I cannot remember my mother…

 

 

 

I CANNOT remember my mother,

only sometime in the midst of my play

a tune seems to hover over my playthings,

the tune of some song that she used to hum while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother,

but when in the early autumn morning

the smell of the shiuli flowers floats in the air,

the scent of the morning service in the temple comes to me as the

scent of my mother.

I cannot remember my mother,

only when from my bedroom window I send my eyes into the blue of

the distant sky,

I feel that the stillness of my mother's gaze on my face

has spread all over the sky.

Silent Steps….

Silent Steps

Have you not heard his silent steps?
He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age,
every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind,
but all their notes have always proclaimed,
`He comes, comes, ever comes.'
In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes,
comes, ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds
he comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart,
and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.

- Rabindranath Tagore

Silent Steps...

Silent Steps

Have you not heard his silent steps?
He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age,
every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind,
but all their notes have always proclaimed,
`He comes, comes, ever comes.'
In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes,
comes, ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds
he comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart,
and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.

- Tagore

Last Curtain by Rabindranath Tagore

I know that the day will come
when my sight of this earth shall be lost,
and life will take its leave in silence,
drawing the last curtain over my eyes.

Yet stars will watch at night,
and morning rise as before,
and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.

When I think of this end of my moments,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the light of death
thy world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare is its meanest of lives.

Things that I longed for in vain
and things that I got
---let them pass.
Let me but truly possess
the things that I ever spurned
and overlooked.

Stillness...

There is a point where in the mystery of

existence contradictions meet;

where movement is not all movement

and stillness is not all stillness;

where the idea and the form,

the within and the without, are united;

where infinite becomes finite,

yet not losing its infinity.

- Tagore

Time ....

The butterfly counts not months but moments,

and has time enough.

~

Time is a wealth of change,
but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth.

~

Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time
like dew on the tip of a leaf.

-

Tagore

On Mother's Day..

By Miles….

You are far from me..

By thoughts You are close to me..

By Hearts..

You are in me….

I cannot remember my mother....

I cannot remember my mother
only sometimes in the midst of my play
a tune seems to hover over my playthings,
the tune of some song that she used to
hum while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother
but when in the early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers floats in the air
the scent of the morning service in the temple
comes to me as the scent of my mother.

I cannot remember my mother
only when from my bedroom window I send
my eyes into the blue of the distant sky,
I feel that the stillness of
my mother's gaze on my face
has spread all over the sky.

By Rabindranath Tagore from Shishu Bholanath

Time....

Distant Time

I know not from what distant time
thou art ever coming nearer to meet me.
Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye.

In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard
and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret.

I know not only why today my life is all astir,
and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart.

It is as if the time were come to wind up my work,

and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence.

- RabindranathTagore

On the Nature of Love ...

I see that instant I fall in love with...

The night is black and the forest has no end;
a million people thread it in a million ways.
We have trysts to keep in the darkness,
but where or with whom- of that we are unaware.
But we have this faith- that a lifetime's bliss
will appear any minute, with a smile upon its lips.
Scents, touches, sounds, snatches of songs brush us,
pass us, give us delightful shocks.
Then peradventure there's a flash of lightning:
whomever I see that instant I fall in love with.
I call that person and cry:
'This life is blest! For your sake such miles have I traversed!'
All those others who come close and
moved off in the darkness - I dont know if they exist or not.

From Chaitali (1896) -Rabindranath Tagore

Waiting ....

The song I came to sing
remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing
and in unstringing my instrument.

The time has not come true,
the words have not been rightly set;
only there is the agony
of wishing in my heart…..

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…..

But the lamp has not been lit
and I cannot ask him into my house;
I live in the hope of meeting with him;
but this meeting is not yet.

-Rabindranath Tagore

The Evening was Lonely....

The Evening was Lonely.....

The evening was lonely for me, and I was reading a book till my heart became dry, and it seemed to me that beauty was a thing fashioned by the traders in words. Tired I shut the book and snuffed the candle. In a moment the room was flooded with moonlight. Spirit of Beauty, how could you, whose radiance overbrims the sky, stand hidden behind a candle's tiny flame? How could a few vain words from a book rise like a mist, and veil her whose voice has hushed the heart of earth into ineffable calm?

- - Rabindranath Tagore

The Gift..

If you would have it so,
I will end my singing.

If it sets your heart aflutter,
I will take away my eyes from your face.

If it suddenly startles you in your walk,
I will step aside and take another path.

If it confuses you in your flower-weaving,
I will shun your lonely garden.

If it makes the water wanton and wild,
I will not row my boat by your bank.

- Rabindra Nath Tagore

My Song...

This song of mine will wind its music around you,
my child, like the fond arms of love.

The song of mine will touch your forehead
like a kiss of blessing.

When you are alone it will sit by your side and
whisper in your ear, when you are in the crowd
it will fence you about with aloofness.

My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams,
it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown.

It will be like the faithful star overhead
when dark night is over your road.

My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes,
and will carry your sight into the heart of things.

And when my voice is silenced in death,
my song will speak in your living heart.

- Rabindra Nath Tagore

Beauty..

Beauty is truth's smile

when she beholds her own face in

a perfect mirror.

- Tagore

Beauty is in the ideal of perfect harmony
which is in the universal being;
truth the perfect comprehension of the universal mind.

- Tagore

Short Poems by Tagore...

Time

The butterfly counts not months but moments,

and has time enough.

~

Time is a wealth of change,
but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth.

~

Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time
like dew on the tip of a leaf.

Love

Love adorns itself;

it seeks to prove inward joy by outward beauty.

~

Love does not claim possession,

but gives freedom.

~

Love is an endless mystery,

for it has nothing else to explain it.

~

Love's gift cannot be given,

it waits to be accepted

Life

Life is given to us,
we earn it by giving it.

~

Let the dead have the immortality of fame,
but the living the immortality of love.

~

Life's errors cry for the merciful beauty
that can modulate their isolation into a
harmony with the whole.

~

Life, like a child, laughs,
shaking its rattle of death as it runs.

Best of Tagore..

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), Nobel prize-winning Bengali poet, author, songwriter, philosopher, artist, and educator wrote “Gitanjali” (1912)

Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not!

I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust.

I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch

of pain from thy hand and pluck it.

I fear lest the day end

before I am aware, and the time of offering go by.

Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint,

use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time.

First published in 1910, Tagore’s collection Gitanjali[Song Offerings] of mystical and devotional songs was translated to English in 1912. It would be the first of many volumes that earned him much acclaim in the East and West. It includes an Introduction by fellow Nobel prize-winning poet William Butler Yeats.