I have been away from this blog for several months now, but that doesn't mean I have had nothing to write. I have been too busy to write here, but I have been saving up my experiences, and I hope to write them someday. Also, I have been writing posts on my Bengali blog, so my Bengali readers have not been entirely deprived.
Anyway, it is Rabindranath Tagore's birth anniversary once more and it's time for my annual translation of a Tagore poem. As usual, this poem, called "Kabi" (which means "The Poet" in Bengali) was selected for me by my father.
The Poet
~Rabindranath Tagore
The fact
that I’m quite happy
Or at least not weak with pain,
In my poetry,
that fact would
Be treated with much disdain.
That is why
I seek deeply
In the depths of my mind
A great sorrow
remembered
Or forgotten, I must find.
But that is
so distant,
That is so deeply buried
The proof of
its existence
The poet doesn’t need to carry.
His face
still holds a smile,
His body all fit and sound,
Nobody can
claim to know
Where his pains may be found.
.
The poet
isn’t what you imagine
By reading his poetry.
His face
isn’t all grim and dark,
Hasn’t an
ever breaking heart,
And things
such as deep sorrow
He bears smilingly.
.
He likes, in
social gatherings,
To wear civil clothes in style,
He also
likes to converse
With people, sporting a smile.
When his
friend jokes, he won’t
Die trying to interpret,
And the point
where to laugh
He’ll most often get.
Doesn’t
remain lost in thought,
When he is served his food,
And when his
friends arrive
Doesn’t sit at home and brood.
When his
friends say, “He’s funny”
Are their words all untrue?
When foes
say “He’s shallow”
Is that really baseless too?
.
The poet
isn’t what you imagine
By seeing his poetry.
Watching the
moon wide-eyed,
Doesn’t lie
on the riverside,
And things
such as deep sorrow
He bears joyfully.
.
If I write
I’m happy
People say, “His life is small!
He doesn’t
have great hopes,
His thirst doesn’t engulf all.”
The readers
belittle me and
Say things out of spite---
They say, “A
few petty jokes
Sates his mind's appetite.”
So the poet must
put in rhymes
His documents of pain.
Even if that
is false, reader,
Make your eyes rain.
Then make a
wish with
Sad heart and choked voice
May the poet
forever write
Sad poetry and rejoice.
.
The poet
shouldn’t, in real life,
Resemble his poetry.
Smartness he
needs a bit,
And find
time to wash and eat,
Like normal
folk, the poet should
Talk prosaically.
(Translation by Sugata Banerji)
