The Poet

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)