The Wisdom of the East Series
EDITED BY
L. CRANMER-BYNG
Dr. S. A. KAPADIA
ANTHOLOGY OF
MODERN INDIAN POETRY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WISDOM OF THE EAST
ANTHOLOGY OF
MODERN INDIAN
POETRY
EDITED BY
GWENDOLINE GOODWIN
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W
FIRST EDITION, 1927
_Printed in Great Britain by
Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 9
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 19
AN INVOCATION 23
THE SECRETS OF THE SELF 27
WORSHIP 34
BEYOND THE VERGE OF TIME--STEPS 35
EGO--FIRE 36
THE ARTIST 37
IMAGERY 38
TRANSIENCE--O LONG BLACK HAIR--REVELATION 39
“SPRING THAT IN MY COURTYARD”--“THIS
DAY WILL PASS” 40
URVASI 42
OPEN THOU THY DOOR OF MERCY 47
THE DANCER 48
ACKNOWLEDGMENT 49
REMEMBRANCE--THE VISIBLE 50
IN THE LIGHT 51
CALL AND BRING HER 52
BASANTA PANCHAMI 53
A WOMAN’S BEAUTY 54
AN EVENING ON THE LAGOON--AT THE
TEMPLE 55
RAKSHA BANDHAN 56
LONGINGS--THOUGHTS 57
THE LOVERS 58
A BLUE DREAM 59
TULIP 60
RETURN TO KHAIRPUR--INDIA: ENTERTAINING
TWILIGHT 61
ROSHANARA 66
IN PRAISE OF HENNA 68
IMPERIAL DELHI 69
DIRGE 70
SPRING--CRADLE-SONG 71
JUNE SUNSET 72
BUNKIM CHANDRA CHATTERJI 73
A ROSE OF WOMEN--THE ISLAND
GRAVE 75
INVITATION 76
A CHILD’S IMAGINATION 77
EVENING--THE SEA AT NIGHT--LACHHI 78
AZMĒ 79
AWAKE, MY FRIEND 81
MARRIAGE SONG 82
MYSTIC LOVE SONG FROM “THIRTY
INDIAN SONGS" 83
THE PUNJAB AUTUMN: THE SEASON OF
THE COOLING DEW 84
RÂJHANS (THE PRINCE OF SWANS) 89
LATER LYRICS: POPLAR, BEECH, AND
WEEPING WILLOW 90
ORPHIC MYSTERIES: THE YELLOW
BUTTERFLY 93
MYVANWY 96
KISMET 99
TANSEN 100
“THE HIGH AMBITION OF THE DROP OF
RAIN” 101
“HOW DIFFICULT IS THE THORNY WAY OF
STRIFE” 102
“THY BEAUTY FLASHES LIKE A SWORD” 103
“I SHALL NOT TRY TO FLEE THE SWORD
OF DEATH” 104
VOICE IN THE AIR 105
“ALL THIS IS RHYTHM” 112
“FRIEND, DWELL THOU WITHIN”--“THOU
ART THE ROSE” 113
“SNOW-BLOSSOMS, SNOW-BLOSSOMS” 114
“THE ROSE OF ETERNITY” 116
“THE BLUE OF INDRA” 117
“THE SHADOW OF A FLYING BIRD” 118
LOVE’S SAMĀDHI--A CRADLE SONG 120
THE WAY OF POVERTY 121
THE LAST PRAYER--UNION WITH CHRIST 122
PEACE 123
PREFACE
Francis Bacon it was who said, “Prefaces are great wastes of time, and
tho’ they seem to proceed of modesty, they are bravery.” It is
necessary, however, in the present instance to make a stand against the
somewhat sweeping convictions of the Elizabethan master. The call of
Youth in India is a hot young call, trumpeting down the ages through a
maze of polytheistic tribute, and emerging in the twentieth century with
some of its original clearness of sound drowned by a Gargantuan thunder
of Western drums. The Indian poet of to-day is torn, like the Indian
painter, between admiration for Western models and a desire to mould
himself thereon, and an inherent Indian tradition that runs in his veins
and will not be denied. Indeed, it is pity to deny it. Sir Edmund Gosse
persuaded Sarojini Naidu to tear up her poems about English life and to
write of her own Indian bazaars and cities, villages and festivals, for
which persuasion we are indeed indebted to Sir Edmund. We of the West do
not want from the East poetic edifices built upon a foundation of Yeats
and Shelley and Walt Whitman. We want genuine Taj Mahals and Juma
Masjids, cameos of rural sweetness and the hopes of faithful hearts. We
want to hear the flute of Krishna as Radha heard it, to fall under the
spell of the blue god “in the lotus-heart of dreams.” For there is much
to learn from the melody of Eastern thought. It is, perhaps, a minor
melody born of the mating of Love and Death, but it has its seed in an
innate spiritual rapture that no Western veneer can wholly cover.
In the bulk of Indian poetry religious feeling predominates, as is only
natural in a country of many but steadfast faiths.
“To act, to think, to feel aright until
He knows his will as one with Allah’s will.”
Subjugation of the Self leading to a merging of that Self with God.
India writes largely from the “Inner Vision.” This disallows of foreign
influence, but the poet is necessarily inspired as well by an everyday
atmosphere which he enriches from the strength of his own perception.
The steps of the bathing-ghâts in Calcutta may be of Sheffield
cast-iron, but the country that could produce a Taj Mahal--“stone turned
into a dream,” D. G. Mukerji calls it--will never lose the innate
artistic vision of her soul. So the creative prayers of this mighty
cosmopolitan multitude surge upwards in a song of glory till they reach
the stars. Love of life is love of art because life is art and art is
life. We chase after fleeting perfection, a rosy cloud, a glint of
eternity in a lily-pool, a drop of dew trembling on a flower-petal,
moments of heaven in worlds of chaos. To catch a mood of Nature and
transfer it to paper; to wring from the heart of an instrument one swift
emotional phase after another: is it futile? is it useless?
“Am I one of the trees in the night,
Or are the trees human beings?”
asks Harindranath Chattopadhyaya in one of his poems not published here,
echoing the cry of Li Po:
“Chuang Chou in a dream became a butterfly
And the butterfly became Chuang Chou at waking:
Which was the real, the butterfly or the man?”
In Indian poetry, the mystic element shines through the outer decorative
aspect.
“Our dreams and longings cover deeper dreams
And longings in the silence far away.”
We are roused from the beautiful lyrical lilt of Chattopadhyaya and of
his sister, Sarojini Naidu, by the thunder of Muhammad Iqbal’s
persuasive eloquence. He is a barrister-at-law at Lahore, an active
Moslem opposed to Platonic illusion and non-progressive idealism.
“Plato, the prime ascetic and sage,
Was one of that ancient flock of sheep.
His Pegasus went astray in the darkness of philosophy
And galloped over the mountains of Being.
He was so fascinated by the Ideal
That he made head, eye, and ear of no account.”
Whether one agrees with his outlook or not, the fact remains that one
cannot fail to be stirred by the intensely fiery spirit of Iqbal’s
rhetorical writing. He is a leader. He sweeps everything before him like
a great wind swirling through a forest of pines. He would re-create
Islam, an active, non-Imperialistic, non-sensual Islam. In his own
words, he is “the voice of the poet of To-morrow.” As Mr. R. A.
Nicholson (his translator) says, the book “Asrar-i-Khudi” (Secrets of
the Self), from which I have taken the extracts, “presents certain
obscurities which no translation can entirely remove.” That is, of
course, to European readers or to those not conversant with Persian
poetry. For the book was originally written in Persian.
“Although the language of Hind is sweet as sugar,
Yet sweeter is the fashion of Persian speech.”
He is an inspiring philosopher.
“Thou art fire: fill the world with thy glow!
Make others burn with thy burning!
* * * * *
Up, and re-inspire every living soul!”
I have spoken of the Youth of India, but the contributors to this volume
range in age from the twenties to the seventies. There is little need
for me to speak of Rabindranath Tagore. Mr. Edward Thompson (to whom I
am indebted for the three translations) has acted in a Boswellian
capacity, and the poet is as well known in England as are the great
poets of our own nationality. I would draw attention, however, to the
beautiful concluding lines of “Urvasi”:
“On the night of full moon, when the world brims with laughter,
Memory, from somewhere far away, pipes a flute that brings unrest,
The tears gush out!
Yet in that weeping of the spirit Hope wakes and lives;
Ah, Unfettered One!”
The flute-call of memory bringing restlessness and a strange peace on
its liquid cadences. And a dimness of tears to stir the dust of Hope to
life. “Ah, Unfettered One!” I have included some translations of Indian
songs as sung by native singers, because I thought they might be of
interest from an indigenous point of view. Dr. Ananda Coomaraswamy, of
the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Mass., is responsible for their English
rendering. The one commencing “Quietly come, O Beauty, come,” has a
mystical meaning. We drift then into the Punjab, the Land of Five
Waters, and find Puran Singh, the Sikh poet, breathing the musk of
God-love through nostrils ever open to receive a spiritual fragrance.
“The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.”
It blows the perfume of the Beauty that is Worship into the heart of
this devout enthusiast. His mind is a casket that holds the most
precious gems of the Sikh religion and ideals, and gives them forth to
an unenlightened world. Nanak, Gobind, Teg Bahadur, the names of the Ten
Masters (whose lives he has written) sound in his ears day and night.
The loneliness of exile rings through the quivering poems of Manmohan
Ghose.
“Lost is that country, and all but forgotten
’Mid these chill breezes ...”
All true poets love trees; Manmohan Ghose is no exception:
“Willow sweet, willow sad, willow by the river,
Taught by pensive love to droop, where ceaseless waters shiver.”
Mrs. Pankajini Basu is represented by one poem, “Basanta Panchami,” a
description of the famous Spring Festival. One line, in particular,
stands out: “Ever sorrowful, ever ill-starred, are we women of Bengal,
all of us,” and, one might add, ever devout, ever faithful. The eternal
question of Indian womanhood cannot be dismissed with a shrug of the
shoulders. Mrs. Naidu’s lines:
“What further need hath she of loveliness
Whom Death hath parted from her lord’s caress?”
seem to strike at the heart of the matter. Time alone will solve a
problem which at the moment is very vexed indeed. It would seem almost
that in their poems these Indian women express all the fullness of their
hearts in love-songs, hymns of conjugal devotion, lamentations, praise
of physical beauty, and tributes of faith. Emotional outlets of warm,
loyal natures, yet always with the underlying sadness that is the
birthright of Hind, like an anthem at evening or the eyes of a convent
sister. Melancholy glides like pearly vapour through “The Island Grave”
of Sri Aurobindo Ghose:
“And I will meet thee in that lonely place,
Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful days
And death admit me to the silent ways.”
Death, to the Oriental, is a small and yet a great matter. He welcomes
rather than fears it. The body, being but the shell of the soul, is of
little account, save, perhaps, for its procreative value as a creator of
further beings in the image of God. Death, then, is a joyful thing, and
there is but a thin line between the wedding-song and the funeral dirge.
The blue bird of truth is flying against a sky of such intense blueness
as to be almost indistinguishable--Ananda Acharya’s “blue of Indra.”
This poet sends his “snow-blossoms” of Indian thought forth from the
cool earth of Norway. He lives there amid his “Arctic Swallows,” and in
his later work has grafted Asian feeling, in a curious way, upon a shoot
of Scandinavian origin. There is, of course, a strange affinity between
the Nordic peoples and the Asian. The strain flowed through Northern
Russia, south to Persia, and thence into India, the type gradually
changing from blue-eyed, fair-skinned folk to olive skins and “flaming
eyes, like thunder skies. So deep and dark....”
Jehangir Jivaji Vakil’s three little poems have not hitherto been
published. The one commencing “O long black hair of love” has an almost
Japanese brevity, and compresses into four lines quite a wealth of
ardent feeling.
India is rich in legendary history and does not lack for romantic and
dramatic episodes in her actual chronicles. I have, nevertheless, found
little of the narrative style of poetry among the modern poets.
Historical and legendary references are occasionally met with, but they
are usually incidental, and little use has been made of a
richly-equipped storehouse. Adi K. Sett has utilised this method in
“Roshanara,” Inayat Khan in “Tansen,” and Tagore (in a measure) in
“Urvasi.” Apparently the lyrical style or the sonnet-form has the
greatest appeal.
Narayan Vaman Tilak was a Christian mystic. His poems breathe all the
fervour of the convert.
“Saith Dasa, Christ, upon Thy pallet-bed
Grant me a little space to lay my head.”
I have included Zahir, Ghalib, and Amir, because, though not modern in a
strict sense, as is, say, Fredoon Kabraji, they have been translated by
living people, namely, Mrs. J. D. Westbrook and Pir-o-Murshid Inayat
Khan.
Whether this is the dawn-time of a new era of Indian poetic thought, who
shall say? These Eastern singers, Bengali, Punjabi, Hindu, Mohammedan,
Sikh, Christian, have upon their shoulders a yoke of heavy
responsibility. They have to support and become worthy of the mighty
tradition that lies behind them. Song should be theirs naturally, but it
is one thing to preserve the metre in their own particular tongues and
another to wrestle with the technicalities of English. There are many
more modern poets in India from whom I might have chosen, but the scope
of the book forbids the inclusion of more material.
The Indian twilight descends, gentle and swift, “wizard clocks ring out
and rend the calm.” The dark rich blue of night, peridot-studded, swings
a baby-moon high above inky palm and gleaming tomb. The poet sits in
contemplation. “The lotus dreams upon the lyric melodies of day....”
RIGHT
GWENDOLINE GOODWIN.
HANG
SHEFFIELD,
_December 8th, 1926_.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I beg to acknowledge indebtedness to the following for permissions
accorded to reproduce poems:
1. _Oxford University Press_ (Heritage of India Series). (Poems by
Indian Women.)
Professor Farquhar, of Manchester University.
Mrs. Margaret Macnicol, Miss D. Whitehouse.
2. _Messrs. William Heinemann, Ltd._
Mrs. Sarojini Naidu.
“The Golden Threshold.”
“The Broken Wing.”
“The Bird of Time.”
3. _Blackwell_ (_Oxford_)
Poems of Manmohan Ghose.
Mr. Laurence Binyon.
4. “_Poetry Review_” (_Mr. Galloway Kyle_)
Poems by Mrs. Elsa Kazi.
5. _Longmans, Green & Co._
Nanikram Vasanmal Thadani.
“Krishna’s Flute”
6. Adi K. Sett.
“Roshanara.”
7. _Srinavasa Varadachari & Co._
Sonnets.
Prof. P. Seshadri, of Benares Hindu University.
8. _Indian Press, Ltd._ (_Allahabad_)
Prof. P. Seshadri.
“Vanished Hours.”
“Champak Leaves.”
9. _The Sufi Movement_ (_Southampton_)
Inayat Khan and Mrs. Jessie Duncan Westbrook.
“Diwan.”
Hindustani Lyrics.
10. _J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd._
Puran Singh and Bhai Vir Singh.
“Sisters of the Spinning-Wheel.”
“Nargas.”
11. Jehangir Jivaji Vakil.
(Three poems hitherto unpublished.)
12. _Messrs. Ernest Benn, Ltd._
(Augustan Books of Modern Poetry.)
Poems of Rabindranath Tagore.
Mr. Edward Thompson.
Mr. C. F. Andrews.
13. _Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd._
“The Secrets of the Self.”
Muhammad Iqbal (Lahore).
Mr. R. A. Nicholson.
Sri Ananda Acharya.
“Book of the Cave” (_see Notes_).
14. _The Brahmakul Gaurisankar_ (_Alvdal, Norway_)
Sri Ananda Acharya.
“Saki.”
“Usarika.”
15. _Theosophical Publishing House_ (_Adyar, Madras_)
Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.
“Feast of Youth.”
_Shama’a, Madras_
“Out of the Deep Dark Mould.”
“Magic Tree.”
16. Fredoon Kabraji.
17. _Messrs. Luzac & Co._
Thirty Indian Songs.
Ananda Coomaraswamy.
18. _Association Press_ (_Calcutta_)
Poems of Narayan Vaman Tilak.
Mr. D. N. Tilak (Copyright of Marathi originals).
Rev. J. C. Winslow.
19. Sri Aurobindo Ghose (Pondicherry).
EDITORIAL NOTE
The object of the Editors of this series is a very definite one. They
desire above all things that, in their humble way, these books shall be
the ambassadors of good-will and understanding between East and
West--the old world of Thought and the new of Action. In this endeavour,
and in their own sphere, they are but followers of the highest example
in the land. They are confident that a deeper knowledge of the great
ideals and lofty philosophy of Oriental thought may help to a revival of
that true spirit of Charity which neither despises nor fears the nations
of another creed and colour.
L. CRANMER-BYNG.
S. A. KAPADIA.
NORTHBROOK SOCIETY,
IMPERIAL INSTITUTE,
S.W.7.
ANTHOLOGY OF MODERN INDIAN POETRY
AN INVOCATION
O, Thou art as the soul in the body of the universe,
Thou art our soul and Thou art ever fleeing from us.
Thou breathest music into Life’s lute;
Life envies Death when death is for thy sake.
Once more bring comfort to our sad hearts!
Once more dwell in our breasts!
Once more let us hear Thy call to honour!
Strengthen our weak love.
We are oft complaining of destiny,
Thou art of great price and we have naught.
Hide not Thy fair face from the empty-handed!
Sell cheap the love of Salman and Bilál!
Give us the sleepless eye and the passionate heart!
Give us again the nature of quicksilver!
Show unto us one of Thy manifest signs,
That the necks of our enemies may be bowed!
Make this chaff a mountain crested with fire,
Burn with our fire all that is not God!
When the people let the clue of Unity go from their hands,
They fell into a hundred mazes.
We are dispersed like stars in the world;
Though of the same family, we are strange to one another.
Bind again these scattered leaves,
Revive the law of love!
Take us back to serve Thee as of old,
Commit Thy cause to them that love thee!
We are travellers: give us devotion as our goal!
Give us the strong faith of Abraham!
Make us know the meaning of “There is no god”!
Make us acquainted with the mystery of “except Allah”!
I, who burn like a candle for the sake of others,
Teach myself to weep like the candle.
O God! a tear that is heart-enkindling,
Passionful, wrung forth by pain, peace-consuming,
May I sow in the garden, and may it grow into a fire
That washes away the firebrand from the tulip’s robe!
My heart is with yestereve, my eye is on to-morrow:
Amidst the company I am alone.
“Everyone fancies he is my friend,
But my secret thoughts have not escaped from my heart.”
O, where in the wide world is my comrade?
I am the Bush of Sinai: where is my Moses?
I am tyrannous, I have done many a wrong to myself,
I have nourished a flame in my bosom,
A flame that seized the furniture of judgment,
And cast fire on the skirt of discretion,
And lessened with madness the reason,
And burned up the existence of knowledge:
Its blaze enthrones the sun in the sky,
And lightnings encircle it with adoration for ever.
Mine eye fell to weeping, like dew,
Since I was entrusted with that hidden fire.
I taught the candle to burn openly,
While I myself burned unseen by the world’s eye.
At last flames breathed from every hair of me,
Fire dropped from the veins of my thought:
My nightingale picked up the spark-grains
And created a fire-tempered song.
Is the breast of this age without a heart?
Majnún trembles lest Lailá’s howdah be empty.
It is not easy for the candle to throb alone:
Ah! is there no moth worthy of me?
How long shall I wait for one to share my grief?
How long must I search for a confidant?
O Thou whose face lends light to the moon and the stars,
Withdraw Thy fire from my soul!
Take back what Thou hast put in my breast,
Remove the stabbing radiance from my mirror,
Or give me one old comrade
To be the mirror of mine all-burning love!
In the sea wave tosses side by side with wave:
Each hath a partner in its emotion.
In heaven star consorts with star,
And the bright moon lays her head on the knees of Night.
Morning touches Night’s dark side,
And To-day throws itself against To-morrow.
One river loses its being in another,
A waft of air dies in perfume.
There is dancing in every nook of the wine-house,
Madman dances with madman.
Howbeit in Thine essence Thou art single,
Thou hast decked out for Thyself a whole world.
I am as the tulip of the field,
In the midst of a company I am alone.
I beg of Thy grace a sympathising friend,
An adept in the mysteries of my nature,
A friend endowed with madness and wisdom,
One that knoweth not the phantom of vain things,
That I may confide my lament to his soul
And see again my face in his heart.
His image I will mould of mine own clay,
I will be to him both idol and worshipper.
_Muhammad Iqbal._
THE SECRETS OF THE SELF
PROLOGUE
When the world-illuming sun rushed upon Night like a brigand,
My weeping bedewed the face of the rose,
My tears washed away sleep from the eye of the narcissus,
My passion wakened the grass and made it grow.
The Gardener taught me to sing with power,
He sowed a verse and reaped a sword.
In the soil he planted only the seed of my tears,
And wove my lament with the garden, as warp and woof.
Tho’ I am but a mote, the radiant sun is mine:
Within my bosom are a hundred dawns.
My dust is brighter than Jamshid’s cup,
It knows things that are yet unborn in the world.
My thought hunted down and slung from the saddle a deer
That has not yet leaped forth from the covert of non-existence.
Fair is my garden ere yet the leaves are green:
Full-blown roses are hidden in the skirt of my garment.
I struck dumb the musicians where they were gathered together,
I smote the heartstrings of all that heard me,
Because the lute of my genius hath a rare melody:
Even to comrades my song is strange.
I am born in the world as a new sun,
I have not learned the ways and fashions of the sky:
Not yet have the stars fled before my splendour,
Not yet is my quicksilver astir;
Untouched is the sea by my dancing rays,
Untouched are the mountains by my crimson hue.
The eye of existence is not familiar with me;
I rise trembling, afraid to show myself.
From the East my dawn arrived and routed Night,
A fresh dew settled on the rose of the world.
I am waiting for the votaries that rise at dawn:
Oh, happy they who shall worship my fire!
I have no need of the ear of To-day,
I am the voice of the poet of To-morrow.
My own age does not understand my deep meanings;
My Joseph is not for this market.
I despair of my old companions,
My Sinai burns for sake of the Moses who is coming.
Their sea is silent, like dew,
But my dew is storm-ridden, like the ocean.
My song is of another world than theirs:
This bell calls other travellers to take the road.
How many a poet after his death
Opened our eyes when his own were closed,
And journeyed forth again from nothingness
When roses blossomed o’er the earth of his grave!
Albeit caravans have passed through this desert,
They passed, as a camel steps, with little sound.
But I am a lover: loud crying is my faith:
The clamour of Judgment Day is one of my minions.
My song exceeds the range of the chord,
Yet I do not fear that my lute will break.
’Twere better for the waterdrop not to know my torrent,
Whose fury should rather madden the sea.
No river will contain my Oman:
My flood requires whole seas to hold it.
Unless the bud expand into a bed of roses,
It is unworthy of my spring-cloud’s bounty.
Lightnings slumber within my soul,
I sweep over mountain and plain.
Wrestle with my sea, if thou art a plain;
Receive my lightning, if thou art a Sinai.
The Fountain of Life hath been given me to drink,
I have been made an adept of the mystery of Life.
The speck of dust was vitalised by my burning song:
It unfolded wings and became a firefly.
No one hath told the secret which I will tell
Or threaded a pearl of thought like mine.
Come, if thou wouldst know the secret of everlasting life!
Come, if thou wouldst win both earth and heaven!
The old _Guru_ of the Sky taught me this lore,
I cannot hide it from my comrades.
O Saki! arise and pour wine into the cup,
Clear the vexation of Time from my heart!
The sparkling liquor that flows from Zemzem--
Were it a beggar, a king would pay homage to it.
It makes thought more sober and wise,
It makes the keen eye keener,
It gives to a straw the weight of a mountain,
And to foxes the strength of lions.
It causes dust to soar to the Pleiades
And a drop of water swell to the breadth of the sea.
It turns silence into the din of Judgment Day,
It makes the foot of the partridge red with blood of the hawk.
Arise and pour pure wine into my cup,
Pour moonbeams into the dark night of my thought,
That I may lead home the wanderer
And imbue the idle looker-on with restless impatience;
And advance hotly on a new quest
And become known as the champion of a new spirit;
And be to people of insight as the pupil to the eye,
And sink into the ear of the world, like a voice;
And exalt the worth of Poesy
And sprinkle the dry herbs with my tears.
Inspired by the genius of the Master of Rum,
I rehearse the sealed book of secret lore.
His soul is the source of the flames,
I am but as the spark that gleams for a moment.
His burning candle consumed me, the moth;
His wine overwhelmed my goblet.
The Master of Rum transmuted my earth to gold
And clothed my barren dust with beauty.
The grain of sand set forth from the desert,
That it might win the radiance of the sun.
I am a wave, and I will come to rest in his sea,
That I may make the glistening pearl mine own.
I who am drunken with the wine of his song
Will draw life from the breath of his words.
’Twas night: my heart would fain lament,
The silence was filled with my cries to God.
I was complaining of the sorrows of the world
And bewailing the emptiness of my cup.
At last mine eye could endure no more,
Broken with fatigue it went to sleep.
There appeared the Master, formed in the mould of Truth,
Who wrote the Koran of Persia.
He said, “O frenzied lover,
Take a draught of love’s pure wine.
Strike the chords of thine heart and rouse a tumultuous strain,
Dash thine head against the cupping-glass and thine eye
against the lancet!
Make thy laughter the source of a hundred sighs,
Make the hearts of men bleed with thy tears!
How long wilt thou be silent, like a bud?
Sell thy fragrance cheap, like the rose!
Tongue-tied, thou art in pain:
Cast thyself upon the fire, like rue!
Like the bell, break silence at last, and from every limb
Utter forth a lamentation!
Thou art fire: fill the world with thy glow!
Make others burn with thy burning!
Proclaim the secrets of the old wine-seller;
Be thou a surge of wine, and the crystal cup thy robe!
Shatter the mirror of fear,
Break the bottles in the bazaar!
Like the reed-flute, bring a message from the reeds;
Give to Majnún a message from Lailá!
Create a new style for thy song,
Enrich the feast with thy piercing strains!
Up, and re-inspire every living soul!
Say ‘Arise!’ and by that word quicken the living!
Up, and set thy feet on another path;
Put aside the passionate melancholy of old!
Become familiar with the delight of singing;
O bell of the caravan, awake!”
At these words my bosom was enkindled
And swelled with emotion like the flute;
I rose like music from the string
To prepare a Paradise for the ear.
I unveiled the mystery of the Self
And disclosed its wondrous secret.
My being was as an unfinished statue,
Uncomely, worthless, good for nothing.
Love chiselled me: I became a man
And gained knowledge of the nature of the universe.
I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky,
And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.
Many a night I wept for Man’s sake
That I might tear the veil from Life’s mysteries,
And extract the secret of Life’s constitution
From the laboratory of phenomena.
I who give beauty to this night, like the moon,
Am as dust in devotion to the pure Faith [Islam]--
A Faith renowned in hill and dale,
Which kindles in men’s hearts a flame of undying song:
It sowed an atom and reaped a sun,
It harvested a hundred poets like Rumi and Attar.
I am a sigh: I will mount to the heavens;
I am a breath, yet am I sprung of fire.
Driven onward by high thoughts, my pen
Cast abroad the secret of this veil,
That the drop may become co-equal with the sea
And the grain of sand grow into a Sahara.
Poetising is not the aim of this _masnavi_,
Beauty-worshipping and love-making is not its aim.
I am of India: Persian is not my native tongue;
I am like the crescent moon: my cup is not full.
Do not seek from me charm of style in exposition,
Do not seek from me Khansar and Isfahan.
Although the language of Hind is sweet as sugar,
Yet sweeter is the fashion of Persian speech.
My mind was enchanted by its loveliness,
My pen became as a twig of the Burning Bush.
Because of the loftiness of my thoughts,
Persian alone is suitable to them.
O Reader, do not find fault with the wine-cup,
But consider attentively the taste of the wine.
_Muhammad Iqbal._
WORSHIP
You flood my music with your autumn silence
And burn me in the flame-burst of your spring.
Lo! through my beggar-being’s tattered garments
Resplendent shines your crystal heart, my King!
Like a rich song you chant your red-fire sunrise,
Deep in my dreams, and forge your white-flame moon ...
You hide the crimson secret of your sunset,
And the pure golden message of your moon.
You fashion cool-grey clouds within my body,
And weave your rain into a diamond mesh.
The Universal Beauty dances, dances
A glimmering peacock in my flowering flesh!
_Harindranath Chattopadhyaya._
BEYOND THE VERGE OF TIME
Our dreams and longings cover deeper dreams
And longings in the silence far away.
All things on earth, sweet winds and shining clouds,
Waters and stars and the lone moods of men,
Are cool green echoes of the voice that sings
Beyond the verge of Time. Between two cries of aught,
Of aught on earth, wakes the eternal fire
Wherein the destiny of heaven is wrought,
For what is heaven but the earth grown full,
And God but man unshadowed and afar?
_Harindranath Chattopadhyaya._
STEPS
Each moment when we feel alone
In this great world of rush and riot
Is as a jewelled stepping-stone
Which leads into the House of Quiet.
Within it dwell the ancient seers
Beyond unreal griefs and cares,
Beyond unreal smiles and tears,
Beyond the need of chant and prayers.
_Harindranath Chattopadhyaya._
EGO
A Beauty that ever eludes these fleshly eyes
And fingers and lips ...
Ere I can catch one gleam of the starry skies
The mystery slips,
Leaving an empty, desolate, mocking moan
In the little heart that greedily sought to hold
Vast beauty within its shadowy grasp and own
Elusive, starry gold!
Who are you, feeble, shadow-robed elf,
Striving again and again in vain to capture
Wealth of the deep, the shining, ineffable rapture
Which is the Self beyond self?
_Harindranath Chattopadhyaya._
FIRE
Kindle your glimmering lamp in the infinite space, O Love!
Let the dark shadows dance in the burning depths of mine eyes.
I am athirst for one glimpse of your beautiful face, O Love!
Veiled in the mystical silence of stars and the purple of skies.
Thrill me with radiant rapture, O Love! of your ravishing flute,
Folding my silence in song, and my sorrow in silver eclipse,
Shaping my heart into flower, and the flower of my heart into fruit
Meet for your orchards of light, and touch of your luminous lips.
Cast in the shadowy deeps of my being, your love, like a spark,
Fan it to magical flame, till my dead heart burst into fire,
Swing like a censer, my dream of devotion, O Love! through the dark,
Turn into tumults of incense my richly-pulsating desire!
_Harindranath Chattopadhyaya._
THE ARTIST
The selfsame radiant ecstasy
Which wrought the tempest’s giant wrath
Has painted gorgeous dream-designs
So delicately on the moth.
The selfsame luminous agony
Which shaped the lightning’s fiery claw
Has carved in utmost tenderness
A summer flower without a flaw.
The selfsame motherhood which made
The awful mystery of death
Has built the body of a child
And lit its limbs with golden breath.
The selfsame miracle which moves
In silent mystery apart
Has struck the secret melody
Which dances shyly in my heart.
_Harindranath Chattopadhyaya._
IMAGERY
He has fashioned the stars and the moons to the music
Of innermost-flowering joy and desire,
He has tried his own love for himself through the ages
By flooding his limbs with unquenchable fire
Of creation that dances and bubbles and flutters
In peacocks, in seas, and the hearts of the birds.
Behind the rich silence of red-running sunsets
And cool-coloured sundawns he utters his words.
He is finding for ever his infinite fullness
In blossoming buds and the withering flowers.
He shapes through the heart of the world his Ideal
So white in the midst of the many-hued hours.
He weaves a fine trammel of marvellous colours
Around and about him in utter delight,
Till straight through the darkness his laughter comes lambent,
Birdlike from a cage in a freedom of flight.
_Harindranath Chattopadhyaya._
I
TRANSIENCE
Forgive this wrong:
That of your beauty I have made
Only a passing song,
Only a white-flower song that will fade
Ere I have time to lay it beneath
The shapèd beauty of your feet.
_Jehangir Jivaji Vakil._
II
O LONG BLACK HAIR
O long black hair of love,
In your dark shades a dove,
My heart, circles in rings,
Beating white wings.
_Jehangir Jivaji Vakil._
REVELATION
O, I have dreamt on many rain-dim eves
Of Beauty folded in the flowers and leaves,
Spraying the grass with laughter as with light
Of shaken pearls that lit her hair’s dark night;
But never dreamed her eyes so deep might be
As those with which last eve you gazed at me.
_Jehangir Jivaji Vakil._
SPRING THAT IN MY COURTYARD
Spring that in my courtyard used to make
Such riot once, and buzzing laughter lift,
With heaped drift--
Pomegranate-flowers,
_Kanchan_, _parul_, rain of _palas_-showers;
Spring whose new twigs stirred the woods awake,
With rosy kisses maddening all the sky,[1]
Seeks me out to-day with soundless feet,
Where I sit alone. Her steadfast gaze
Goes out to where the fields and heavens meet;
Beside my silent cottage, silently
She looks and sees the greenness swoon and die
Into the azure haze.
_Rabindranath Tagore._
THIS DAY WILL PASS
I know this day will pass,
This day will pass--[2]
That one day, some day,
The dim sun with tender smiling
Will look in my face,
Looking his last farewell.
Beside the way the flute will sound,
The kine will graze on the river-bank,
The children will play in the courtyards,
The birds will sing on.
Yet this day will pass,
This day will pass.
This is my prayer,
My prayer to Thee:
That ere I go I may learn
Why the green Earth,
Lifting her eyes to the sky,
Called me to her;
Why the silence of the Night
Told me of the stars,
Why the Day’s glory
Raised waves in my soul.
This is my prayer to Thee.
When Earth’s revolutions
For me are ended,
In the finishing of my song
Let me pause a moment,
That I may fill my basket
With the flowers and fruits of the Six Seasons;[3]
That in the light of this life
I may see Thee in going,
That I may garland Thee in going
With the garland from my own throat--
When Earth’s revolutions for me are ended.
_Rabindranath Tagore._
_URVASI_[4]
Thou art not Mother, art not Daughter, art not Bride!
Thou beautiful, comely One,
O Dweller in Paradise, Urvasi!
When Evening descends on the pastures, drawing about her tired
body her golden cloth,
Thou lightest the evening lamp within no home.
With hesitant, wavering steps, with throbbing breast
and downcast look,
Thou dost not go, smiling, fearful, to any belovèd’s bed,
In the hushed midnight.
Like the rising Dawn, thou art unveiled,
Unshrinking One!
Like some stemless flower, blooming in thyself,
When didst thou blossom, Urvasi?
That primal Spring, thou didst arise from the churning of Ocean,[5]
In thy right hand nectar, venom in thy left.
The swelling, mighty Sea, like a serpent tamed with spells,
Drooping his thousand, towering hoods,
Fell at thy feet!
White as the _kunda_[6] blossom, a naked beauty,
adored by the King of Gods,
Thou flawless One!
Wast thou never bud, never maiden of tender years,
O eternally youthful Urvasi?
Sitting alone, under whose dark roof
Didst thou know childhood’s play, toying with gems and pearls?
At whose side, in some chamber lit with the flashing of gems,
Lulled by the chant of the sea-waves, didst thou sleep, in coral bed,
A smile on thy pure face?
That moment when thou awakedst into the universe,
thou wast framed of youth,
In full-blown beauty!
From age to age thou hast been the world’s beloved,
O unsurpassed in loveliness, Urvasi!
Breaking their meditation, sages lay at thy feet the
fruits of their penance;
Smitten with thy glance, the three worlds[7] grow restless with youth;
The blinded winds blow thine intoxicating fragrance around;
Like the black bee, honey-drunken, the infatuated
poet wonders, with greedy heart,
Lifting chants of wild jubilation!
While thou ... thou goest with jingling anklets and waving skirts,
Restless as lightning!
In the assembly of Gods, when thou dancest in ecstasy of joy,
O swaying Wave, Urvasi!
The companies of billows in mid-ocean swell and dance, beat on beat;
In the crests of the corn the skirts of Earth tremble;
From thy necklace stars fall off, in the sky;
Suddenly in the breast of man the heart forgets itself,
The blood dances!
Suddenly in the horizon thy zone bursts,
Ah, wild in abandon!
On the Sunrise Mount of Heaven thou art the embodied Dawn,
O world-enchanting Urvasi!
The slimness of thy form is washed with the tears of the Universe;
The ruddy hue of thy feet is painted with the heart’s
blood of the three worlds;
Thy tresses disrobed from their braid, thou hast
placed thy light feet,
Thy lotus-feet, on the lotus of the blossomed
Desires of the universe!
Endless are thy masques in the mind’s heaven,
O Comrade of dreams!
Ah, hear what crying and weeping everywhere rises for thee,
O cruel, deaf Urvasi!
Ah, will that Ancient Prime ever revisit this earth?
From the shoreless, unfathomed deep wilt thou ever
rise again, with wet locks?
First in the First Dawn that Form will show!
In the startled gaze of the universe all thy limbs will weep,
The waters flowing from them!
Suddenly the vast Sea, in songs never heard before,
Will thunder with its waves!
She will not return, she will not return! That Moon of Glory has set,
She has made her home on the Mount of Setting,[8] has Urvasi!
Therefore to-day, on earth, with the joyous breath of Spring
Mingles the long-drawn sigh of some eternal separation!
On the night of full moon, when the world brims with laughter,
Memory, from somewhere far away, pipes a flute that brings unrest,
The tears gush out!
Yet in that weeping of the spirit Hope wakes and lives;
Ah, Unfettered One!
_Rabindranath Tagore._
OPEN THOU THY DOOR OF MERCY
All my guilt of old, sin upon sin, put far, far away. Give, O Lord, give
in my heart the melody of a new song.
To stir to life my withered, unfeeling heart, near to death and poor,
play thy melody on the _bīnā_, taking ever a new tune.
As in Nature thy sweetness overflows, so let thy compassion wake in my
heart.
In the midst of all things may thy loving face float before my eyes. May
no rebel thought against thy wish ever wake in my heart.
Day by day, before I set foot in life’s forest, may I crave thy blessing
and so advance, my Lord.
Setting thy commands upon my head, may I with unfaltering care
accomplish my every task in the remembrance of thy feet.
Giving to thee the fruit of my task fulfilled, at the end of day may my
wearied spirit and body find rest.
Hurrying have I come from far away, knowing thee compassionate. A
hundred hindrances there were to my coming. How many thorns fill the
path to my goal. So, to-day, behold! my heart is wounded, my life is
dark. Hurrying have I come from far away, knowing thee compassionate.
Open thou thy door of mercy. My raft of life drifts on the boundless
ocean. Fearlessness art thou, and ever powerful. Nought have I, I am
weak and poor. My heart is thirsting for thy lotus feet. The day is now
far spent. Open thou thy door of mercy. My raft of life drifts on the
boundless ocean.[9]
_Hemantabālā Dutt._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
THE DANCER
Lo! the heavy rain has come! With loosened tresses densely dark, lo! the
sky is covered. Lightnings rend the thick darkness over the mountains.
All around, to my heart’s content, I see that beauty has burst forth.
See, frolicsome, she pours forth her loveliness in a thousand streams!
Her raiment, hastily flung around her in disarray, mad passion in her
eyes, with the voice of the _pāpiyā_, full of sweetness and pity, she
sings.
Slowly move her feet. Slipping, slipping, falls her loosely hanging
scarf. Her heart throbs with tumultuous feeling. As if a flood of beauty
overflows, her green jacket of emerald grass displays the hue of her
radiant beauty all around.
The anklets on her feet, keeping time, ring out in swift succession, as
if they were sweet cymbals. Round her lovely throat hangs her chain of
emerald parrots. The rain has ceased and she garbs herself in silken
robes broidered with diamond raindrops.
She gladdens the eye. On the treetops birds play on golden tambourines.
Is the dancer dancing in Indra’s hall, casting restless glances here and
there? Urbasī[10] puts off the chain of jewels from her breast.
How gay her laughter! How fair a dance her tinkling footsteps weave! Her
bracelets and bangles circle glittering. She is girdled with melody of
murmuring swans. For her earth and sky swoon away, overflowing with
love.
Her hands touched the _bīnā_[11] and by her spell enthralled my
infatuated heart. Tears stream from my eyes; infatuation floods my
heart. The witch to-day has melted my timid heart. Lo! the heavy rain
has come.
_Nirupamā Debī._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Thee among all men do I honour;
Thee among all men do I know.
Lo! in the beauty of all thee do I see.
In the mouth of all I have heard, I have heard
The sweet voice of thy lips.
Thee this time I have sought and found;
Thee amongst all do I worship;
Lo! I for all have given my life.
To the work of all amongst all
I have devoted my heart.[12]
_Nirupamā Debī._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
REMEMBRANCE
To-day I shall not indulge in lovers’ quarrels.
I shall not open the ledger and calculate debit and credit.
Only, once again, I shall fill my heart with remembrance of thee.[13]
_Priyambadā Debī._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
THE VISIBLE
Dearest, I know that thy body is but transitory; that the kindled life,
thy shining eyes, shall be quenched by the touch of death, I know; that
this thy body, the meeting-place of all beauty, in seeing which I count
my life well-lived, shall become but a heap of bones, I know. Yet I love
thy body. Day by day afresh through it have I satisfied a woman’s love
and desire by serving thy feet and worshipping thee. On days of good
omen I have decked thee with a flower-garland; on days of woe I have
wiped away with my _sārī_ end thy tears of grief. O my lord, I know that
thy soul is with the Everlasting One, yet waking suddenly some nights I
have wept in loneliness, thinking how thou didst drive away my fear,
clasping me to thy breast. And so I count thy body as the chief goal of
my love, as very heaven.[14]
_Priyambadā Debī._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
IN THE LIGHT
We are indeed children of Light. What an endless mart goes on in the
Light! In the Light is our sleeping and waking, the play of our life and
death.
Beneath one great canopy, in the ray of one great sun, slowly, very
slowly, burn the unnumbered lamps of life.
In the midst of this unending Light I lose myself; amidst this
intolerable radiance I wander like one blind.
We are indeed children of Light. Why then do we fear when we see the
Light? Come, let us look all around and see, here no man hath cause for
any fear.
In this boundless ocean of Light, if a tiny lamp goes out, let it go;
who can say that it will not burn again?
_Mrs. Kāminī Roy._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
CALL AND BRING HER
She went on the wrong way; she has come back again; afar off she stands,
her head bowed down with shame and fear; she does not step forward, she
cannot raise her eyes--go near, take her hand, call her and bring her.
To-day turn not your face away in silent reproach; to-day let eyes and
words be filled with the nectar of love. What good will come from
pouring scorn on the past? Think of her dark future, take her by the
hand and bring her.
Lest for lack of love this shamed soul fling away repentance, bring her,
call and bring her. She has come to give herself up; bind her fast with
loving arms; if she goes to-day, what if she never comes again?
By one day’s neglect, one day’s contempt and anger, you will lose a
life for ever. Do you not purpose to give life? Neglect is a poisoned
arrow; with sorrowing pardon bring her, call and bring her.
_Mrs. Kāminī Roy._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
BASANTA PANCHAMI[15]
To-day, after a year, on the sacred fifth day, Nature has flung away her
worn raiment, and with new jewels, see, with fresh buds and new shoots
she has begemmed herself and smiles. The birds wing their way, singing
with joy; ah, how lovely! The black bee hums as if with sound of “Ulu!
ulu!” he wished good fortune to Nature. The south breeze seems to say as
it flits from house to house, “To-day Bīnāpāni[16] comes here to
Bengal.” Arrayed in guise that would enrapture even sages, maid Nature
has come to worship thy feet, O propitious one! See, O India, at this
time all pay no heed to fear of plague, famine, earthquake; all put away
pain and grief and gloom; to-day all are drunk with pleasure. For a year
Nature was waiting in hope for this day to come. Many folk in many a
fashion now summon thee, O white-armed one; I also have a mind to
worship. Thy two feet are red lotuses; but, say, with what gift shall we
worship thee, O mother Bīnāpāni? Ever sorrowful, ever ill-starred are we
women of Bengal, all of us. Yet if thou have mercy, this utterly
dependent one will worship thee with the gift of a single tear of
devotion shed on thy lotus feet. Graciously accept that, and in mercy, O
white-armed one, grant this blessing on my head on this propitious,
sacred day, that this life may be spent in thy worship, Mother.
_Pankajinī Basu._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
A WOMAN’S BEAUTY
Round the black eyes are eyebrows looking like a bow,
They are not frightened at all, and they shoot
their arrows with certainty.
Seeing the precious ear-rings with pearls and beautiful settings,
Even the moon with all the stars is filled with shame.
I cannot describe the beauty of the lips, cheeks, teeth, and nose,
Even Śesh Nāg,[17] seeing the beautiful hair, sighs deeply.
_Śrī Sarasvatī Devī._
Tr. Mrs. Keay.
AN EVENING ON THE LAGOON
Withdrawn in silence from the raging sea,
Behind the dark and waving grove of palm
In glorious solitude at even calm
We glide at water’s edge, towards the lea
Away from busy haunts; Eternity
And Love, the burden of our rapturous psalm,
As ’neath the star-lit heaven we breathe the balm
Of Nature’s stillness, lulling you and me
To dream in soft ethereal realms of bliss
Where flits no darkening shadow, dwells no care
And all is sweetness and ecstatic light,
The plighted faith renewed with every kiss
Of fervent gratitude for all our share
Of blessed weal in life, by day and night.
_P. Seshadri._
AT THE TEMPLE
Three little girls were on the temple-stair
Waiting for worship at the inner shrine;
Their tiny hands betrayed a hidden sign
Of weariness, devoid of strength to bear
Their wealth of luscious fruit and offerings rare--
But still they stood. “What shall the Gods assign
To crown your lives?” I asked, “what blessings fine
Will cheer with happiness your faces fair?”
“A mass of glittering jewels,” said one child,
“Bracelet and necklace, shining gold waistband
And pearl ear-drop.” “Fine robes of richest lace
And gayest foam-spun silk,” another willed.
The third, with head bent down and trembling hand,
Whispered, “A lovely partner on life’s ways.”
_P. Seshadri._
RAKSHA BANDHAN
A piece of silken tassel tipped with gold,
Tied round the hand by loving sister’s hands,
A sacred day in _Sravan_, when the lands
Are bathed in welcome rain, is said to hold
A potent charm for good. From days of old
This pretty faith has come and happy bands
Of brothers still pay heed to its commands
One day each year. Who will be rashly bold
And flout this festival as void of worth--
An ancient mummery--to which man shows
His slavish piety? Let him, who knows
Of beings more devoted than the fair,
Of wishes purer than a sister’s care,
And stronger powers than woman’s love on earth.
_P. Seshadri._
LONGINGS
Were I a mighty Master swaying Art
In all her lovely forms surpassing fair
And robed in magic mystery, aware
Of cunning artist-craft, a mind and heart
Aglow with Beauty’s sacred spark, a part
Of God’s creative light! If I could share
The gift of breathing life-infusing air
In canvas, draw thy rapturous sweetness, start
The portrait beaming, bright in loveliness;
The sculptor’s skill--to shape thy limbs divine
In living marble, show thy beauty’s prime!
Shall I encrowned with laurel, sing for Time,
Eternity, and Universe, enshrine
Thy name for ages, scorning storm and stress?
_P. Seshadri._
THOUGHTS