Posts Tagged ‘Rabindranath Tagore’

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Mary: Gitanjali

October 12, 2011

There once was an Indian man named Rabindranath Tagore who won the Nobel Prize for literature in the year 1913 for his collection of poetry known as “song offerings” or Gitanjali in Hindi. I just finished reading this wonderful work of art and wanted to share a few excerpts with you all. As W. B. Yeats once said about Tagore’s work, I too feel that “These verses will not lie in little well painted books upon ladies’ tables, who turn the pages with indolent hands that they may sigh over a life without meaning, which is yet all they can know of life, or be carried about by students at the university to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but as the generations pass, travelers will hum them on the highway and men rowing upon rivers. Lovers, while they await one another, shall find, in murmuring them, this love of God a magic gulf wherein their own more bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth.”

XVIII.

Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone?

In the busy moments of the noontide work I am with the crowd, but on this dark lonely day it is only for thee that I hope.

If thou showest me not thy face, if thou leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I am to pass these long, rainy hours.

I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind.

XXXV.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

XLII.

Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our pilgrimage to no country and to no end.

In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words.

Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening has come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests.

Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night?

LX.

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.

They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.

They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.

The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby’s cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.

LXIX.

The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

LXXX.

I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from thee.

If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.

And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent.

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Amanda: It’s been 60 days

June 22, 2011

Since I returned home 60 days ago from India, life’s looked a lot different for me.  I spent about a month at home checking my eyelids for leaks, spying on people’s literary interests at Barnes and Noble, and criticizing day-time TV (let’s not talk about Oprah leaving the air; I know some people had their qualms with O, but I, for one, found her to be funny, genuine, and encouraging).

Then, about two weeks ago, I moved to Clinton to begin summer research.  I spend my time pretending to be smart, playing board games (don’t worry–traveling to India didn’t stunt my Scrabble skills), and catching up with friends and professors I missed while I was abroad.  Lucky for me, the people at Senor Garcias still remember me even though I took a four month hiatus from their fine dining establishment.

Last weekend I got to travel to Durham, NC to visit one of my roommates in Udaipur, Lily.  From my brief trip I made several conclusions: North Carolina is a lot more travel-friendly than South Carolina, especially regarding public transportation; farmers markets are so cool; and, to affirm a truth that I’ve been thinking for a while, NPR is the perfect radio station…how else can one simultaneously become informed of what’s going on in the world and enjoy cheese-free (and by that I mean non- 80s, easy listening, contemporary Christian, or pop) radio tunes.

And now, I leave you with a piece of beauty from Rabindranath Tagore, the Indian writer/artist/musician I’m getting paid to enjoy this summer:

I know that happiness is the substance of every-day, but joy surpasses the day.  Happiness in fear that dust may soil its hands is hesitant.  Joy, throwing itself in the midst of dust, breaks down all barriers between itself and the whole world, so that for happiness dirt is a thing of contempt, for joy it is the emblem of a jewel.  Happiness is afraid lest it loses anything.  Joy feels fulfilled in giving away its last possession.  So that for happiness to be destitute is poverty, whereas for joy poverty is wealth.  Happiness within its binding measure guards carefully its intrinsic beauty, whereas joy manifests its beauty in unstinted glory, freeing itself through all disruptive elements.  For this reason happiness is bound by outside measures while joy breaks through all measures creating one that is of its own.  Happiness is only concerned in tasting sweet nectar; joy consumes the poison of sorrow accepting it in its very system.  So that happiness is only partial to what is congenial, whereas to joy good and evil both have equal value.

Food for thought!  Be well.

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