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.