Your Flower

From your throne you came down with a flower

a prize, and stood at my cottage door, the corner
I was singing all alone when your ear
picked my melody, my music!

Masters are many in your hall and songs
are sung there at all hours, but a simple carol
a little lament song of this novice mingled
with the great music of the world is your pick!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 49

Henry Victor          31.12.2012

Waiting

I spent the whole night waiting for him in vain

and I fear that in the morning he may suddenly
appear at my door when I, tired, have fallen asleep!

Oh friends, leave the way open and stop him not.

If the sounds of his steps do not wake me, please

do not wake me for I wish not to be called
from my slumber by a clamorous choir of birds
or by the rioting wind at the festival of dawn light.

Undisturbed, let me sleep even if my Lord suddenly

comes to my door, for my sleep is precious but waiting
for his touch, my closed eyes open their lids to light
in his smile as he stands like a dream in a dark night.

Let him appear before my sight as the first light

and the first form; let him, with his glance, be the first
thrill of joy to my awakened soul, and let my return
to self also be the immediate return to him.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 47

Henry Victor          31.12.2012

Tragedy of the Divine Comedy

I was begging from door to door in the village path
when your golden chariot appeared in the distance

like a gorgeous dream and I wondered who was this King
of all kings, and I thought my hard days were at an end!

As the chariot stopped where I stood and your glance fell

on me, waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth
to be scattered around, and you came down with a smile
further raising my hopes, my feeling of luck!

Suddenly you put your right hand and said, ‘What have you
to give me?’, shocking me with a rare kingly jest, opening
your palm to a beggar, throwing me into confusion, indecision
as I slowly from my wallet gave you the least little grain.

But my surprise was great at the day’s end as I emptied
my begging bag on the floor to find a least little gram of gold
among the poor heap and I bitterly wept and wept
and wished that I had had the heart to give you my all.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 50

Henry Victor          30.12.2012

Cloud of Tears and Songs

Your sunbeams come to my world
with arms outstretched and stand
at my door to carry to your feet cloud
made of my tears, sighs and songs.

That mantle of misty cloud you wrap
around your bright frame with fond delight
turning that into infinite shapes and folds
colouring it with ever-changing shades.

It is so light and fleeting, tender and tearful
and dark covering your spotless white light
with its pathetic shadows, yet you love it
for what it is, oh you spotless and serene.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 68

Henry Victor          29.12.2012

The Sky and the Nest

You are the sky and you are the nest
and you are beautiful, and in the nest
it is your love that encloses my soul
with shades and sounds and scents!

There morning comes with the golden basket
bearing in her right hand the wreath
of beauty, silently to crown the earth
before the early birds catch the worm.

And evening comes over the lonely meadows
deserted by herds and through trackless paths
carrying cool currents of peace in her golden
jug from the western ocean of rest.

But the infinite sky spreads space for the soul
to take flight to regions where reigns the radiance
spotless white with no day nor night, nor form
nor colour where word is neither loud, nor in silence.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 67

Henry Victor          28.12.2012

Rising and Falling

In the dusk of gleams and glimpses she remained

in the depth of my being never opening her veils
in the morning light, and she, folded in my final
song, will be my last gift to you, my God!

Though words have wooed, yet failed to win her
with persuasion stretching its eager arms in vain.
I have roamed from country to country keeping her in
the cave of my heart and around her I have risen and fallen.

She reigned over my thoughts and actions
my slumbers and dreams though dwelling alone
and apart while many have knocked at my door
and asked for her but turning away in despair.

There is none in the world who ever saw

her face to face as she remains
in her loneliness waiting
waiting to be recognised by you.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 66

Henry Victor          28.12.2012

 

Me and My Songs

 
My God, the Greatest Poet, I am ready to give you drink
from this cup, or food from this plate, from my very life.
It is your delight seeing your creation with my eyes, silently
standing at the portals of my ears listening to your harmony.

Your world is weaving words in my mind

and your joy is adding music to them
as you give yourself to me in love, and then feel
your own sweetness within, and through me.
 
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 65

Henry Victor          27.12.2012

Lack and Lavishness

Beside the slippery slope of a desolate river
among the tall grasses I asked a damsel
carrying her lamp shading with her mantle
to lend her light for my home dark and deserted.

She raised her dark eyes for a moment

looked at me staring through the dusk, and floated
her lamp on the stream as the daylight waned
in the west and I stood watching that flickering
flame, uselessly, drifting in the tide!

In the silence of the middle night I asked a maid

when all her lights are lit where she was going
with her lamp, pleading also from her
to lend her light for my home dark and deserted.

She raised her dark eyes for a moment

looking at me, stood there a moment with doubt
and said, she has come at last to dedicate her lamp
to the wide sky, and I stood and watched
her light, uselessly, burning in the void!

In a moonless gloom of midnight I asked

a woman what she was searching holding closer
to her heart her lamp, with that I requested her
to lend her light for my home dark and deserted.

She stopped for a minute and thought
and gazed at me in the pitch dark
saying that she has brought her light to join
the carnival of lamps, and I stood and watched
her little lamp, uselessly, lost among lights!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 64

Henry Victor          24.12.2012

 

Acts Lead to Understanding

My child when I bring colourful toys

to you and as I give you these gifts
I understand why the clouds, the water
and the flowers are painted in tints.

When I sing to make you dance

I know why there is music in leaves
and waves with their singing chorus
to the heart of the listening earth.

When I bring sweet things to your hands

that greedily grab I know why there is honey
in the cup of the flowers and why fruits
are over-flowing with sweet juice.

When I kiss your cheeks my darling, and make

you smile I surely understand the pleasure streaming
from the sky in the morning light and the delight
the summer breeze brings to my body.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 62

(This is also in Tagore’s Crescent Moon, poem 09)

Henry Victor          23.12.2012

The Source

Sleep that swoops on baby’s eyes, the sparrow

says, comes from the kisses on baby’s eyes by two
timid but enchanting buds hanging in the fairy village
in the shades of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms.

Smile that sparkles on baby’s lips, the same bird

affirms, comes from the smile born in the dream
of a dew-washed morning as the young pale beam
of the crescent touched the vanishing autumn cloud.

Freshness soft and sweet bloom on baby’s limbs,

the little bird sings, is from the mother’s brooding
the silent and gentle mystery of love in her heart
when she was still a young girl, tender and fragrant.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 61

Henry Victor          23.12.2012

Rhythmic Rush

All things rush, stopping not

looking not behind, and no power
can hold them back, for they rush
with that rhythmic rush.

It is not beyond you to be glad
with the gladness of this rhythm
being tossed and lost and broken
in the flick of this fearful joy.

You keep steps with that restless rapid music

of seasons that come to dance and pass away
with colours, tunes, and perfumes pouring in endless
flows of joy scattering, dying every moment.
 

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 70

Henry Victor          22.12.2012

My Poems

My poems are like my eye glasses
enabling me to see you, and these songs
have led me from door to door, helping me
feel my soul, searching and touching my world.

It was my songs that taught me lessons I learnt,
showing secret paths, and bringing before my sight
the stars on the skyline of my heart, guiding to mysteries
of pleasure and pain, finally to the gate, end of my journey.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 101

Henry Victor          22.12.2012

My Offerings

The day when death knocks

at my door what will I offer him?
I will set before my guest
the full bowl of my life.

I will never let him go empty handed,

but place before him all my sweet
autumn days and summer nights
with earnings and gleanings of my busy life.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 90

Henry Victor          20.12.2012

Deathless Desolation

Oh Deity of the desolate temple!

How can the broken strings of Vina sing you praise?
How can the bells here proclaim the time of worship?
But the air around you here is still and silent!

In this desolate dwelling of you, the divine, comes

the roaming spring breeze bringing the tidings
of new flowers; but flowers for your worship
are no more offered here in this deathless desolation.

Your worshipper of old wanders, ever longing

for that favour still refused, and in the evening when fires
and shadows mingle with gloom and dust, he wearily
comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart.

Many festival days come to you in silence, and many nights

worship continues with unlit lamp while new images are built
by master craftsmen to be carried at the appointed time
to a holy stream of obscure origin as you remain un-worshipped.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 88

Henry Victor          20.12.2012

Shadow of Death

My death, your servant, is knocking at my door

after crossing the deep sea to bring your call to my home!
Now the night is pitch dark and my heart is full of fear
yet, I will light the lamp and open my gate to honour him!

He is your messenger who stands at my door;

I will bow to him placing at his feet the treasures in my heart
for he will come back to you with his mission soon over
leaving only myself, my last offering to you in my home.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 86

Henry Victor          18.12.2012

Dropping the Defence

Warriors came out from their master’s hall

putting away power and armour, and their arms
looking as if they were poor and helpless as arrows
showered on them as they came out from their master.

Warriors marched back again to their master’s hall

laying down power, dropping sword, bow and arrow
with peace written on their foreheads, leaving the fruits
of their life behind as they marched back to their master.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 85

Henry Victor          16.12.2012

Songs of Separation

The pangs of separation ever melt and flow

into songs through my poetic heart, a home
for sufferings and joy; this overspreading pain
seeps from that deepened loves and desires.

The songs of separation spread in the world

giving birth to innumerable shapes in the sky
gazing in silence all nights from star to star
becoming lyric in rustling leaves in darkness.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 84

Henry Victor          14.12.2012

 

Many Joys

I pause to pick and thread my last song
harvesting joy scattered in your world, mixing
mingling with joy that makes the earth flow
over in the riotous excess of the grass.

And with joy that sets the twin brothers,
life and death, dancing over the wide world
and joy that sweeps in with the tempest
shaking and waking all life with laughter.

And with joy that sits still with its tears
on the open red lotus of pain,
and finally that joy that throws everything
it has on the dust singing a song of silence.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 58

Henry Victor          14.12.2012

Love with Love

In my heart your joy overflows

into which you have made your home!
O Lord of all heavens, I wonder
if I were not, where your love would be!

You have taken me as your trusted partner

of all this wealth, all heavens and this earth
placing in my soul your joyful, endless play
and in my life is your will taking a solider shape.

For this you, the King of kings has come down

with all your splendour to captivate my mind
and for this your love loses in the love of your lover
with you becoming visible in that perfect union of two.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 56

Henry Victor          13.12.2012

Wake Up

Laziness is in your heart and sleep
fills your eyes knowing not the flower
is reigning in splendour among thorns!

Wake up my soul, waste not the time
any more, for at the end of the stony path
in the country of virgin solitude is my friend
sitting alone; disappoint him not!

The sky may pant and tremble with the heat
of the midday sun burning sand, spreading
its mantle of thirst, but you have joy in heart
in the depth, and at your footstep the harp
on your road will break into sweet music of pain!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 55

Henry Victor          12.12.2012

Subtle Love

From you I wanted nothing, and I did not tell my name

to you when you left me and I stood alone silently beside
the well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant and the women
had gone home with brown earthen pitchers full to the brim.

They called me to go with them

for it was past noon but I lazily lingered
lost in the midst of vague musings
for I heard not your steps as you came.

Your eyes looked sad when you looked at me
and your voice was tired as you spoke softly

to say you were thirsty and you were a traveller
and I, into your cupped palms, poured water.

The leaves overhead rustled and the cuckoo sang
from the unseen dark as the perfume of babla flowers
came from the corner of the road while I shyly stood
speechless when you asked me for my name.

I have done nothing for you to keep me in your memory
but I will remember, sweetly forever, that I gave you water

to quench your thirst in that late morning as the birds sang
weary notes and neem leaves rustled overhead.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 54

Henry Victor          12.12.2012

 

More Beautiful

Your wristlet is indeed beautiful
ornamented with sparkling stars
artfully fashioned with flashy jewels
of multiple colours, more than I can name.

But more beautiful is your sword, the pain
with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings
of Garuda, the vehicular bird of Vishnu, perfectly
poised, and angry, like the red light of sunset.

The sword shivers like the last moment of life
with an ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death,
shining like the pure flame of being burning
in an earthly sense with one fierce flash.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 53

Henry Victor          11.12.2012

Sharper Sword

I thought I should ask for the garland of roses around
your neck but I was wary, hence, waited for the dawn
for you to depart to find few fragments on bed, searching
like a beggar for a stray petal, or two, in the morning.

But I find no flower, not even a petal, or any other sign
of your love left behind, no spices, and no jar of perfume
but it is your sharp sword from the sheath removed
flashing as a flame and heavy as a bolt of thunder.

The new light of morning probed through the window
and spread on your bed while the early bird twittered
and queried what gift I had received: was it a flower
or spices, or a jar of perfume, but why an awful sword?

I pause to muse with awe: what gift is this of yours
I cannot even hide, and as frail as I am, I am ashamed
also to wear for it hurts me if I pressed to my bosom
yet I shall bear in heart this honour, the token of pain.

From this moment I shall have no fear in this world
of many ties, and you will be victorious in  my striving
for you have left death as my companion and I crown
him with my life, cutting with this sword all my bonds.

Lord of my life from now onwards I leave all dolls
and petty cosmetics, with no more waiting and weeping
in corners, and I shall carry no more shyness, or niceness
but this sword you have given me as an adornment.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 52

Henry Victor          11.12.2012

The Royal Guest

The day work is done and the night
is pitch dark, with doors in hamlet
all shut make us think the last
guest too had arrived for the night.

But some said the King was to come
making us laugh, believe it cannot be
though we felt some knocks on the door
and we said it was nothing but the wind.

We put out the lamps too and lay down to sleep
when some thought the messenger had come
making us laugh, saying, it must be the wind
though there was a sound in dead of the night.

We sleepily thought it must be a thunder
when the earth shook and walls rocked
and it indeed troubled us in our sleep
as some held it was the sound of wheels.

Lazily, in mind, we murmured, ‘clouds rumbling’
for the night was still dark as the drum sounded
with the voice, ‘Wake up! Delay not!’
Trembling we pressed our hands on our hearts.

But some said, ‘Behold the King’s flag’
as we stood on our feet wailing, ‘There is no time
to delay for the King has come, but where are the lights
and the wreaths and the throne to seat him?’

‘Where is the hall and where are the decorations?’
But someone said, ‘Pointless is this cry, greet Him
with empty hands leading Him to your empty rooms.
Open your doors and sound the conch-shells!

In the depth of the night as thunder roars
the King has come to our dark and dreary home!
Bring out your tattered piece of mat and spread
in the yard since our King has come suddenly. 

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 51

Henry Victor          09.12.2012

Note: Compare this with the Parable of Jesus sometimes given the title "Parable of the Foolish Bridesmaids" found in Matthew 25:1-13.

Agony of Missing

If I do not meet you in this life
let me then forever feel that missing
forgetting not the pain of not seeing
you and carry this sorrow
both in my dreams and in wakeful hours.

As I pass my days in markets with profits
weighing me down let me count my gain
nil if I had missed you and carry this misery
the sorrow of missing you
both in my dreams and in wakeful hours.

When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting
and spread my bed to rest, help me keep in mind
the journey is long until I meet you
and to miss you is agony, a sorrow I must carry
both in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

When my home has been decorated and the flute
sound and laughter are loud, let me feel my failure
to invite you into my house, and without you
there is only emptiness, a sting I must carry
both in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 79

Henry Victor          08.12.2012

Drifting in the Foundation

Since I know you
only as my God and not
as my own to come  closer
I stand apart from you.

Since I know you
only as my father and not
as my friend to grasp your hand
I bow at your feet.

I stand not where you walk
to own you as my own
by clasping your hand, in heart
take you as my comrade.

You are indeed my Brother
amongst my brothers but I pay
no attention to them, nor do I share
my possessions, profits with them.

In pleasure and in pain of men
and women I stand apart reluctant
to give my life thus refusing to plunge
into your being, the great waters of life.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 77

Henry Victor          07.12.2012