You have made me known to friends
not known earlier, and given me seats
in homes not my own, bringing the distant
near and making a brother of a stranger.
Yet, I am edgy at heart to leave the familiar
shelter due to my forgetting that the old
abides in the new, and the new was there
in the old, and you will never desert me.
Through birth and death, in this world
or in other, wherever you lead me, it is you
the same, the one companion of my endless life
linking the unfamiliar with a heart filled with joy.
When I know you, then, none I call alien
or, with that gen, I find, no door is ever shut;
grant me ever, therefore, the bliss that comes
from the touch of that one in the play of many.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 63
Henry Victor 25.10.2012
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
The children, with shouts and dances
meet on the seashore of endless worlds
beside waters so boisterous and restless
with motionless infinite sky overhead.
They build their houses with sand, playing
with empty shells, weaving their boats
with withered leaves and smilingly float
on the vast deep to continue their play.
These children know not how to swim, or cast nets
while pearl fishers dive for pearls, and merchants
sail in ships as children gather pebbles to scatter
for these little ones seek not to hoard treasures.
The sea surges with laughter and the sea beach smiles
with shining light while the death-dealing waves sing
meaningless lullabies to children as a mother rocking
her baby's cradle even as the sea plays with children.
And storms roam in the pathless sky while ships
get wrecked in the trackless water, with death
abroad children continue to play on the seashore
of endless worlds, a great meeting of children.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 60
(This poem is also Tagore’s Crescent Moon, poem 2)
Henry Victor 22.10.2012
When the creation was new and the stars
shone their first light, the splendour, gods
held their assembly in the sky, to sing: ‘Oh
the picture-perfection, what flawless joy!’
But suddenly one cried: ‘Somewhere
there is a break in the chain of light
and one of the stars
surely, has been lost!'
Now the golden string of the stars’ harp
snapped and their song stopped, in dismay
the stars cried: ‘Yes, that the lost star
was the best, the glory of all heavens!'
From that day the search for the best
is unceasing and the cry goes on from one
to the other that in the lost star
the world has lost its joy.
Only in the deepest perception, silence
of night the stars smile and whisper
among themselves: ‘Vain is this seeking
there is, always, the unbroken perfection!’
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 78
Henry Victor 19.10.2012
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
When a day is spent on lazing, normally
I grieve over lost time knowing not
with you nothing is ever lost but your hands
take them into your bosom to hide.
Hidden in your heart with other stuff
you nourish those seeds into sprouts
later to flourish into buds and blossoms
and evolving flowers into fruits.
All this happens as I lay my tired limbs
sleeping on my idle bed imagining my work
now is ceased, but only to wake in the morning
to find my garden filled with magical flowers.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 81
Henry Victor 17.10.2012
Lord of all worlds, O Lord of my life
daily with folded hands
I will stand before you
face to face.
Under your wide sky in solitude and silence
with overflowing humility in heart
I will stand before you
face to face.
In this world with your work so wild
with toil and struggle among haste crowd
I will stand before you
face to face.
And when my work is done
in this world, alone and speechless
I will stand before you
face to face.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 76
Henry Victor 16.10.2012
