অপ্রত্যাশিত প্রেমের গজল

কেউ বোঝেনি তোমার অঙ্কদেশের

আঁধার-চাপা ফুলের সুবাস

কেউ টের পায়নি তুমি দাঁতে 

পিষেছ প্রেমের গুঞ্জন-পাখি।

তোমার ললাট-চাঁদনীচকে

ঘুমিয়েছিল সহস্র পারস্য টাট্টু, 

যখন সেথা চার রাতভর জড়িয়ে

থেকেছি তোমার হিমরোধী কটি।

পলস্তারা ও জুঁইদের মাঝে 

তোমার দৃষ্টি ছিল এক

অঙ্কুরিত ফ্যাকাশে শাখা। 

চেষ্টা করেছি তোমায় দিতে নিজ পাঁজরে

আইভরি-অক্ষরমালা ‘চিরকাল'। 

সর্বদা, সর্বদাই, মোর বেদনোদ্যান, 

তোমার দেহ আমা হতে উড়ে যায় চিরতরে।

এখন তোমার ধমণীর রক্ত আমার মুখে, 

ইতিমধ্যে আলোমুক্ত মোর মরণকল্পে।

This is a translation of Lorca's Gacela of Unexpected Love. I used AS Kline's English translation from original Spanish.

Rangiye Diye Jao (Brighten me please)

Translation of Tagore's Rangiye Diye Jao 

Brighten me please before you leave this time -- 

    in your own hue, 

    in your secret shade, 

    in juvenile glee's perky tint, 

    in teardrop's touching tone. 

Brighten me please before you leave this time. 

Let the hue touch my spirit, be of use in each action 

Let the hue touch my spirit, let it kindle twilights' tip, 

    let it help me go through the night's dark

Brighten me please before you leave this time. 

Wake me up before you leave, 

    stir up my blood with your steps' swings. 

Wake me up before you leave. 

The way stars bloom in the dark night's bosom, 

    brooks spring inside chambers of rock-caves,

    cloud's voicefulness erupts inside its chest, 

    rhythm begins at the core of universal dance, 

Sway me likewise, walk me to the exit way, 

   shoo the bondage of lament. 

Brighten me please before you leave this time.

Prano bhoriye

To life's brim, past desire's end

give me more and more of life.
In your universe, at your dwelling
grant me more and more space. 

More luminance, more radiance
into these eyes, o lord, you pour 
Fluting in melody after melody
give me more and more tune
More agony, more misery
O Lord, give me more sense.
Opening doorways, knocking down barriers
offer me relief, offer me refuge.
In agape, in even more agape
let my ego keep drowning.
By nectar's bank, of yourself
bestow more and more and more.

When The Seven Stars Bloom

When the seven stars bloom in the sky, on this grass

I sit still; like a dead star starfruit-red clouds 

inside the bay waves have sunk  – descends a quiet, obedient

Bengal's twilight-blue evening – as if a long-haired lass appears in the sky:

On my face, on my eyes float her hairs;

no path on this earth has seen her –  never seen such

countless hairs' kisses fall on mango-pine, jackfruit, rose-apple ceaselessly,

never known such pleasant fragrance drip from a beauty's tresses.

On some earth's way: the fragrance of soft paddy – the essence of 
water-spinach, duck's plumes, arrow, pond water, 
glassy fish and olive barb's mild smell, 
lassie's rice-washing wet hand – that cold hand, lad-trampled nutgrass, 
the jaded silence of the red banyan fruit's saddened fragrance –  amidst these

when the seven stars bloom in the sky, Bengal's soul I feel. 

Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market

This is a humble attempt to translate Neruda's masterpiece. The refrigerator magnet is handmade.

A Stream Of Joy

This had been a wonderful week for me in terms of revisiting Tagore!

A couple of weeks back, I had this request to translate a song by Tagore from a local didi - Bengali for sister. Before sharing my translation with her, I sought feedback from friends and family whose opinion matters to me. And some wonderful discussions emerged.

I got to hear from a young scholar about his view on Tagore. More about that in a later post.

Then I got to discuss with my baba [Bengali for father.] I fondly remember reading his copy of Chinnapatra [A book that had assorted letters of Tagore] during my school days. My dad, in his beautiful handwriting, had written, during his college days, on the margins of each letter references to Tagore's poems and other works making it an interesting reference book.

During one such exchange, a dear friend (more like a younger brother) Sid Chattopadhyay - an extremely talented musician [Listen to his album Jolchobi at Amazon Digital Music] requested me to translate his favorite "Aanondo dhara bohichey bhuboney." And I thought of giving it a try.

Below is my humble attempt. Comments are always appreciated!

A Stream of Joy

A stream of joy flows through the universe,

day and night, into infinite sky spills over much nectar.

That sun and moon drink with cupped palms -

ever bright their unfailing light -

replete earth each day with life and rays.

Why do you sit absent-minded?

Self-engrossed for what reason?

Look around broadening thy heart,

ignoring all little sorrows

fill up your empty life with love.

San Jose, CA
January 23, 2016

My Beloved's Shadow

My translation of a song by Rabindranath Tagore (from his Nature/Monsoon phase written in 1938.)

My beloved's shadow
Alas, today in the sky floats!
Alas, in the dreary rain-soaked air.

My beloved between the clouds
Hiding in the evening star beholds whom,
Alas, elided light of the evening lamp she recalls.

With the rain-dripped forest-fragrance
Touch-less welcome-garland weaves my beloved.

My beloved in dense monsoon-pour
All over the sky loses her mind.
My beloved's anchal swings
Alas, in the deep forest's dark outbursts.

San Jose, USA
January 14, 2016


Below is the original song in Bengali script.

Sandbed of Pain

With what hope

Do I create my playhouse

On a sandbed of pain?

Destiny with my luck toys

Night and day

On a sandbed of pain.

Alack this heart! 

Why doesn't it lose hope?

Whatever little it wants

It gets none, whatsoever none!

Who knows why 

Clouds only fill up my sky!

Destiny with my luck toys

Night and day

On a sandbed of pain.

Each day rises a new sun, 

Each day brings a new dawn -

But in my life's gloom

Neither rises the sun

Nor comes the dawn.

The world bade me bye -

as if it called and said,

"there's no place here,

you are a nobody."

My tired soles give up

In the distressed gloom

Seeking a path

On a sandbed of pain.

With what hope

Do I create my playhouse

On a sandbed of pain?

This is a translation of Bengali song

If You Love Someone by Tagore

If you love someone
Set him free.
If he returns
He is yours.
If he doesn't
Yours he never was
And never will be.

Banalata Sen

For thousand years I’m wandering on this planet's pathways,
from Ceylon Sea in the night's dark to the Malay Sea
traveled I have a lot; in the dusky world of Bimbisara-Ashoka
there I was; far away in the dark in the town of Bidarbha;
a weary soul that I am, life’s sea foam surrounding me,
was presented a moment’s peace by Banalata Sen of Natore.
Her hair’s the night of bygone dark Bidisha,
her face Srabasti’s artwork; in the distant sea
the way a sailor who’s lost his trace breaking his rudder
sees the green grassland inside the cinnamon-island,
likewise I saw her in the dark; “Where were you all this time?” she asked,
raising her birdnest-like eyes – Banalata Sen of Natore.

At the day’s end, like the whisper of the dew
descends the evening; the kite wipes from its wings the sun's smell;
When all hues of the earth subside, the manuscript calls for
the sparkling color of fireflies for the story’s sake;
all birds return home – all rivers – settle all accounts of this life;
only darkness remains, to sit across Banalata Sen.

The Year 1994

A century from today

who are you reading my poetry

curiously,

A century from today!

This new spring morning's
fraction of joy,
some flower of today, some song of a bird,
some crimson glow of today –
soaking in affection will I be able to send
to your hands
a century from today?!

Still, for once, opening the south doorway
sitting in the terrace
gazing at the distant horizon,
steeped in imagination,
think in your mind –
one day a century ago
a restless bundle of joy drifting from which heaven
came and touched the heart of the universe,
new springday absolutely unfettered
insane impatient,
flapping restless wings flower-scented
southern breeze
suddenly bustling in had painted the earth
in youth's colors,
a century before yours.
That day in a restless soul, inside a song-infused heart
a poet awoke -
tried to blossom so many words flower-like
with so much affection,
one day a century ago.

A century from today
who the new poet is singing
at your homes!
This spring's joyous greetings
I send to his palm.
Let my springsong on your springday
resonate awhile –
in your heartbeat, in bee's new murmur,
in leave's rustle
a century from today.

Translation of Tagore's Saal 1400. Tagore wrote this in 1896, 17 year before he received Nobel prize for literature.

Note: Saal is Bengali for year and1400 in Bengali calendar is 1994. 

Me

By the color of my consciousness emerald is green,
ruby turns red.
I open my eyes to the sky-
light flares up
into the east and the west.
glancing at the rose I utter 'beautiful'-
beautiful it becomes.

A philosophy, not a poet's verse, you'll say.
Truth it is I'll reply
hence poetry.
This is my pride,
pride on behalf of the entire mankind.
On man's ego-canvas
the heavenly architect creates his universal art.
The theologist on every breath is reciting silently --
no, no, no-
neither emerald nor ruby, neither light nor rose,
neither me nor you.
On the other hand, the Infinite, who himself prayed
inside man’s limit,
is called “me.”
In the deep of that ‘me’ blend light and darkness,
appears beauty, kindles spirit;
‘no’ suddenly blossoms into ‘yes,’ in illusion’s spell,
in lines and colors, in happiness and despair.

Don’t call it a theory-
Delighted is my mind
in universal-me’s creation bash
with brush in the hand, and color in the palette.

The expert is saying-
The old moon, his smile cruel and clever

Crawling like a death-messenger towards earth’s ribcage.
Someday it will exert the ultimate pull at its mountain and sea;
On the planet will descend a full-page zero
in eternity’s new book,
will engulp the savings of night and day;
Man’s achievement will lose the vanity of immortality,
on its history will smear
the endless night’s soot.
Man’s farewell-bidding eyes
will extract color from earth
Man’s departing-day’s soul
will mop up the flavor.
Power will vibrate from sky to sky,
light will glow nowhere.
In the speechless concert, musicians' fingers will move,
no tune will play.
That day, poetic-less Lord will sit alone
in the blueless sky
with the logic of personality-less existence
Then in the vast universe
far and far away, among the endless, countless worlds and the next
this sound will not echo anywhere-
‘you are beautiful’,
‘I love’.
Will the Lord sit down again to pray
for eons
reciting in the dissolute-evening
‘please speak, please speak’
uttering, ‘say, you are beautiful’,
uttering, ‘say, I love’?

Death of a Poet: in Lorca’s Memory

Two guards in green starched uniform 
drag the poet along – 
The poet asks: why have you chained my hands? 
The two guards answer not; 
both their tongues are removed. 
In unclear twilight, sounds of heavy boots in their feet 
Hard sadness on their faces, 
Red glow of the billboard light in their eyes. 

A clay-tone road goes past the pond
circling the fluorescent bamboo grove –
the post-harvest paddy field is now
a newly created execution ground.
Four more guards stand there with rifles in hand
Thousands of men and women surround them
Someone has come on foot from far off Arhor field
Someone has come blowing the jute mill siren early
Someone has come closing his watch store
Someone has come loading a new film in the camera
Some one has come using a blind man’s cane
The mother hasn’t left her child home
The young man has got his lover with him
An old man is holding on to an even older man’s shoulder
All have come to witness
the killing-scene of a poet.

The poet is tied to a post
He begins to stare at
the fingers of his right hand –
A mole on the pinky, the ring finger ornament-less
The middle one has a slight, sharp pain, the index indicative
The thumb horrible, disfigured –
The poet smiles a bit and
tells one guard, the fingers are clotting,
unchain my hands!
Amidst the howling of a hundred people
the guard is deafened at that moment.

Inside the crowd, a scientist tells a butcher,
As human population on earth increases, count of chicken decreases
A grocer lights a ship-brand bidi and says,
even green chilies aren’t that hot these days!
A cynic utters to himself,
haven’t seen so many bastards together in my father’s life!
A defeated MLA tells a bodybuilder,
having too much nettlerash in my groin these days!
A beggar helps out a peanut-seller with change
A pickpocket’s hand suddenly becomes numb
A wharfinger gets worried with the thought of a flood
A headmistress informs her students:
Plato said. . .
A student hollers at a tall guy,
put your head in your pocket, bro.
One lady tells another lady,
they could have built a gallery over here. . .
One farmer advises a laborer,
can’t you pour pesticide down your wife’s throat?
One man tells another man,
the earth won’t be fertile without bloodshed.
Yet some folks cry out loud, they have brought
the wrong person. wrong man, wrong man!

At blood-red twilight,
there’s moonlight in the west, cloud in the south
An imperiled jackel calls in the bamboo grove
A frail shadow floats like the women’s vanity
on the pond water
few hundred birds chirp in the rattle–like Bokul tree
The poet pulls his eye from the fingers of his hand
to the center of the crowd
The mass takes him from the letters and lines
to the forest
The last light of late fall disappears
in the childhood’s grapefruit tree.
He sees, a bunch of fireflies in the
dark thickening underneath the bridge.
A sudden breeze unsets his hair, he realizes
that rain cloud is coming from the sea
Raising his eyes for the rain
he sees the forest again
independence of every tree in the forest –
A chameleon comes down slowly from the Gub tree
It calls precisely seven times like a watch.
Immediately the six passionate
deaf and dumb guards
raise the rifle in firing position –
As if in the middle there is an abductor
the crowd yell out angrily:
Inkilub zindabad!
The poet’s lips murmur voluntarily:
He whispers in delight
Longlive the revolution!
Freedom comes to man!
Release my shackle!
Looking at so many faces, the poet searches for a man
Looking at the females, he seeks a woman
He finds both
He addresses them in his mind,
Longive the revolution! United man’s and
every individual’s own revolution!

The first bullet goes past his ear –
the way it normally does,
The poet laughs silently,
His chest is torn by the second bullet
The poet as if still unconquered laughs out loud
The third bullet goes through his throat
He quietly says,
I will not die
Wrong, poets are not always seers.
The fourth bullet splits his forehead
The wooden post is crashed by the fifth bullet
The sixth bullet tears the poet’s right hand
placed on the chest into pieces
The poet tumbles to ground
The crowd rushes in to smear themselves in his blood –
The poet hears no sound of rejoice or despair
The moment his blood, brain and marrow hit the ground
rain comes down heavily from the sky
Nobody pays slightest heed
whether the poet’s lips have moved for once
before his last breath.

In fact, his last moment is spent merrily
Looking at his torn hand on the ground he wants to say,
haven’t I said, my hands won’t be tied in shackles!

Night on the Island

Please click on the image to the left to get a legible copy. [Note: I haven't yet figured out how to over come this one limitation of the site to post work in a foreign language.]

This is a translation of Pablo Neruda's poem Night on the Island from the collection The Captain's Verses. I translated it while relaxing at a local bookstore before Valentine's Day and read it to my wife on Valentine's Day. Later, while I was visiting my parents in India, my dad's friend, poet and professor Sushanta Basu changed few words to make it somewhat palatable.

Some learning happened while he was going through my writing with a professorial touch. He commented that translation is not an easy thing. Then he quoted a very famous Bengali poet Buddhadev Basu as saying that translation is like a French girl - if she is good looking then she isn't following the rules of normal social conduct, if she is, then most likely she isn't attractive enough. The same principle, according to him, applies to translations of poetic work. If the translator is trying to stay too close to the original, s/he may lose its poetic essence and the translated work becomes a prose. The key is to maintain balance.

Later that evening, my uncle Sona Kaku, who is a poet and member of a poetic society in south Calcutta, told me that I should concentrate on writing original than trying to translate. However, Pablo Neruda being one of my favorite poets, I decided to post the translation that I did to kill time even if it may have lost the poetic brilliance that the original Spanish verse may have portrayed.

© 2008 Sanjoy Haldar