What do you think?
Rate this book
Gitanjali or Song Offerings: Introduced by W. B. Yeats
Written by the most famous Bengali poet, philosopher, social reformer, and dramatist who came into international prominence when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1913.
Rabindranath Tagore’s best book.
During his trip to England in 1912, Tagore fatefully found himself in the company of William Butler Yeats and Ezra Pound. He had prepared some prose versions of his Bengali collection of poems called Gitanjali (Song Offerings). These he read to Yeats, who was entranced by them; and Pound, then representing Harriet Munroe's Poetry magazine of Chicago, cabled the editor to hold the next edition for the inclusion of some "very wonderful" poems by Tagore.
Gitanjali was then published as a book, with an introduction by Yeats, and in 1913 came the Nobel Prize.
This text is retrieved from the digitized version of Gitanjali available in the internet archive of the University of Toronto. The hard copy of this version was presented to the Library of the University of Toronto by Lord Falconer from the books of the late Sir Robert Falconer, President of the University of Toronto, 1907-1932
Rabindranath Tagore’s best book.
During his trip to England in 1912, Tagore fatefully found himself in the company of William Butler Yeats and Ezra Pound. He had prepared some prose versions of his Bengali collection of poems called Gitanjali (Song Offerings). These he read to Yeats, who was entranced by them; and Pound, then representing Harriet Munroe's Poetry magazine of Chicago, cabled the editor to hold the next edition for the inclusion of some "very wonderful" poems by Tagore.
Gitanjali was then published as a book, with an introduction by Yeats, and in 1913 came the Nobel Prize.
This text is retrieved from the digitized version of Gitanjali available in the internet archive of the University of Toronto. The hard copy of this version was presented to the Library of the University of Toronto by Lord Falconer from the books of the late Sir Robert Falconer, President of the University of Toronto, 1907-1932
119 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1910
About the author
রবীন্দ্রনাথ ঠাকুর | Rabindranath Tagore
2,312 books4,081 followersAwarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913 "because of his profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful verse, by which, with consummate skill, he has made his poetic thought, expressed in his own English words, a part of the literature of the West."
Tagore modernised Bengali art by spurning rigid classical forms and resisting linguistic strictures. His novels, stories, songs, dance-dramas, and essays spoke to topics political and personal. Gitanjali (Song Offerings), Gora (Fair-Faced), and Ghare-Baire (The Home and the World) are his best-known works, and his verse, short stories, and novels were acclaimed—or panned—for their lyricism, colloquialism, naturalism, and unnatural contemplation. His compositions were chosen by two nations as national anthems: India's Jana Gana Mana and Bangladesh's Amar Shonar Bangla.
The complete works of Rabindranath Tagore (রবীন্দ্র রচনাবলী) in the original Bengali are now available at these third-party websites:
http://www.tagoreweb.in/
http://www.rabindra-rachanabali.nltr....
Tagore modernised Bengali art by spurning rigid classical forms and resisting linguistic strictures. His novels, stories, songs, dance-dramas, and essays spoke to topics political and personal. Gitanjali (Song Offerings), Gora (Fair-Faced), and Ghare-Baire (The Home and the World) are his best-known works, and his verse, short stories, and novels were acclaimed—or panned—for their lyricism, colloquialism, naturalism, and unnatural contemplation. His compositions were chosen by two nations as national anthems: India's Jana Gana Mana and Bangladesh's Amar Shonar Bangla.
The complete works of Rabindranath Tagore (রবীন্দ্র রচনাবলী) in the original Bengali are now available at these third-party websites:
http://www.tagoreweb.in/
http://www.rabindra-rachanabali.nltr....
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 940 reviews
February 10, 2023
The child-mother theme in Gitanjali is unique, just like Tagore's mysticism.
This is one of the best depictions of the child-mother relation I have ever come across in my life, and we can see how he just simply took it to a whole new pedestal from the above lines.
According to Tagore, "The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough." If we have to make similar moments in our life meaningful, we have to definitely savour each and every line in Gitanjali not once, not twice, but umpteen number of times.
"The sleep that flits on baby's eyes-
does anybody know from where it comes?
Yes, there is a rumor that it has its dwelling
where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest
dimly lit with glow-worms,
there hang two timid buds of enchantment.
From there, it comes to kiss the baby's eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps-
does anybody know where it was born?
Yes, there is a rumor
that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched
the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud,
and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew- washed morning-
the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs-
does anybody know where it was hidden so long?
Yes, when the mother was a young girl, it lay pervading her heart
in tender and silent mystery of love-
the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs."
This is one of the best depictions of the child-mother relation I have ever come across in my life, and we can see how he just simply took it to a whole new pedestal from the above lines.
According to Tagore, "The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough." If we have to make similar moments in our life meaningful, we have to definitely savour each and every line in Gitanjali not once, not twice, but umpteen number of times.
June 26, 2013
Warning
: I am letting my heart pour out over this review. Might be long. Read it if you want to or if have some time to spare.
I always wanted to write a review on Geetanjali, as it has been very close to my heart and always will be, but something stopped me every time I made an attempt. Maybe it was the memory of all the overflowing emotions which I had experienced while reading these poems or it was my immense love and respect for its writer that made me feel unworthy to make any sort of comment on his work, I cannot point out. But today, after my small discussion with Steven on Geetanjali, I walked to my desk, picked my copy of this book, held it tight in my hands as if I might lose myself in my beloved solitude if I don’t hold onto these pages. Geetajali is now sitting next to me; Tagore’s beautiful gleaming eyes are looking lovingly at me, telling me to write this review. He says it is all right, and hence I am writing this review. I am writing this review, because I think I might die if I do not do so and do not ask me why.
It was my mother who introduced me to the beautiful world of literature. When I was kid, all I could hear from her were stories she read as a child or stories which she read just for me. As I grew older, she started talking to me about her favorite authors and why they mattered so much. One day, when I was 12, she showed me her copy of Geetanjali which she had read when she was 14(it was a translation in Telugu, our native language). She held it with lot of care as it was an old copy and was in a bad shape, as it was subjected to a of lot of re-readings. She sat next to me and read a few poems aloud, from her favorite passages she had marked as a child. I saw she had tears in her eyes when she was reading and I didn’t understand why. Poetry intimidated me then and I never tried to take it seriously. She smiled at me and said nothing. I looked at her in awe; she looked immensely happy, almost in bliss. And I said nothing.
On my 13th birthday, my mother gifted me a beautiful brand-new-hardcover edition of Geetanjali, which was filled with poems in Tagore’s handwriting along with their English translations and beautiful pictures of Bengal. I don’t like celebrating my birthday in the way birthdays are generally celebrated; I turn sociophobic and I just sit at some corner and read during that day of the year. I believe people should be allowed to celebrate their birthday doing what they love the most; hence I read. So like always, I selected my favorite corner of our house, sat down and started reading my new gift. Let me remind you, this was my first serious venture into reading poetry, I didn’t know what to expect but because my mother appreciated it so much I had a lot of expectations from these poems.
This is how the book started:
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure.
This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again,
and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands
my little heart loses its limits in joy
and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me
only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest,
and still there is room to fill.
I re-read it. I re-read it again. And this went on for next five hours, until I finished reading and re-reading all the 103 poems. After those five hours, once I felt that my heart was content, I ran to hug my mother and thanked her. I was in love. I never knew what it felt like to be in love, but it had to be something like what I was feeling at that moment because it felt so wonderful; almost as if my heart would burst out with happiness. The rest of the day I was gleaming with joy, I was just going on and on about these poems and my mother, my sweet mother, listened to me with all her patience and a smile on her face.
Since that day, Geetanjali has always been with me; like a true friend. During those days, I used to fall asleep reading it, carry it to my school, read it whenever I was overjoyed,read it whenever any kind of sadness overtook me; the result was the same: I experienced spiritual bliss every single time. There was a time when I stopped reading all other books, it was just Geetanjali for me. I was having a serious love affair with my new-found favorite book.
I am still addicted to this book. I read it everyday, aloud, to let those words sink into my heart with their weight of beauty. It is almost a habit now. Even today I find my eyes filled with tears as I read these poems. But why? I do not have an exact answer for you if you would ask me that. Maybe some books are written for some people. Though he wrote these poems out of spiritual love or maybe for other million reasons, I believed that out of those million reasons, one would have been to support my existence in this world. Words fail me when I try to explain why I am so devoted to this book. Maybe because I have similar spiritual quest going on inside me, or maybe I feel the similar kind of love, if not as great as Tagore's, for the Unknown.
Now something about this book, excluding my dramatic emotions related to it.
Tagore loved God; loved him in love's literal and truest sense. He was a spiritual man, and his poems depict that love. Only love and nothing else; in its purest and pious form. He sees God in nature, in his friends, in his lover, in children, and in God Himself. Each poem is filled with tenderness of an infant's smile, longing of a lovelorn young woman, sincerity of worshiper, pride of a father and love of a mother.
These are few of the poems I personally love:
Poem 26
He came and sat by my side but I woke not.
What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me!
He came when the night was still;
he had his harp in his hands,
and my dreams became resonant with its melodies.
Alas, why are my nights all thus lost?
Ah, why do I ever miss his sight
whose breath touches my sleep?
Poem 32
By all means they try to hold me secure
who love me in this world.
But it is otherwise with thy love
which is greater than theirs,
and thou keepest me free.
Lest I forget them
they never venture to leave me alone.
But day passes by after day
and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers,
if I keep not thee in my heart,
thy love for me still waits for my love.
Passing Breeze
Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love,
O beloved of my heart---this golden light that dances upon the leaves,
these idle clouds sailing across the sky,
this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead.
The morning light has flooded my eyes---this is thy message to my heart.
Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes,
and my heart has touched thy feet.
Another one which depicts his longing for His love:
She
She who ever had remained in the depth of my being,
in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses;
she who never opened her veils in the morning light,
will be my last gift to thee,
my God, folded in my final song.
Words have wooed yet failed to win her;
persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain.
I have roamed from country to country
keeping her in the core of my heart,
and around her have risen and fallen
the growth and decay of my life.
Over my thoughts and actions,
my slumbers and dreams,
she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart.
Many a man knocked at my door and
asked for her and turned away in despair.
There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face,
and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.
For Tagore, death was reliever. He always looked at death as his friend who would finally take him and make him stand face to face with God.
O thou the last fulfilment of life,
Death, my death, come and whisper to me!
Day after day I have kept watch for thee;
for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life.
All that I am, that I have,
that I hope and all my love
have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy.
One final glance from thine eyes
and my life will be ever thine own.
The flowers have been woven
and the garland is ready for the bridegroom.
After the wedding the bride shall leave her home
and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.
The poems are not in any particular order, they show his freedom of emotions. In one poem he is a beggar asking alms from a king, in one poem he is a king himself. He takes roles of a child, a lover, a farmer, a poet, a prisoner, a musician, to explain his love in various forms but equally great.I wish I could quote every single line from every single poem and show you how lyrical and scintillating his writing is. How his words dance and pour out love! They are simple but yet so profound. Their sincerity and awe-inspiring style is what makes them so beautiful.
You should read them and experience that joy of reading a mystic yourself, that is all I can say. You will not be disappointed.
P.S: Pardon me if the length was irritating or if my writing made you yawn. I tried to write what came out of my heart at this very moment. Don't let my writing decide if you should read this book or not, read it nevertheless. Like I mentioned before, I wrote this review because I felt that I would die if I do not do so. Hence, this review.
A small meager tribute to my beloved Tagore, from that place in my heart where he is residing and will eternally reside.
I always wanted to write a review on Geetanjali, as it has been very close to my heart and always will be, but something stopped me every time I made an attempt. Maybe it was the memory of all the overflowing emotions which I had experienced while reading these poems or it was my immense love and respect for its writer that made me feel unworthy to make any sort of comment on his work, I cannot point out. But today, after my small discussion with Steven on Geetanjali, I walked to my desk, picked my copy of this book, held it tight in my hands as if I might lose myself in my beloved solitude if I don’t hold onto these pages. Geetajali is now sitting next to me; Tagore’s beautiful gleaming eyes are looking lovingly at me, telling me to write this review. He says it is all right, and hence I am writing this review. I am writing this review, because I think I might die if I do not do so and do not ask me why.
It was my mother who introduced me to the beautiful world of literature. When I was kid, all I could hear from her were stories she read as a child or stories which she read just for me. As I grew older, she started talking to me about her favorite authors and why they mattered so much. One day, when I was 12, she showed me her copy of Geetanjali which she had read when she was 14(it was a translation in Telugu, our native language). She held it with lot of care as it was an old copy and was in a bad shape, as it was subjected to a of lot of re-readings. She sat next to me and read a few poems aloud, from her favorite passages she had marked as a child. I saw she had tears in her eyes when she was reading and I didn’t understand why. Poetry intimidated me then and I never tried to take it seriously. She smiled at me and said nothing. I looked at her in awe; she looked immensely happy, almost in bliss. And I said nothing.
On my 13th birthday, my mother gifted me a beautiful brand-new-hardcover edition of Geetanjali, which was filled with poems in Tagore’s handwriting along with their English translations and beautiful pictures of Bengal. I don’t like celebrating my birthday in the way birthdays are generally celebrated; I turn sociophobic and I just sit at some corner and read during that day of the year. I believe people should be allowed to celebrate their birthday doing what they love the most; hence I read. So like always, I selected my favorite corner of our house, sat down and started reading my new gift. Let me remind you, this was my first serious venture into reading poetry, I didn’t know what to expect but because my mother appreciated it so much I had a lot of expectations from these poems.
This is how the book started:
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure.
This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again,
and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands
my little heart loses its limits in joy
and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me
only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest,
and still there is room to fill.
I re-read it. I re-read it again. And this went on for next five hours, until I finished reading and re-reading all the 103 poems. After those five hours, once I felt that my heart was content, I ran to hug my mother and thanked her. I was in love. I never knew what it felt like to be in love, but it had to be something like what I was feeling at that moment because it felt so wonderful; almost as if my heart would burst out with happiness. The rest of the day I was gleaming with joy, I was just going on and on about these poems and my mother, my sweet mother, listened to me with all her patience and a smile on her face.
Since that day, Geetanjali has always been with me; like a true friend. During those days, I used to fall asleep reading it, carry it to my school, read it whenever I was overjoyed,read it whenever any kind of sadness overtook me; the result was the same: I experienced spiritual bliss every single time. There was a time when I stopped reading all other books, it was just Geetanjali for me. I was having a serious love affair with my new-found favorite book.
I am still addicted to this book. I read it everyday, aloud, to let those words sink into my heart with their weight of beauty. It is almost a habit now. Even today I find my eyes filled with tears as I read these poems. But why? I do not have an exact answer for you if you would ask me that. Maybe some books are written for some people. Though he wrote these poems out of spiritual love or maybe for other million reasons, I believed that out of those million reasons, one would have been to support my existence in this world. Words fail me when I try to explain why I am so devoted to this book. Maybe because I have similar spiritual quest going on inside me, or maybe I feel the similar kind of love, if not as great as Tagore's, for the Unknown.
Now something about this book, excluding my dramatic emotions related to it.
Tagore loved God; loved him in love's literal and truest sense. He was a spiritual man, and his poems depict that love. Only love and nothing else; in its purest and pious form. He sees God in nature, in his friends, in his lover, in children, and in God Himself. Each poem is filled with tenderness of an infant's smile, longing of a lovelorn young woman, sincerity of worshiper, pride of a father and love of a mother.
These are few of the poems I personally love:
Poem 26
He came and sat by my side but I woke not.
What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me!
He came when the night was still;
he had his harp in his hands,
and my dreams became resonant with its melodies.
Alas, why are my nights all thus lost?
Ah, why do I ever miss his sight
whose breath touches my sleep?
Poem 32
By all means they try to hold me secure
who love me in this world.
But it is otherwise with thy love
which is greater than theirs,
and thou keepest me free.
Lest I forget them
they never venture to leave me alone.
But day passes by after day
and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers,
if I keep not thee in my heart,
thy love for me still waits for my love.
Passing Breeze
Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love,
O beloved of my heart---this golden light that dances upon the leaves,
these idle clouds sailing across the sky,
this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead.
The morning light has flooded my eyes---this is thy message to my heart.
Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes,
and my heart has touched thy feet.
Another one which depicts his longing for His love:
She
She who ever had remained in the depth of my being,
in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses;
she who never opened her veils in the morning light,
will be my last gift to thee,
my God, folded in my final song.
Words have wooed yet failed to win her;
persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain.
I have roamed from country to country
keeping her in the core of my heart,
and around her have risen and fallen
the growth and decay of my life.
Over my thoughts and actions,
my slumbers and dreams,
she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart.
Many a man knocked at my door and
asked for her and turned away in despair.
There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face,
and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.
For Tagore, death was reliever. He always looked at death as his friend who would finally take him and make him stand face to face with God.
O thou the last fulfilment of life,
Death, my death, come and whisper to me!
Day after day I have kept watch for thee;
for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life.
All that I am, that I have,
that I hope and all my love
have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy.
One final glance from thine eyes
and my life will be ever thine own.
The flowers have been woven
and the garland is ready for the bridegroom.
After the wedding the bride shall leave her home
and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.
The poems are not in any particular order, they show his freedom of emotions. In one poem he is a beggar asking alms from a king, in one poem he is a king himself. He takes roles of a child, a lover, a farmer, a poet, a prisoner, a musician, to explain his love in various forms but equally great.I wish I could quote every single line from every single poem and show you how lyrical and scintillating his writing is. How his words dance and pour out love! They are simple but yet so profound. Their sincerity and awe-inspiring style is what makes them so beautiful.
You should read them and experience that joy of reading a mystic yourself, that is all I can say. You will not be disappointed.
P.S: Pardon me if the length was irritating or if my writing made you yawn. I tried to write what came out of my heart at this very moment. Don't let my writing decide if you should read this book or not, read it nevertheless. Like I mentioned before, I wrote this review because I felt that I would die if I do not do so. Hence, this review.
A small meager tribute to my beloved Tagore, from that place in my heart where he is residing and will eternally reside.
July 15, 2017
It is the pang of separation
It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.
It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all night from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July.
It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joys in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart.
May 6, 17
* Also on my blog.
January 6, 2018
Gitanjali: song offerings, Rabindranath Tagore
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: یازدهم ماه ژانویه سال 2016 میلادی
عنوان: گیتانجالی؛ نویسنده: رابیندرانات تاگور؛ مترجم: رویا خاکساری، لاهیجان، نشر الهام اندیشه، 1392، در 184 ص، موضوع: شعر بنگالی شاعران هند قرن 20 م
در زبان بنگالی گیتانجالی یعنی مجموعه و معنی عنوان اصلی یعنی مجموعه نذرهایی در قالب شعر
ا. شربیانی
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: یازدهم ماه ژانویه سال 2016 میلادی
عنوان: گیتانجالی؛ نویسنده: رابیندرانات تاگور؛ مترجم: رویا خاکساری، لاهیجان، نشر الهام اندیشه، 1392، در 184 ص، موضوع: شعر بنگالی شاعران هند قرن 20 م
در زبان بنگالی گیتانجالی یعنی مجموعه و معنی عنوان اصلی یعنی مجموعه نذرهایی در قالب شعر
ا. شربیانی
February 9, 2017
There lived a pair of eyes in whose serenity the dawn and dusk merged, in whose voice the wise found their nerves, in whose heart even hatred turned love and in whose thoughts, a nation found their own.
Arguably one of the finest poets of all times, Rabindranath Tagore was an authorial voice in the pre-independence era of India. Born in 1861 and having found his calling at the tender age of eight, Tagore chiselled his artistic bent to perfection by diligently harbouring an observant and free stream of thought in his heart. In his lifespan of 80 years, he wrote many poems, dramas and novellas, which bore his distinct trademark: fresh, non-conformist, optimistic, magical. He was also a prolific composer of more than 2000 pieces of music which came to be known as “Rabindra Sangeet” and has since been rendered as a dedicated stream of Indian Classical Music.
He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913, the first non – European to receive the honour. Post this, his thought-provoking works found way into many bourgeois alleys and proletarian corridors across the world.
Gitanjali is his most famous work. The word’s literal meaning is “Song Offerings”. The original Bengali Gitanjali had 157 poems. But when the translated version in English was published in 1912 by the India Society of London, it took only 50 poems from the original text. The remaining 53 poems were taken from his other works. This edition has an introduction by W B Yeats along with excerpts of prologues by people who undertook Gitanjali’s French, Portuguese and Japanese translations. It also contains Tagore’s Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech.
Written as an Ode to the Supreme Master, these 103 poems highlight the many realizations Tagore had under the crimson sky, casting his forlorn eye and pensive heart.
The four poems I am sharing in this review are my favorite poems of the collection which may or may not be his most popular ones.
Passionately championing the dream that all his countrymen shared at that point in time, he etches out in this beautiful poem the country he wants to breathe in:
’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.’ (#35)
His keen observation of little blips that can disturb the intimacy that lovers seek in their candid rendezvous is captured in these sparkling lines:
’My song has put off her adornments.
She has no pride of dress and decoration.
Ornaments would mar our union;
they would come between thee and me;
their jingling would drown our whispers…' (#7)
Deeply drunk in the bounty of nature and ever slipping to hold a fulsome slice of this luscious being, he sings with a mesmerized heart, about its many beautiful children:
’The sleep that flits the baby’s eyes –
does anybody know from where it comes?
Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where,
in the fairy village among shadows of the forest
dimly lit with glow worms, there hang two timid buds
of enchantment. From there
it comes to kiss baby’s eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps –
Does anybody know where it was born?
Yes, there is rumour that a young pale beam
of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing
autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born
in the dream of a dew-washed morning –
the smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby’s limbs –
Does anybody know where it was hidden so long?
Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay
pervading in her heart in tender and silent mystery
of love – the sweet, soft freshness that
has bloomed on baby’s limbs.’ (#61)
At the swoop of death, his philosophical eye merges the two worlds into one, equating their warmth to that of a mother:
’I was not aware of the moment when
I first crossed the threshold of this life.
What was the power that made me open
out into this vast mystery
like a bud in the forest at midnight !
When in the morning I looked upon the light
I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world,
that the inscrutable without name and form
had taken me in its arms
in the form of my own mother.
Even so, in death the same unknown will appear
as ever known to me. And because I love this life,
I know I shall love death as well.
The child cries out when
from the right breast the mother takes it away,
in the very next moment to find
in the left one its consolation.’ (#95)
Tagore’s scintillating and diverse oeuvre remains unmatched by many a poets who succeeded him. He inspired millions to undertake the baton of chasing dreams irrespective of their colours of existence. And he continues to be a silent source of encouragement to people who attempt to see something beautiful in everything. Yes, everything.
Arguably one of the finest poets of all times, Rabindranath Tagore was an authorial voice in the pre-independence era of India. Born in 1861 and having found his calling at the tender age of eight, Tagore chiselled his artistic bent to perfection by diligently harbouring an observant and free stream of thought in his heart. In his lifespan of 80 years, he wrote many poems, dramas and novellas, which bore his distinct trademark: fresh, non-conformist, optimistic, magical. He was also a prolific composer of more than 2000 pieces of music which came to be known as “Rabindra Sangeet” and has since been rendered as a dedicated stream of Indian Classical Music.
He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913, the first non – European to receive the honour. Post this, his thought-provoking works found way into many bourgeois alleys and proletarian corridors across the world.
Gitanjali is his most famous work. The word’s literal meaning is “Song Offerings”. The original Bengali Gitanjali had 157 poems. But when the translated version in English was published in 1912 by the India Society of London, it took only 50 poems from the original text. The remaining 53 poems were taken from his other works. This edition has an introduction by W B Yeats along with excerpts of prologues by people who undertook Gitanjali’s French, Portuguese and Japanese translations. It also contains Tagore’s Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech.
Written as an Ode to the Supreme Master, these 103 poems highlight the many realizations Tagore had under the crimson sky, casting his forlorn eye and pensive heart.
The four poems I am sharing in this review are my favorite poems of the collection which may or may not be his most popular ones.
Passionately championing the dream that all his countrymen shared at that point in time, he etches out in this beautiful poem the country he wants to breathe in:
’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.’ (#35)
His keen observation of little blips that can disturb the intimacy that lovers seek in their candid rendezvous is captured in these sparkling lines:
’My song has put off her adornments.
She has no pride of dress and decoration.
Ornaments would mar our union;
they would come between thee and me;
their jingling would drown our whispers…' (#7)
Deeply drunk in the bounty of nature and ever slipping to hold a fulsome slice of this luscious being, he sings with a mesmerized heart, about its many beautiful children:
’The sleep that flits the baby’s eyes –
does anybody know from where it comes?
Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where,
in the fairy village among shadows of the forest
dimly lit with glow worms, there hang two timid buds
of enchantment. From there
it comes to kiss baby’s eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps –
Does anybody know where it was born?
Yes, there is rumour that a young pale beam
of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing
autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born
in the dream of a dew-washed morning –
the smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby’s limbs –
Does anybody know where it was hidden so long?
Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay
pervading in her heart in tender and silent mystery
of love – the sweet, soft freshness that
has bloomed on baby’s limbs.’ (#61)
At the swoop of death, his philosophical eye merges the two worlds into one, equating their warmth to that of a mother:
’I was not aware of the moment when
I first crossed the threshold of this life.
What was the power that made me open
out into this vast mystery
like a bud in the forest at midnight !
When in the morning I looked upon the light
I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world,
that the inscrutable without name and form
had taken me in its arms
in the form of my own mother.
Even so, in death the same unknown will appear
as ever known to me. And because I love this life,
I know I shall love death as well.
The child cries out when
from the right breast the mother takes it away,
in the very next moment to find
in the left one its consolation.’ (#95)
Tagore’s scintillating and diverse oeuvre remains unmatched by many a poets who succeeded him. He inspired millions to undertake the baton of chasing dreams irrespective of their colours of existence. And he continues to be a silent source of encouragement to people who attempt to see something beautiful in everything. Yes, everything.
November 24, 2017
دوستانِ گرانقدر، با تمامِ احترامی که برایِ <تاگور> قائل هستم، باید بگویم که: آنگاه که انسانی با موجودی سخن میگوید که در تاریخ هیچ اثری از او نبوده است و هیچ انسانِ خردمند و آگاهی نیز به وجودِ او باور ندارد و وجودِ آن موجود به وسیلهٔ دانش اثبات نشده است، زمانی که شما نوشته هایِ او را میخوانید، احساس میکنید که نویسندهٔ آن دچارِ بیماریِ اسکیزوفرنی و روان گسیختگی بوده است ... تاگور در این کتاب با خدایش سخن گفته و او را سرور نام نهاده و تمامِ اشعارش در مورد خدا و ستایش از خدا میباشد و به گونه ای او را ستوده است که گویی هر روز از بامداد تا شامگاه در کنارِ او بوده است و با یکدیگر چای و قهوه نوشیده اند
*********************
عزیزانم، این دفتر، از 103 شعر و 180 صفحه تشکیل شده است که در زیر به انتخاب ابیاتی از آن را برایتان مینویسم
--------------------------------------------
رها کن
مکرر گفتن و خواندن را
نجوا با دانه های تسبیح
در این گوشهٔ متروک و تاریکِ معبد
با درهایِ بسته
چه کسی را عبادت میکنی؟
چشمهایت را بگشا
و ببین
که خدایت پشتِ آنها نیست
او آنجاست
بر زمین های سخت
در کنارِ کارگرانی
که سنگ ها را میشکنند
تا جاده ها را بسازند
او با آنهاست
در سایه
در آفتاب
و جامه اش
از خاک پوشیده شده است
************************
گرچه از دیدارِ تو
مرا سهمی در زندگی نیست
امّا بگذار
همواره دلتنگِ دیدارِ تو باشم
************************
این تو هستی
که نقابِ شب را
بر چشمانِ خستهٔ من میکشی
تا دوباره نو شود
با دیدگانی تازه تر
و خرسند از بیداری
************************
در تاریکی به انتظار مینشینم
بر حصیری گسترده بر زمین
بیا سرورم
به خاموشی
هر زمان که خواستِ توست
و آنچه را از آنِ توست
از من بگیر
************************
در حضورِ هماهنگِ تو
ناملایماتِ زندگی ام
محو میشود
و عشقِ من
بال میگستراند
همچون پرنده ای خوشبخت
که بر فرازِ دریا
پرواز میکند
************************
وقتی میدانم
تو در نهان ترین مکانِ مقدسِ قلبم
جای داری
بدی ها را از آن دور
و عشق را در آن
شکوفا خواهم کرد
--------------------------------------------
امیدوارم این انتخاب ها را پسندیده باشید
<پیروز باشید و ایرانی>
*********************
عزیزانم، این دفتر، از 103 شعر و 180 صفحه تشکیل شده است که در زیر به انتخاب ابیاتی از آن را برایتان مینویسم
--------------------------------------------
رها کن
مکرر گفتن و خواندن را
نجوا با دانه های تسبیح
در این گوشهٔ متروک و تاریکِ معبد
با درهایِ بسته
چه کسی را عبادت میکنی؟
چشمهایت را بگشا
و ببین
که خدایت پشتِ آنها نیست
او آنجاست
بر زمین های سخت
در کنارِ کارگرانی
که سنگ ها را میشکنند
تا جاده ها را بسازند
او با آنهاست
در سایه
در آفتاب
و جامه اش
از خاک پوشیده شده است
************************
گرچه از دیدارِ تو
مرا سهمی در زندگی نیست
امّا بگذار
همواره دلتنگِ دیدارِ تو باشم
************************
این تو هستی
که نقابِ شب را
بر چشمانِ خستهٔ من میکشی
تا دوباره نو شود
با دیدگانی تازه تر
و خرسند از بیداری
************************
در تاریکی به انتظار مینشینم
بر حصیری گسترده بر زمین
بیا سرورم
به خاموشی
هر زمان که خواستِ توست
و آنچه را از آنِ توست
از من بگیر
************************
در حضورِ هماهنگِ تو
ناملایماتِ زندگی ام
محو میشود
و عشقِ من
بال میگستراند
همچون پرنده ای خوشبخت
که بر فرازِ دریا
پرواز میکند
************************
وقتی میدانم
تو در نهان ترین مکانِ مقدسِ قلبم
جای داری
بدی ها را از آن دور
و عشق را در آن
شکوفا خواهم کرد
--------------------------------------------
امیدوارم این انتخاب ها را پسندیده باشید
<پیروز باشید و ایرانی>
May 30, 2014
"I read Rabindranath every day, to read one line of his is to forget all the troubles of the world."
-Unnamed Bengali Doctor addressing W.B. Yeats, contained in the Introduction
Isn’t it just fitting that this masterpiece be introduced by a person no less than William Butler Yeats who is another Nobel Laureate? Tagore received the Nobel in 1913 and Yeats in 1923. It is ostensibly perceivable that Yeats managed to capture the focal points in his Introduction, so quoting parts of Yeats introduction and placing my heartfelt impressions, let me try doing justice to this book, however insufficient that may turn out to be.
Gitanjali is a collection of poems, ruminations and rhapsodies, or more accurately Song Offerings, and when you do offer something, you offer it to a higher being, a divine existence of which belief is professed, and so, much of the verses are addressed to a Lord, God, and Master.
Yeats in introducing this work to William Rothenstein says:
“For all I know, so abundant and simple is this poetry, the new renaissance has been born in your country.”(7)
And this is true in both instances that I have read Tagore, just as it was in The Gardener, the poetry was actually simple but it communicates at so many levels owing to the depth that is carried by Tagore's ruminations.
“These verses will not lie in little well-printed 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 by students at the university to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but, as the generations pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men rowing upon the rivers.”(8)
And more than a hundred years since its original publication, where in those hundred years we have witnessed, through history’s questioned objectivity, men doubt the ideals of their forefathers and see thier beloved posterities entirely discard what has been handed down, it is extraordinary to enjoy sometime like Gitanjali, which in all its completeness is certainly worthy to be read beyond its year if not entirely a timeless masterpiece on its own.
“I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for days, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of omnibuses and in restaurants, and I have often had to close it lest some stranger would see how much it moved me.”(9)
I too have carried Gitanjali over the days, over a span of daytrips, through the inevitable but longed-for ride home, through talks with friends, and ardent discussions with other students, I sometimes find myself, reading parts of this work, and you really do “forget all the troubles of the world.” But unlike Yeats, I did not hesitate to show the world how much it moved me. If words so masterfully chosen and phrases adroitly matched delivered a gamut of emotions, I welcomed it. If it made me smiled, I smiled, if it made me ponder, I ruminated. I wanted the world to see, I wanted to tell them, this is Gitanjali, and you should read it too.
“These lyrics— which are in the original, my Indians tell me, full of subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable delicacies of colour, of metrical invention—display in their thought a world I have dreamed of all my live long.”(10)
And in the same vein, I am perpetually grateful and irretrievably wounded that my experience is defined by a translated medium. Now that is one hell of a dilemma. I could feel the “subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable delicacies of colour, of metrical invention” which must be so richly contained in Bengali, just inches beyond my reach, but still gravely beyond my reach, unrelentingly clawing at my thoughts reading this. But if there’s one thing that I’ve learned through Tagore, that is, to be thankful for what comes in life. And this is also what I appreciate in Tagore, he loves life, he loves the world, and for that he welcomes death itself in its entirety.
I leave you with a customary quotation.
“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.”
Other works by Rabindranath Tagore:
The Gardener (4 Stars)
Nationalism (3 Stars)
This book forms part of my remarkably extensive reading list on Nobel Prize for Literature Awardees
This review along with other reviews has been cross-posted at imbookedindefinitely
A free ebook copy is legally downloadable here, along with a voluminous number of other works: Gutenberg
January 22, 2022
All the thous and thees stirred my inner Shakespeare.
Made me love the collection so much.
I don't even remember I bought this copy in 2007 (what was I doing? Where was I then?) and I thought I was borrowing my brother's book.
And an old family photo out of nowhere.
Now that's what I called a fictional reading moment of my life.
2021, do not stop surprising me like this.
This collection of song prayers by Tagore did bring me peace and calm during these stressful times.
"I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind."
(So relatable these days)
(But then again, I always look towards hope)
"The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden screams breaking through the sky."
(And this is so apt for May!)
"This is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer."
(And I am enjoying the rain these days!)
(Amidst all the chaos...)
"There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.
Love this collection. I will reread it time and again.
Recommended
Made me love the collection so much.
I don't even remember I bought this copy in 2007 (what was I doing? Where was I then?) and I thought I was borrowing my brother's book.
And an old family photo out of nowhere.
Now that's what I called a fictional reading moment of my life.
2021, do not stop surprising me like this.
This collection of song prayers by Tagore did bring me peace and calm during these stressful times.
"I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind."
(So relatable these days)
(But then again, I always look towards hope)
"The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden screams breaking through the sky."
(And this is so apt for May!)
"This is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer."
(And I am enjoying the rain these days!)
(Amidst all the chaos...)
"There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.
Love this collection. I will reread it time and again.
Recommended
July 28, 2012
Hmm, I seem to be too lost to begin with this review. Maybe, it is going to take some time for me to come out of the world that I have lost myself into while reading Gitanjali. One of the most beautiful collection of poems that I have ever read. It feels as if Tagore is a writer, painter, musician and a charioteer of one's soul, all at the same time. With his words, he paints amazingly vivid landscapes incorporating into his verses all the elements of nature that apart from their own hues and tints carry the brushstrokes of the writer as well. Sometimes, poems are too complex and reader feels utterly lost; Not the case with Tagore's pieces at all. Reading them feels like undertaking a bird's flight which is continuous and is sure to take you with it to the lands interminable. There is timbre of simplicity, depth, romanticism, philosophy, morality and sublime imagery in these texts. I crave for that solitude that Tagore enjoyed and brought out of him such noble and pleasing writings.
A beautiful read overall.
A beautiful read overall.
April 9, 2018
So meaningful... so soothing... man, it's so refreshing!!
When I started this book, I swore I will never read more than 2-3 pages of it at a time. Because I want to slowly and wholely taste every word, rather than swallow the whole book at once. This is one precious book!!
from today's reading--
" The woodlands have hushed their songs, and
doors are all shut at every house. Thou art the
solitary wayfarer in this deserted street. Oh
my only friend, my best beloved, the gates
are open in my house - do not pass by like
a dream. "
" Art thou abroad on this stormy night
on thy journey of love, my friend ?
The sky groans like one in despair.
I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open
my door and look out on the darkness,
my friend!
I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path !
By what dim shore of the ink-black river,
by what far edge of the frowning forest,
through what mazy depth of gloom art
thou threading thy course to come to me,
my friend? "
When I started this book, I swore I will never read more than 2-3 pages of it at a time. Because I want to slowly and wholely taste every word, rather than swallow the whole book at once. This is one precious book!!
from today's reading--
" The woodlands have hushed their songs, and
doors are all shut at every house. Thou art the
solitary wayfarer in this deserted street. Oh
my only friend, my best beloved, the gates
are open in my house - do not pass by like
a dream. "
" Art thou abroad on this stormy night
on thy journey of love, my friend ?
The sky groans like one in despair.
I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open
my door and look out on the darkness,
my friend!
I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path !
By what dim shore of the ink-black river,
by what far edge of the frowning forest,
through what mazy depth of gloom art
thou threading thy course to come to me,
my friend? "
February 1, 2008
I am already loving this book of poetry, though I fear I will need to read it several times before I can actually say I have consumed it. Let me give you an offering from this morning's reading...
"I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark?
I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not.
He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter.
He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company."
Updated:
Now that I am finished I wish to read it again...but, alas, so many books and so little time. What I adore about these poems is that he writes to the deity, and though many believe in different deities, his words are universal and completely transferable to one's own relationship with some higher power: god, nature, etc. These poems are beautifully simple and highly accessible...a quick read that could be extended into lovely moments of provoking thought.
"I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark?
I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not.
He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter.
He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company."
Updated:
Now that I am finished I wish to read it again...but, alas, so many books and so little time. What I adore about these poems is that he writes to the deity, and though many believe in different deities, his words are universal and completely transferable to one's own relationship with some higher power: god, nature, etc. These poems are beautifully simple and highly accessible...a quick read that could be extended into lovely moments of provoking thought.
August 8, 2022
These poems have a purity and simplicity that stills the mind and calms the soul.
Their structure is hypnotic with often a repeated refrain that turns these short pieces into a chant almost.
If you are jaded by the madness and cruelty of modern life, read these transportive votive offerings as an alternative.
Their structure is hypnotic with often a repeated refrain that turns these short pieces into a chant almost.
If you are jaded by the madness and cruelty of modern life, read these transportive votive offerings as an alternative.
September 14, 2022
Tagore wrote in Bengali which I have heard is a sweet and lovely language as well as a "literary powerhouse". When he won the Nobel prize in literature in 1913, he was the first non-European to do so. This collection of poems was translated by the poet himself. If English can't capture the lyricism of the original precisely, we must assume the meaning and emotional feel are present as he intended. I found the collection deeply moving and profound, with images, emotions evoked, and cumulative thoughtfulness that awed me. Here is poem #92 (of 103). The poet is praying as he considers the approaching end of his life, something we all may experience. The softness of desires and shared humanity within this poem is typical of most all 103.
92
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.
92
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.
October 6, 2020
*** تحديث
قرابين الغناء صلاة طويلة و ابتهالات و شعريات تعبد حمد و شكر لحب الإله و كرمه ونعمه ، لحبه و عطفه على التعساء المكلومين و الفقراء المستضعفين في الأرض ورحمته بهم .
كتاب لكل المحزونين لكل العطشى للحب
تمت الترجمة من البنغالية للإنكليزية ومن ثم تم نقلها للعربية و الترجمة أفقدت النص رونقه وكانت مفككة ببعض المقاطع و كالعادة القافية الشعرية غائبة في الشعر المترجم .
لكن تبقى مؤلفات طاغور تروقني دائماً و أبداً ، و روح الصفاء و الحب و البياض و الحكمة التي تطغى على كلماته تشعرني بالراحة و الهدوء و البساطة
قرابين الغناء صلاة طويلة و ابتهالات و شعريات تعبد حمد و شكر لحب الإله و كرمه ونعمه ، لحبه و عطفه على التعساء المكلومين و الفقراء المستضعفين في الأرض ورحمته بهم .
كتاب لكل المحزونين لكل العطشى للحب
تمت الترجمة من البنغالية للإنكليزية ومن ثم تم نقلها للعربية و الترجمة أفقدت النص رونقه وكانت مفككة ببعض المقاطع و كالعادة القافية الشعرية غائبة في الشعر المترجم .
لكن تبقى مؤلفات طاغور تروقني دائماً و أبداً ، و روح الصفاء و الحب و البياض و الحكمة التي تطغى على كلماته تشعرني بالراحة و الهدوء و البساطة
August 9, 2019
خوشم نیومد از این کتاب ولی سه تا از شعراش رو پسندیدم (از صد و سه شعر)
کودک در جامه شاهزادگان
با گردنبندی از سنگ های گرانبها
بر گردنش
همه ی لذت بازی را از دست می دهد.
جامه ی فاخرش او را
مانع می شود
می ترسد جامه اش پاره شود،
یا آن که
غباری بر دامنش بنشیند،
از همه چیز دوری می جوید،
حتی می ترسد، تکان بخورد!
مادر
چه سود
در اسارت تجملات بودن
اگر غبار تندرستی زمین بر تنت ننشیند،
اگر تو را
از ورود به زندگی معمول آدمیان
با همه زیبایی گرانقدرش باز دارد!؟
---------------------------
گل کوچک را بچین
درنگ مکن
پیش از آنکه پژمرده شده،
در خاک فرو افتد
شاید در میان تاج گل ات
جایی نیابد
اما آن را
با دستانت لمس کن و بچین
.
.
آنرا
بچین
و
هدیه کن
-------------------------
کودکان اند
بر ساحل این جهان پهناور
آسمان بیکران
گسرده است بر فراز سرشان
دریای بی قرار در خروش است
کودکان اند
بر ساحل این جهان پهناور
با غریو فریادشان در تکاپو
با صدف های خالی
در خانه های شنی
به بازی مشغول اند
زورقی از برگ های پژمرده را
لبخندزنان
به دوردست ها می رانند
کودکان بر ساحل دنیا به بازی مشغول اند
شنا کردن نمی دانند
و تور افکندن بر دریا را
صیادان در پی مروارید در آب شیرجه میزنند
بازرگانان سوار بر کشتی راهی دریا میشوند
وقتی کودکان سنگریزه هایی را که گرد آورده اند
دوباره به ساحل می پاشند
.
.
طوفان در آسمان پرسه میزند
در آب های بی نشان
کشتی هارا در هم می کوبد
مرگ همه جا گسترده است
و کودکان به بازی مشغول اند
ساحل این جهان پهناور
همایش عظیم کودکان است
کودک در جامه شاهزادگان
با گردنبندی از سنگ های گرانبها
بر گردنش
همه ی لذت بازی را از دست می دهد.
جامه ی فاخرش او را
مانع می شود
می ترسد جامه اش پاره شود،
یا آن که
غباری بر دامنش بنشیند،
از همه چیز دوری می جوید،
حتی می ترسد، تکان بخورد!
مادر
چه سود
در اسارت تجملات بودن
اگر غبار تندرستی زمین بر تنت ننشیند،
اگر تو را
از ورود به زندگی معمول آدمیان
با همه زیبایی گرانقدرش باز دارد!؟
---------------------------
گل کوچک را بچین
درنگ مکن
پیش از آنکه پژمرده شده،
در خاک فرو افتد
شاید در میان تاج گل ات
جایی نیابد
اما آن را
با دستانت لمس کن و بچین
.
.
آنرا
بچین
و
هدیه کن
-------------------------
کودکان اند
بر ساحل این جهان پهناور
آسمان بیکران
گسرده است بر فراز سرشان
دریای بی قرار در خروش است
کودکان اند
بر ساحل این جهان پهناور
با غریو فریادشان در تکاپو
با صدف های خالی
در خانه های شنی
به بازی مشغول اند
زورقی از برگ های پژمرده را
لبخندزنان
به دوردست ها می رانند
کودکان بر ساحل دنیا به بازی مشغول اند
شنا کردن نمی دانند
و تور افکندن بر دریا را
صیادان در پی مروارید در آب شیرجه میزنند
بازرگانان سوار بر کشتی راهی دریا میشوند
وقتی کودکان سنگریزه هایی را که گرد آورده اند
دوباره به ساحل می پاشند
.
.
طوفان در آسمان پرسه میزند
در آب های بی نشان
کشتی هارا در هم می کوبد
مرگ همه جا گسترده است
و کودکان به بازی مشغول اند
ساحل این جهان پهناور
همایش عظیم کودکان است
April 10, 2016
جيتا نجالي (قرابين الغناء)، أو القربان الشعري.. أيًا كان المسمى فإنه ديوان عظيم.
الترجمة بالنسبة للشعر تفقده رونقه، وتفسد أبحره الشعرية، وتحوله من شعر إلى نثر، وتضيع جمال الأسلوب في لغته الأصلية.. وبالرغم من هذا فالمعنى من هذه القصائد رائع لم تؤثر به الترجمة كثيرًا.
ليست مجرد كلماتٍ تقرأ ولكنها تنفذ إلى الروح؛ هي مناجاة الشاعر لربه بطريقته، ونظرته للموت.. طاغور شاعر وفيلسوف عظيم.
ما أتعس هؤلاء الذين يمرون على هذه الكلمات دون أن تترك فيهم أثر!
" لم أكن واعيًا بتلك اللحظة التي اجتزت فيها أولًا عتبة هذه الحياة.
ما تلك القوة التي جعلتني أتفتح في هذا الغموض الشاسع مثل برعم في الغابة في منتصف الليل!
وفي الصباح نظرت إلى النور أحسست للتو بأنني لست بالغريب في هذا العالم، وأن الذي لا يوصف ولا اسم له ولا شكل قد أخذني بين ذراعيه في شكل أمي.
وهكذا، حتى في الموت اللامسمى ذاته سوف يتبدى لي كما قد عرفته للأبد. ولأنني أحب هذه الحياة، أعلم أنني سوف أحب الموت، أيضًا. إن الطفل يصرخ عندما تأخذه الأم عن ثديها الأيمن، وفي اللحظة التالية يجد عزاءه في الثدي الأيسر. "
الترجمة بالنسبة للشعر تفقده رونقه، وتفسد أبحره الشعرية، وتحوله من شعر إلى نثر، وتضيع جمال الأسلوب في لغته الأصلية.. وبالرغم من هذا فالمعنى من هذه القصائد رائع لم تؤثر به الترجمة كثيرًا.
ليست مجرد كلماتٍ تقرأ ولكنها تنفذ إلى الروح؛ هي مناجاة الشاعر لربه بطريقته، ونظرته للموت.. طاغور شاعر وفيلسوف عظيم.
ما أتعس هؤلاء الذين يمرون على هذه الكلمات دون أن تترك فيهم أثر!
" لم أكن واعيًا بتلك اللحظة التي اجتزت فيها أولًا عتبة هذه الحياة.
ما تلك القوة التي جعلتني أتفتح في هذا الغموض الشاسع مثل برعم في الغابة في منتصف الليل!
وفي الصباح نظرت إلى النور أحسست للتو بأنني لست بالغريب في هذا العالم، وأن الذي لا يوصف ولا اسم له ولا شكل قد أخذني بين ذراعيه في شكل أمي.
وهكذا، حتى في الموت اللامسمى ذاته سوف يتبدى لي كما قد عرفته للأبد. ولأنني أحب هذه الحياة، أعلم أنني سوف أحب الموت، أيضًا. إن الطفل يصرخ عندما تأخذه الأم عن ثديها الأيمن، وفي اللحظة التالية يجد عزاءه في الثدي الأيسر. "
February 28, 2019
Gitanjali is a star shining in the darkness.
May 23, 2019
A collection of beautiful poems you might not want to miss reading! Now that I have finished reading it, here are a few that I shall always remember.
Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to
face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee
face to face.
Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart
shall I stand before thee face to face.
In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with
struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to
face.
And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings,
alone and speechless shall I stand before thee face to face.
and this one
Where the mind is without fear and the head 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.
Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to
face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee
face to face.
Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart
shall I stand before thee face to face.
In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with
struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to
face.
And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings,
alone and speechless shall I stand before thee face to face.
and this one
Where the mind is without fear and the head 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.
August 27, 2021
"Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure." Thus begins this small but rich collection of poems by the Nobel Prize-winning poet Rabindranath Tagore. He sings of the ages that are the gift of the gods. He explores the abundance of human experience from birth to death and beyond. Eros has its place as well in the poems that explore the humanity of young and old. All the while the beauty of nature does not escape his attention. The author's own translation into English from the original Bengali does not lose the musical quality that must exist in the original language. One may open to almost any page to experience beautiful poetry like these line from Poem 59:
"The morning light has flooded my eyes---this is thy message to my heart. Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart has touched thy feet."(p 77)
With an introduction by W. B. Yeats from the original 1913 edition this is a great introduction to a protean writer. His poetry and prose compares with Goethe or Dante in its impact on both his home of India and the world.
"The morning light has flooded my eyes---this is thy message to my heart. Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart has touched thy feet."(p 77)
With an introduction by W. B. Yeats from the original 1913 edition this is a great introduction to a protean writer. His poetry and prose compares with Goethe or Dante in its impact on both his home of India and the world.
September 10, 2016
5 beautiful stars!
As per Wikipedia, Gitanjali (Song Offerings) is a collection of 103 English poems of Tagore's own English translations of his Bengali poems, containing 53 poems from the original Bengali Gitanjali, as well as 50 other poems which were from his drama Achalayatan and eight other books of poetry — mainly Gitimalya (17 poems), Naivedya (15 poems) and Kheya (11 poems).
This was my first glimpse into Tagore's works, streamlined with an essence of the spiritual and devotion to the Almighty. He frequently employs elements from nature and blends them with an undercurrent of sanctity.
Despite of the deep meaning trailing his poems, Tagore has a unique style of writing, simple and austere. His words are suffused with a positive energy which is uplifting even in the bleakest of times.
I've been reading Gitanjali for a long time. As it is my habit with most poems, I didn't read it at a stretch. I let the words hang in the air for days, inviting it slowly to sink into the flesh and bone.
Quoting some of my favorite verses:
"All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power
can hold them back, they rush on.
Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come
dancing and pass away—colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in
endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and
dies every moment."
About the race of life. About wonders that are missed because people are racing against each other, pushing their way, their will, exhausting their abilities, not realising where their happiness lies. They are blind to it when it comes.
"And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.
The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it
away, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation."
Tagore's devotion to God mounts to a monstrous peak, as he refers to the Almighty as brother, sister, lover, mother, friend, covering all vistas of life. He is ready to embrace death without any hesitation, because to him, it's merely change of one vessel to the other, both sculpted by God. In many verses we sense his desperation of being united with his Lord, how he offers his everything for the singular cause.
I'm in no manner much of a spiritual person, myself. But one can attribute diverse meaning from his verses, as ia suitable. The wanderings of a lover's heart, the road to seeking reason in life, introspection into one's own, taking pleasure in the little joys of life- theories abound.
I have questions, though.
How is one to know that the time has come to be united with God? Tagore repeatedly mentions that he is not due yet, that there is still time. How did he know?
It's my lack of experience that has placed me in this position, so I believe the answers will come to me with time. Hopefully, this review will undergo some editing then.
A beautiful book. I was worried about the translations, but they seem unexpectedly good, probably because Tagore himself wrote them.
5 stars in all.
As per Wikipedia, Gitanjali (Song Offerings) is a collection of 103 English poems of Tagore's own English translations of his Bengali poems, containing 53 poems from the original Bengali Gitanjali, as well as 50 other poems which were from his drama Achalayatan and eight other books of poetry — mainly Gitimalya (17 poems), Naivedya (15 poems) and Kheya (11 poems).
This was my first glimpse into Tagore's works, streamlined with an essence of the spiritual and devotion to the Almighty. He frequently employs elements from nature and blends them with an undercurrent of sanctity.
Despite of the deep meaning trailing his poems, Tagore has a unique style of writing, simple and austere. His words are suffused with a positive energy which is uplifting even in the bleakest of times.
I've been reading Gitanjali for a long time. As it is my habit with most poems, I didn't read it at a stretch. I let the words hang in the air for days, inviting it slowly to sink into the flesh and bone.
Quoting some of my favorite verses:
"All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power
can hold them back, they rush on.
Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come
dancing and pass away—colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in
endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and
dies every moment."
About the race of life. About wonders that are missed because people are racing against each other, pushing their way, their will, exhausting their abilities, not realising where their happiness lies. They are blind to it when it comes.
"And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.
The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it
away, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation."
Tagore's devotion to God mounts to a monstrous peak, as he refers to the Almighty as brother, sister, lover, mother, friend, covering all vistas of life. He is ready to embrace death without any hesitation, because to him, it's merely change of one vessel to the other, both sculpted by God. In many verses we sense his desperation of being united with his Lord, how he offers his everything for the singular cause.
I'm in no manner much of a spiritual person, myself. But one can attribute diverse meaning from his verses, as ia suitable. The wanderings of a lover's heart, the road to seeking reason in life, introspection into one's own, taking pleasure in the little joys of life- theories abound.
I have questions, though.
How is one to know that the time has come to be united with God? Tagore repeatedly mentions that he is not due yet, that there is still time. How did he know?
It's my lack of experience that has placed me in this position, so I believe the answers will come to me with time. Hopefully, this review will undergo some editing then.
A beautiful book. I was worried about the translations, but they seem unexpectedly good, probably because Tagore himself wrote them.
5 stars in all.
May 30, 2016
I have often seen my uncle with his tattered and time worn copy of Gitanjali. He had read it so many times that the missing words do not bother him anymore. At an impulse I also bought a very colorful English edition in my 6th standard and it has remained in my book shelves obscured by heftier novels gathering dust and looking tattered for entirely different reasons. College curriculum is arguably a bad way of rediscovering a book which holds so much sentimental value for my loved ones. A college curriculum which moreover tests you on two randomly selected verses is a travesty. Thankfully two verses are sometimes just enough to catch a glimpse of the spirit which motivates you to find your copy and read and reread it several times.
There is a significant amount of difference among the Bengali and the English version. Tagore himself made the edits selecting 53 poems from the original Bengali collection of 157 poems. The other 50 were from his drama Achalayatan and eight other books of poetry. Other than Tagore, I looked at William Radice’s translation of the poems. It is a good exercise for those not brave enough to tackle the Bengali but who want a glimpse of the mellifluous rhythm and the topical imagery of the original. Some of the significant differences I noticed were the omission of the sensual imagery and sing song rhythm in Tagore’s version.
Here is an example:
Tagore
Alas why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why ever do I miss his sight whose breath touches my sleeping brow?
Radice
Why does my night pass by
with him so near yet not near?
Why does my night pass by
with him so near yet not near?
Why did the touch of his garland
not brush my neck.
Other than that I prefer reading ghat instead of beaches and sharad kal and veena instead of mid July weather and musical instrumental. This however is not to say Tagore’s version should be script. Reading Radice acts as an excellent supplement. Verse or prose, Tagore is quite capable of deftly weaving magic in both.
The reason why this collection affected me so much is because Tagore’s reaches for more than God. It comes as close to verbalizing the inexplicable as is humanely possible. It is full of a painful sweetness and a joy we have all felt and lost. The poems are full of awareness of its limitation and a continuous striving towards that ultimate goal. My favorite poems are the one involving God as playmate and mother. Like Alice Walker’s Shug Avery, the speaker in Tagore’s poems believe in a God whose “love loses itself in the love of thy lover”. His creation may be a marked by an awareness of its fragility, but he is not marked by an awareness of sin. At the center of the universe is man beloved of God. As a bride, a minstrel, a farmer, a child he strives for his grace through active engagement in the sensual pleasures of creation.
Sometimes texts have to find you in exactly the right time of your life to make a proper impact. When that happens they become regular companions. Gitanjali is one of those texts, Tagore is one of those writers.
There is a significant amount of difference among the Bengali and the English version. Tagore himself made the edits selecting 53 poems from the original Bengali collection of 157 poems. The other 50 were from his drama Achalayatan and eight other books of poetry. Other than Tagore, I looked at William Radice’s translation of the poems. It is a good exercise for those not brave enough to tackle the Bengali but who want a glimpse of the mellifluous rhythm and the topical imagery of the original. Some of the significant differences I noticed were the omission of the sensual imagery and sing song rhythm in Tagore’s version.
Here is an example:
Tagore
Alas why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why ever do I miss his sight whose breath touches my sleeping brow?
Radice
Why does my night pass by
with him so near yet not near?
Why does my night pass by
with him so near yet not near?
Why did the touch of his garland
not brush my neck.
Other than that I prefer reading ghat instead of beaches and sharad kal and veena instead of mid July weather and musical instrumental. This however is not to say Tagore’s version should be script. Reading Radice acts as an excellent supplement. Verse or prose, Tagore is quite capable of deftly weaving magic in both.
The reason why this collection affected me so much is because Tagore’s reaches for more than God. It comes as close to verbalizing the inexplicable as is humanely possible. It is full of a painful sweetness and a joy we have all felt and lost. The poems are full of awareness of its limitation and a continuous striving towards that ultimate goal. My favorite poems are the one involving God as playmate and mother. Like Alice Walker’s Shug Avery, the speaker in Tagore’s poems believe in a God whose “love loses itself in the love of thy lover”. His creation may be a marked by an awareness of its fragility, but he is not marked by an awareness of sin. At the center of the universe is man beloved of God. As a bride, a minstrel, a farmer, a child he strives for his grace through active engagement in the sensual pleasures of creation.
Sometimes texts have to find you in exactly the right time of your life to make a proper impact. When that happens they become regular companions. Gitanjali is one of those texts, Tagore is one of those writers.
January 17, 2009
Let My Country Awake
Where the mind is without fear and the head 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.
Rabindranath Tagore
Where the mind is without fear and the head 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.
Rabindranath Tagore
October 7, 2024
in my enthusiasm I didn't notice I borrowed a Hindi language copy. I didn't understand the content on a cognitive level, but I enjoyed listening to the poems and how they felt 😊
I will continue to look out for an English translation 😃
🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟
accessed as an RNIB talking book. really nicely recorded with a good index, some small preamble including a short biography, and each poem was announced by title, and well read 🙂
I will continue to look out for an English translation 😃
🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟
accessed as an RNIB talking book. really nicely recorded with a good index, some small preamble including a short biography, and each poem was announced by title, and well read 🙂
August 3, 2012
Verses frm Gitanjali r pasted all ovr my room, in my diary, at d back of my notebooks....I even remember participating in a competition( which i was too afraid 2 b in) with a slip of paper in my pocket with verses frm gitanjali scribbled in it.When in doubt, I run 2 Tagore.Who needs bible ven v hav got buks lyk des?
September 9, 2016
Gitanjali: Offerings to the divine
A Bengali doctor meets Mr Yeats. He tells him ' I read Tagore,every day to forget the troubles in the world'. Mr Yeats was still very curious. Meeting Indians,curators he is surprised by the honor bestowed to the poet. The flowing of the rich mixture of religion, mysticism and poetry smoothens,eases and delights all.
We have to tread our own journeys to the unknown. Lighting our own lamps, swimming in the ambiguous seas, gliding like the restless heavy skies , we experience some of the thoughts shown in the poems.
1. Waiting
There is little respite, naptimes for the seeker. Like a tumultuous lover,waiting outside the beloved doors. Their is no fear of the thundering clouds or quakes below. It is very unlike the modern day restlessness born out of seeking excessive materials,boredom and dejection.
2. Preparation
The seeker, like the bride is always ready. She has her simple mat and lamp shining ceaselessly. She sings with joy,silence and also with tears of joy. There is the presence of the sounds of footsteps outside the house.
She is cleaning her mind from bad thoughts and vanity. When will the hour of arrival come?
3. Silence
There is a deep stillness around us even within the endless noises. the singer is asked to sing to Him. He is baffled and speechless. People ask the seeker about God.he can't describe and mention him. the one resides in the fragrance within his temple. Getting lost in the hustle and bustle of life,makes us look for escapes. Let's stay for a while,sitting in silence.
4. Joy
Joy is everywhere. Especially in the nests,the golden lights,the notorious waves,the heavy skies,the fluttery leaves,the cooing doves, the lotus petals,the cycles of life and death. It echoes the touch of the King of kings.
5. Death
As the dark visitor comes to take the seeker away. there are no signs of anxiety. It is a great occasion to submerge the soul in the eternal ocean. The mind no longer clings to the desires of yesterday .
6. Superstition
The cunning may build giant temples,wear shiny Robes and carry beads. The almighty will himself depart from their premises and play with the village boys outside. Your excessive ornaments and fancy jewellery is an hindrance to be close to the lover of innocence and plainness.
7. Walls
Unaware beings build steep, skyscraping walls. the deceit ,rejections,ambitions make them chained like a bonded slave. The separation of the self from the other leads to further neurosis, suicides,crimes of passions of all kinds.
8. Be like the child.
There is a endless world of seas. The children come there to play.they don't know how to swim or catch fishes. They discover him in the simple shells. While,the ship of the explorer wrecks.this poem reminds me of religious stories of Jesus which focus on being like a child,who in his simplicity of heart can receive the divine gifts easily. It also hold true,when we are trying to learn something new ,fresh with curiosity and easy flowing.
9. Union
The fusion happens sponetousely. When the traveller sleeps,he comes near him. The empty,vacant seat gets filled with flowers of different kinds. There is no force or compulsion
When we do anything with force,there is a anxiety and insecurity. The natural way of doing promotes harmony( Lao Tzu).
There are numerous images and experiences in my mind reading these poems. It is a enigmatic
tune by the enchanted Indian sage. The rational and sane minds can't unravel it.
A Bengali doctor meets Mr Yeats. He tells him ' I read Tagore,every day to forget the troubles in the world'. Mr Yeats was still very curious. Meeting Indians,curators he is surprised by the honor bestowed to the poet. The flowing of the rich mixture of religion, mysticism and poetry smoothens,eases and delights all.
We have to tread our own journeys to the unknown. Lighting our own lamps, swimming in the ambiguous seas, gliding like the restless heavy skies , we experience some of the thoughts shown in the poems.
1. Waiting
There is little respite, naptimes for the seeker. Like a tumultuous lover,waiting outside the beloved doors. Their is no fear of the thundering clouds or quakes below. It is very unlike the modern day restlessness born out of seeking excessive materials,boredom and dejection.
2. Preparation
The seeker, like the bride is always ready. She has her simple mat and lamp shining ceaselessly. She sings with joy,silence and also with tears of joy. There is the presence of the sounds of footsteps outside the house.
She is cleaning her mind from bad thoughts and vanity. When will the hour of arrival come?
3. Silence
There is a deep stillness around us even within the endless noises. the singer is asked to sing to Him. He is baffled and speechless. People ask the seeker about God.he can't describe and mention him. the one resides in the fragrance within his temple. Getting lost in the hustle and bustle of life,makes us look for escapes. Let's stay for a while,sitting in silence.
4. Joy
Joy is everywhere. Especially in the nests,the golden lights,the notorious waves,the heavy skies,the fluttery leaves,the cooing doves, the lotus petals,the cycles of life and death. It echoes the touch of the King of kings.
5. Death
As the dark visitor comes to take the seeker away. there are no signs of anxiety. It is a great occasion to submerge the soul in the eternal ocean. The mind no longer clings to the desires of yesterday .
6. Superstition
The cunning may build giant temples,wear shiny Robes and carry beads. The almighty will himself depart from their premises and play with the village boys outside. Your excessive ornaments and fancy jewellery is an hindrance to be close to the lover of innocence and plainness.
7. Walls
Unaware beings build steep, skyscraping walls. the deceit ,rejections,ambitions make them chained like a bonded slave. The separation of the self from the other leads to further neurosis, suicides,crimes of passions of all kinds.
8. Be like the child.
There is a endless world of seas. The children come there to play.they don't know how to swim or catch fishes. They discover him in the simple shells. While,the ship of the explorer wrecks.this poem reminds me of religious stories of Jesus which focus on being like a child,who in his simplicity of heart can receive the divine gifts easily. It also hold true,when we are trying to learn something new ,fresh with curiosity and easy flowing.
9. Union
The fusion happens sponetousely. When the traveller sleeps,he comes near him. The empty,vacant seat gets filled with flowers of different kinds. There is no force or compulsion
When we do anything with force,there is a anxiety and insecurity. The natural way of doing promotes harmony( Lao Tzu).
There are numerous images and experiences in my mind reading these poems. It is a enigmatic
tune by the enchanted Indian sage. The rational and sane minds can't unravel it.
December 29, 2021
I have not read a book of poetry for a while, and when this collection of poems caught my eye, I knew I must read it. I have known that this collection of poems is what primarily contributed to Rabindranath Tagore to win the Nobel Prize for literature in 1913, and that knowledge was an added inducement to my resolution.
I don't think I'm quite qualified to review works of poetry, and especially a well-known masterpiece as this. But I couldn't resist the impulse to pen my thoughts out here.
Most of the poems in the collection are of a spiritual nature. Although, I do not see share the same spiritual perception with Tagore, I understood why they were called inspirational. And certain poems did inspire me too. I did not understand all the poems in the collection, but could perceive good number of them.
However, what I did most enjoy is the gentle beauty and simplicity of these poems and the accompanying rhythm. All these poems I read aloud and was amazed at the different rhythms Tagore has employed. They were very soothing.
My favourite poem is No. 35 in the collection: "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 reasons 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." This was a moving poem and the true cry of every national irrespective of the country, living in a world divided by religion, culture and class.
Overall, it was pleasant to have returned to a collection of poetry in the midst of prose reading; and that too of a legend. It was an enjoyable read and a must read for every poetry lover.
I don't think I'm quite qualified to review works of poetry, and especially a well-known masterpiece as this. But I couldn't resist the impulse to pen my thoughts out here.
Most of the poems in the collection are of a spiritual nature. Although, I do not see share the same spiritual perception with Tagore, I understood why they were called inspirational. And certain poems did inspire me too. I did not understand all the poems in the collection, but could perceive good number of them.
However, what I did most enjoy is the gentle beauty and simplicity of these poems and the accompanying rhythm. All these poems I read aloud and was amazed at the different rhythms Tagore has employed. They were very soothing.
My favourite poem is No. 35 in the collection: "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 reasons 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." This was a moving poem and the true cry of every national irrespective of the country, living in a world divided by religion, culture and class.
Overall, it was pleasant to have returned to a collection of poetry in the midst of prose reading; and that too of a legend. It was an enjoyable read and a must read for every poetry lover.
October 8, 2024
this time, the English translation of the Bengali original, by the author Rabindranath Tagore 😊
with an introduction by W B Yeats, who speaks of his own appreciation, and attempts to give context to Rabindranath Tagore - his life, and work - in India and in Europe.
🌟 💖 🌟
💛 alot of the poems are like a conversation with, and devotional to, the divine... and an entreaty to others to make this connection, to live fully in the light of the divine💛
💚 a sense of love and longing. a song of the seasons, and of night and day. a sense of majesty and awe 💚
💙 time, and human relationships. connection and separation. love, life and death 💙
looking back, as the poems and collection progress, it's abit like a story with a beginning and end - a path thru a human life, and the physical world - beginning and ending in the divine 😊
🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 .5 💖
accessed as a Librivox recording (thanks again Rosh 🙂), read by Neeru Iyer, Hilara, Elli, 'lonely trotter', Patti Cunningham, Carl Manchester, and Sean Micheal Hogan.
some readers were better than others (one lacked rhythm, anothers pronunciation was abit off in places), but most were good 🙂 there was something like a distortion at times in alot of the recordings that felt digital - something about the platform/playback? one recording especially suffered from it, and many of their words were rendered unintelligible 😕
I think I'd like to reread this English edition quietly on paper some time 🙂 and I'm still hoping to find the collection in its original Bengali in audio format, to hear the original rhythm and sound of the poems 🙂
with an introduction by W B Yeats, who speaks of his own appreciation, and attempts to give context to Rabindranath Tagore - his life, and work - in India and in Europe.
🌟 💖 🌟
💛 alot of the poems are like a conversation with, and devotional to, the divine... and an entreaty to others to make this connection, to live fully in the light of the divine💛
💚 a sense of love and longing. a song of the seasons, and of night and day. a sense of majesty and awe 💚
💙 time, and human relationships. connection and separation. love, life and death 💙
looking back, as the poems and collection progress, it's abit like a story with a beginning and end - a path thru a human life, and the physical world - beginning and ending in the divine 😊
🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 .5 💖
accessed as a Librivox recording (thanks again Rosh 🙂), read by Neeru Iyer, Hilara, Elli, 'lonely trotter', Patti Cunningham, Carl Manchester, and Sean Micheal Hogan.
some readers were better than others (one lacked rhythm, anothers pronunciation was abit off in places), but most were good 🙂 there was something like a distortion at times in alot of the recordings that felt digital - something about the platform/playback? one recording especially suffered from it, and many of their words were rendered unintelligible 😕
I think I'd like to reread this English edition quietly on paper some time 🙂 and I'm still hoping to find the collection in its original Bengali in audio format, to hear the original rhythm and sound of the poems 🙂
October 27, 2017
“Ey sen, hayatımın son tezahürü olan ölüm, benim ölümüm, gel ve fısılda!..
Birbiri üstüne ger gün seni bekledim; ben senin için hayatın neş'e ve ızdıraplarını taşıdım.
Bütün benliğim, malik olduğum her şey, bütün ümidim ve aşkım, her zaman mahremiyetin derinliği içinde sana doğru aktı gözlerinden doğru tek bir bakış geldin, benim hayatım tamamiyle senin olacak.
Çiçekler örüldü ve güvey için çelenk hazırlandı. Düğünden sonra, gelin, evini terk edecek ve efendisiyle gecenin ıssızlığında buluşacak.”
— 91, sf:42
Bence hoş kitaptı.
Numaralandırılmış (103), farklı uzunluklarda metinler bunlar. Tanrı'ya/sevgiliye edilen niyaz ve dua gibi ki zaten birebir Tanrı atfı yoksa sevgiliden başka olamaz diye düşünüyor insan (ki belki gerçek öyledir); doğrudan Tanrı'ya yönelttiği bölümlerin bazıların sonunda da 'Amin' diyesiniz geliyor hatta.
Son derece şiirsel, lirik bir dille dua ettiğinizi, O'u övdüğünüz, kendinizi acz'leştirdiğinizi, O'nunla konuştuğunuzu düşünün. Hiç böyle bir ortamda bulundunuz mu bilemiyorum ama ben pek çok kez bu şekilde edilen dualara amin dedim, tabi bu kadar edebi elbette değil, ama bizim ettiğimiz sıradan dualar gibi de değil. Aynı şey konuşuyormuş gibi davrandığınızda da geçerli. Şunun için diyorum, bana şunu düşündürttü: bu edilen, benim bahsettiğim dualar ve konuşmalar, latifeler tıpkı böyle bir araya getirilse, ve basan bir yayınevi çıksa kaç kişi alıp okur, ve elbette ki sever? Kıymet görür mü?
Israrla ilahi demiyorum çünkü ilahi denince aklıma 'dini sözleri olan göbek attırmalık musiki' geliyor (ilahi iko!). Bahsettiğim şeye en yakın Dursun Ali Erzincan var. Bu niyazlara aşşırı bayılırım, fakat açıp okumuyorum ben de. Kitabı sevgiliye yazılmış sanıp aldım, yoksa bekletebilirdim.
Herhangi bir kültürel yansıma hissetmiyorsunuz. Din sezinlemiyorsunuz, pekala bir hristiyan ya da uçan spagetti canavarına inanan biri de okuyabilir.
Tek şikayetim şu: Ecevit'in çevirmenliğinin siyasi kimliğine bin bastığını söyleyebilirim, harika bir çeviri ancak 'Yaratıcı' için kelime seçişi bence yanlış. Ve kesinlikle birazdan edeceğim laflarda duyar kasmıyorum.
"...sükutun Allahı olan Rabbim, bana..." (39, sf:16)
➡️Rabbi olan Allah olur, Yaratıcı'sı olan Rab olur.
"...parıldadığı vakit, Allahlar gökte bir içtima yaptılar ve..." (78, sf: 36)
➡️Allahlar diye bir şey olamaz mesela.
Bazen Rab, bazen Allah, bazen de Tanrı diye çevirmiş ama bu ayrımı dilin akışına mı neye göre yapmış bi fikrim yok.
Ben çevirilerde tepkilerin 'Allah' diye çevrilmesi taraftarıyım (Aman Allahım, gibi), yani eğer karakter Harlem'de yaşamıyorsa ya da rockçı değilse, çünkü o durumda seslenilen Yaratıcı din kimliğinden soyunup Türk kültüründe yerleşmiş haliyle kalıyor, 'Mevlam büyüktür' gibi. Ama eğer doğrudan Tanrı varsa işin içinde, ister roman olsun ister makale, Tanrı ya da Rab olmalı. Çünkü Allah, İslam'a özgü bir kavram, bir isim (tüm esmaül hüsna ve sıfatların toplamı olan ismi). Tersi gibi düşünün, 'Allahım çok güzel kokuyor!'u tutup 'My Allah, it smells so good!' çevirmez heralde hiçbir çevirmen.
Dediğim gibi duyar kasmıyorum, İslamcılar out. Sadece artık öğrenin şu Yaratıcı'yı çevirme işini.
“... Sır kalbimden taşar. Onlar bana gelip sorarlar, "Bütün söylemek istediklerinin manası nedir?" Nasıl cevap vereceğimi şaşırır, "Ah bunların namazını kim bilebilir ki," derim. Onlar gülümseyip alay ederek giderler. Ve Sen orada mütebessim oturursun.”
— 102, sf:46
Ey sevgili
amin
iko
August 1, 2022
A medicine for coping with the ineffable mysteries of the soul.
From a life laden with romance in the teens, then battered with mishaps, Tagore turned towards embracing life in totality with zest. Instead of turning into an escapist, he cradled life with sweetness. Each and every word is a solution not only to daily perplexities, but also a catalyst to daily joys. It all depends on how the reader discerns. The mood, state of mind of the reader will help him perceive new meanings every time. "A lifelong read "
I witnessed a lot of similarity between David in Bible(the psalms) and Tagore in Gitanjali. After reading Gitanjali, I can confirm that he was greatly inspired by David and his psalms, along with his personal pragmatic experiences.
Each and every poem is special and cannot pick one, but for today I reverberate with -
"He came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me!
He came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams became resonant with its melodies.
Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?"
From a life laden with romance in the teens, then battered with mishaps, Tagore turned towards embracing life in totality with zest. Instead of turning into an escapist, he cradled life with sweetness. Each and every word is a solution not only to daily perplexities, but also a catalyst to daily joys. It all depends on how the reader discerns. The mood, state of mind of the reader will help him perceive new meanings every time. "A lifelong read "
I witnessed a lot of similarity between David in Bible(the psalms) and Tagore in Gitanjali. After reading Gitanjali, I can confirm that he was greatly inspired by David and his psalms, along with his personal pragmatic experiences.
Each and every poem is special and cannot pick one, but for today I reverberate with -
"He came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me!
He came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams became resonant with its melodies.
Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?"
Displaying 1 - 30 of 940 reviews