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

 

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