Rabindra babu’s expressive lines
I wrote some poetry as a kid. But rhyming was really hard, and after a couple of attempts, I gave up.
Rabindranath Tagore got me writing again. Look, for instance at these beautiful lines from We are to play the game of death:
I kissed her gently on her lips and whispered softly in her ears till she half swooned in languor.
She was lost in the endless mist of vague sweetness.
She answered not to my touch, my songs failed to arouse her.
The soft kiss and whisper turns the poet’s beloved ecstatic. Or these lines from When I go alone at night:
When my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and my eyelids droop, the night darkens, the wind blows out the lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines and gives light. I do not know how to hide it.
Such expressive lines. Is the lady excited, scared, shy? She is bold for sure. She believes in love, at a deep, intrinsic level. But perhaps she thinks of what her friends might think when they see her there with her lover, and she’s shy. Maybe she’s excited about telling them. There’s excitement in hiding, there’s excitement in telling.
Then there is the Polar Star:
I have made You the polar star of my
existence; never again can I lose my way in the
voyage of life.….
If I lose sight of You even for a moment, I
almost lose my mind.
This poem makes me wonder if the reference is to god, or a lover. Can a (human) lover be so perfect that one completely gives herself to him? Can someone be the centre of a perosn’s life in this totally fundamental way?
Waiting looks into the mind of a lover, who is intensely excited, but nervous:
The song I came to sing
remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing
and in unstringing my instrument.…
I have not seen his face,
nor have I listened to his voice;
only I have heard his gentle footsteps
from the road before my house…..
And these lines so true, from Fireflies:
Love remains a secret even when spoken,
for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.
What a blur of identity in I:
I wonder if I know him
In whose speech is my voice,
In whose movement is my being,
Whose skill is in my lines,
Whose melody is in my songs
In joy and sorrow.
If you enjoyed this post, please consider to leave a comment or subscribe to the feed and get future articles delivered to your feed reader.
