Bondage to Finery

Playing, for child, brings no pleasure

when adorned with prince’s robes
and jewelled chains round the neck
for it will fetter him with fear.

His robes, he will think, may be frayed

or stained with dust, hence, keeping
himself away from the world, and the child
will be afraid even to make a single move.

Mother your bondage to finery is no gain
if you keep your child shut off from the healthful
dust of the earth, to rob his right of entrance
to the great fair of common human life!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 08

Henry Victor          07.01.2013

Death of Poetic Vanity

My song is plain without any adornments
and my tune needs no dress and decoration.
Pride of my ornaments ruins our union
as they would come between you and me.

Your whispers will drown
in the jingling of ornaments
and I know my poetic vanity dies
surely in shame before your sight.

O master poet, I have sat at your feet!
Let me make my life simple
and straight like a flute of reed
for you to fill with music.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 07

Henry Victor 07.01.2013

The Song

I know not how you sing, my master.

The light of your music illumines the world

and the life breath of your music runs from sky
to sky with its holy stream breaking through stony
obstacles and rushes endlessly from heart to heart.

I forever listen in silent amazement as my heart

longs to join in your song, but vainly my soul
struggles for a voice, and then I try to speak
but speech breaks not into song, making me cry.

But you have made my heart captive

in meshes of your music, my master.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 03

Henry Victor          07.01.2013

 

My Singing

When you command me to sing
it seems that my heart would break
with the weight of pride and I look
to your face and tears come to my eyes.

All that is harsh and dissonant in my life
then melts into one sweet harmony
and my adoration spreads wings
like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.

I know you take pleasure in my singing
and I know that only as a singer I come
before your presence and my song
with far spreading wing touch your feet.

For I could never aspire to reach heights
higher than this and drunk with the joy
of singing I forget myself and call
you, my Lord, my friend!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 02

Henry Victor 07.01.2013

Waiting for Love

Oh my love you have let me wait at the door, outside

all alone as clouds heap and the sky darkens to pour
for I am in the crowd in the busy moments of noontide
but at this lonely and dark hour I hope for none but you.

If you show me not your face, if you leave me aside

wholly, I know not how to pass these long, rainy hours
for I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky
and my mind wanders wailing with the restless wind.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 18

Henry Victor          06.01.2013

 

Your Footstool

Your footstool is where the poor, the humble

and the lost live, and there rest your feet;
my heart can never find its way to where
you keep company with the companionless.

I try to bow to you but my obeisance cannot

reach down to the depth where your feet rest
among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost
as pride can never enter the path you walk.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 10

Henry Victor          06.01.2013

Legitimate

The market day is over and work is all done
and those who came to call me have all gone
back in vain but with anger, and people blame
me and call me reckless, and they are right!

The reason for my delay is my waiting to give myself
into his hands for love, and they come with their laws
and codes to bind me, and I am guilty but I evade
for I am waiting to give myself into his hands for love!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 17

Henry Victor 05.01.2013