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

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

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

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

 

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

Gift for Grace

An inclination for virtuous living, joy, wealth
including fame, with the final home come
from you, my ultimate mother and father
with the power to give, or withhold these gifts.

But my tears are mine, and mine alone that I bring
to you as my gift, a chain of pearls for your neck,
to hang on  your chest as the stars have placed anklets  
of light to your feet, and you reward me with your grace.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 83

Henry Victor          24.10.2012

Barren Cloud

O my glorious sun!
Am I not a remnant cloud of autumn
roaming, uselessly, in the sky
without your touch to melt my vapour,

and to make me one with your light
instead of my counting months and years
separated from you
as if this is your wish and your play?

If it is, then take my fleeting barrenness
and paint me with colours, gilding with gold
and make me float on the nasty wind
that I may spread some varied wonders,

and when it is your wish to end this play
in the night, I shall melt to vanish in dark
or, I may smile as the white morning
in the coolness of a transparent purity.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 80

Henry Victor          17.10.2012

Light

Oh, the source of all light!
Where is the light?
Light it with the burning fire
that desire!

There is the lamp
but never a flicker of a flame
Is such your fate, my heart?
Wouldn’t death be far better for you!

Misery knocks at your door
and her message is that your lord is wakeful
and he calls you to the love date
through the darkness of night.

The sky is overcast, nothing but gloom
with clouds and ceaseless rain
and I know not what this stirring
within me, certainly not its meaning.

A moment's flash of lightning in my sight
drags down a deeper gloom
and my heart gropes for the path
to where the music of the night calls me.

Oh, the source of all light
Where is the light?
Light it with the burning fire
that desire!

It thunders and the wind rushes screaming
through the void of the night that is black
black as a black stone.
Let not the hours pass by in the dark.

Oh, the source of all light!
Light the lamp of love
within me with your life
that burning fire, that desire!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 27

Henry Victor          09.10.2012

Mercy of Refusals

My desires are countless and my cry is pitiful
but you always save me by your hard refusals
and this strong mercy, this tough love
has penetrated and spread wholly into my life.

Daily you make me worthy of the simple
but greater gifts you give me unasked such as
this sky and the light, this body and the life
with a mind saving me from the perils of my desire.

There are times when I lazily linger
and times when I hurry toward my goal
but you very cruelly hide yourself
from my face and my disciplined feel.

Daily you make me worthy of your acceptance
packed with your complete and constant refusals
refusing me ever and ever so immediately
saving me from risks of weedy and vague desire.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 14

Henry Victor          26.09.2012