earth, to rob his right of entrance
to the great fair of common human life!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 08

Henry Victor          07.01.2013

Death of Poetic Vanity

My song is plain without any adornments
and my tune needs no dress and decoration.
Pride of my ornaments ruins our union
as they would come between you and me.

Your whispers will drown
in the jingling of ornaments
and I know my poetic vanity dies
surely in shame before your sight.

O master poet, I have sat at your feet!
Let me make my life simple
and straight like a flute of reed
for you to fill with music.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 07

Henry Victor 07.01.2013

The Song

I know not how you sing, my master.

The light of your music illumines the world

and the life breath of your music runs from sky
to sky with its holy stream breaking through stony
obstacles and rushes endlessly from heart to heart.

I forever listen in silent amazement as my heart

longs to join in your song, but vainly my soul
struggles for a voice, and then I try to speak
but speech breaks not into song, making me cry.

But you have made my heart captive

in meshes of your music, my master.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 03

Henry Victor          07.01.2013

 

My Singing

When you command me to sing
it seems that my heart would break
with the weight of pride and I look
to your face and tears come to my eyes.

All that is harsh and dissonant in my life
then melts into one sweet harmony
and my adoration spreads wings
like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.

I know you take pleasure in my singing
and I know that only as a singer I come
before your presence and my song
with far spreading wing touch your feet.

For I could never aspire to reach heights
higher than this and drunk with the joy
of singing I forget myself and call
you, my Lord, my friend!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 02

Henry Victor 07.01.2013

Waiting for Love

Oh my love you have let me wait at the door, outside

all alone as clouds heap and the sky darkens to pour
for I am in the crowd in the busy moments of noontide
but at this lonely and dark hour I hope for none but you.

If you show me not your face, if you leave me aside

wholly, I know not how to pass these long, rainy hours
for I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky
and my mind wanders wailing with the restless wind.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 18

Henry Victor          06.01.2013

 

Your Footstool

Your footstool is where the poor, the humble

and the lost live, and there rest your feet;
my heart can never find its way to where
you keep company with the companionless.

I try to bow to you but my obeisance cannot

reach down to the depth where your feet rest
among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost
as pride can never enter the path you walk.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 10

Henry Victor          06.01.2013

Legitimate

The market day is over and work is all done
and those who came to call me have all gone
back in vain but with anger, and people blame
me and call me reckless, and they are right!

The reason for my delay is my waiting to give myself
into his hands for love, and they come with their laws
and codes to bind me, and I am guilty but I evade
for I am waiting to give myself into his hands for love!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 17

Henry Victor 05.01.2013

Invite Me

I have had my invitation to this world’s

festival, and my life has been blessed
and my eyes have seen
and my ears have heard.

At this feast my part was to play
my instrument and I have done my best.
Now I ask you, at last, that I may go in to see
your face and offer you my silent salutation.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 16

Henry Victor          05.01.2013

 

To Read

I am here to read you my poems, and in your hall
I have a corner seat, and in your world
I have no work to do, and my useless life breaks
into rhyme and rhythm without a purpose!

For your silent worship in the dark temple of midnight
command me to stand before you to read a poem
and honour me demanding my presence in the morning
when the golden harp is tuned.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 15

Henry Victor 05.01.2013

Inconsistent

Hindrances in life are stubborn, and my heart aches
as I struggle to break these limitations; to hope
for freedom I need most I feel ashamed!

You, my friend, is a priceless wealth
but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel
filling my room; likewise I hate the shroud, the death
and the dust covering me, yet I cling to it with love!

My debts are huge, my failures great, and my shame

secret and heavy; but as I turn to you for my good
I tremble in case my plea is granted, and change expected!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 28

Henry Victor          04.01.2013

Damnable Sleep

When I was asleep in the night

he came and sat beside me but I woke not.
O miserable me and what a damnable sleep!

When he came the night was still
and he had his harp in his hands
and its melodies resonated my dreams!

My night is completely lost

when his face I miss, though his breath
touches my sleep despite its depth!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 26

Henry Victor          02.01.2013

Elude Me Not

In the dark rainy July with invisible steps

you walk silent like night eluding all watchers!

And today the morning has closed
its eyes unmindful of the resolute calls
of the east wind and a thick veil is drawn
over the ever-wakeful blue sky.

The woodlands too have silenced their songs

and doors of all the houses are shut
while you, my only friend, a solitary wayfarer
is in the street completely deserted.
 
My beloved the gates are open in my house;
so do not pass by my home like a dream!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 22

Henry Victor          02.01.2013

Colonizing God

On entering my house they assured me they will take

only the smallest space and help me in the worship
of my God, accepting only their share in his grace
meekly taking their seat in a corner very quiet!

But in the darkness of night I find
they, wild and strong, break into
my sacred shrine and snatch with unholy
greed the offerings from God’s altar.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 33

Henry Victor          01.01.2013

 

Parched By Pain

My heart is scorched, parched by pain

of many days; for your grace, the rain
is held back from this horizon fiercely naked
not even with the thinnest cover of a soft cloud.

I see not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower;

so please, if it is your will and your wish,
send your angry storm, dark with death and lashes
of lightning, startling thoroughly the sky of my soul.

But call back this pervading silent heat, stagnant

and zealously cruel, burning my heart with dire despair
as on the day of my father’s wrath; so let the cloud
of grace bend low like the tearful look of my mother.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 40

Henry Victor          01.01.2013

Perfume of Promise

To wait and watch at the wayside

where shadow chases light is my delight
and the rain comes down, pours
in the wake of the summer.

With tidings messengers from unknown
skies greet me and speed along the road
as my heart within is secretly glad
and the breath of the passing breeze is sweet.

Dawn to dusk I sit here before my door
and I know that suddenly the blissful moment
will arrive and until then I smile and sing alone
breathing air filled with the perfume of promise.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 44

 
Henry Victor          01.01.2013

Beggar Maid’s Waiting

Love you stand behind, hiding in shadows

of others pushing, and passing you on the dusty road
taking you for nothing as I wait, my offerings spread
for you, but the passers-by pick my flowers
one by one and my basket is nearly empty.

The morning and the noon is past, and in the evening
shade my eyes are sleepy, and men going home
glance at me and smile, filling me with shame
and I sit like a beggar, drawing my skirt over my face
and when they ask what it is I want my eyes drop with no answer.

I do not know how to tell them
that it is for you I wait, and you love
have promised to come, and I cannot
due to shame, reveal my dowry, this poverty
and I hide this pride in the secret of my heart.

I sit on the grass gazing upon the sky and dream
the sudden splendour of your coming with all lights ablaze,
golden flags flying and crowds at the roadside
see you come down from your seat to raise me, a beggar
from the dust and set beside you like a creeper in summer breeze.

But many processions pass by with noise and shouts
and glamour of glory as time slides, and still the sound
of the wheels of your vehicle is not heard as you stand
behind others, silently in the shadow while I wait and weep
and wear out my heart, wasting my soul in vain longing.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 41

Henry Victor          01.01.2013