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Mint Editions - Rabindranath Tagore

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95 pages

English

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The Gardener (1915) is a collection of poems by Rabindranath Tagore. Translated into English by Tagore and dedicated to Irish poet W. B. Yeats, The Gardener is a collection of earlier poems republished following his ascension to international fame with the 1912 Nobel Prize in Literature. When Yeats discovered Tagore’s work in translation, he felt an intense kinship with a man whose work was similarly grounded in spirituality and opposition to the British Empire. For the Irish poet, Tagore’s poems were at once deeply personal and essentially universal, like a secret kept by all and shared regardless. Whether or not we admit it, his words never fail to remind us: to be human is to be vulnerable. “In the morning I cast my net into the sea. I dragged up from the dark abyss things of strange aspect and strange beauty—some shone like a smile, some glistened like tears, and some were flushed like the cheeks of a bride. […] Then the whole night through I flung them one by one into the street. In the morning travellers came; they picked them up and carried them into far countries.” In his landmark collection Gitanjali, Tagore explored the realm of the spirit, paring down language to its clearest, purest form. In The Gardener, he gives expression to more worldly themes. Here, he is a fisherman, a restless wanderer, a servant and queen, an observer of life in all forms. With a beautifully designed cover and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of Rabindranath Tagore’s The Gardener is a classic of Indian literature reimagined for modern readers.

Sujets

Idioma bengalí

Indian poetry

Poetry

Asian

Bengali

Informations

Publié par	Mint Editions
Date de parution	12 octobre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781513213910
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0350€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Gardener
Rabindranath Tagore

The Gardener was first published in 1913.
This edition published by Mint Editions 2021.
ISBN 9781513215914 | E-ISBN 9781513213910
Published by Mint Editions®
minteditionbooks.com
Publishing Director: Jennifer Newens
Design & Production: Rachel Lopez Metzger
Project Manager: Micaela Clark
Translated by: Rabindranath Tagore from the original Bengali
Typesetting: Westchester Publishing Services

C ONTENTS 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

1
S ERVANT : Have mercy upon your servant, my queen!
Q UEEN : Tbhe assembly is over and my servants are all gone. Why do you come at this late hour?
S ERVANT : When you have finished with others, that is my time.
I come to ask what remains for your last servant to do.
Q UEEN : What can you expect when it is too late?
S ERVANT : Make me the gardener of your flower garden.
Q UEEN : What folly is this?
S ERVANT : I will give up my other work.
I will throw my swords and lances down in the dust. Do not send me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests. But make me the gardener of your flower garden.
Q UEEN : What will your duties be?
S ERVANT : The service of your idle days.
I will keep fresh the grassy path where you walk in the morning, where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step by the flowers eager for death.
I will swing you in a swing among the branches of the saptaparna , where the early evening moon will struggle to kiss your skirt through the leaves.
I will replenish with scented oil the lamp that burns by your bedside, and decorate your footstool with sandal and saffron paste in wondrous designs.
Q UEEN : What will you have for your reward?
S ERVANT : To be allowed to hold your little fists like tender lotus-buds and slip flower chains over your wrists; to tinge the soles of your feet with the red juice of ashoka petals and kiss away the speck of dust that may chance to linger there.
Q UEEN : Your prayers are granted, my servant, you will be the gardener of my flower garden.

2
“Ah, poet, the evening draws near; your hair is turning grey.
“Do you in your lonely musing hear the message of the hereafter?”
“It is evening,” the poet said, “and I am listening because someone may call from the village, late though it be.
“I watch if young straying hearts meet together, and two pairs of eager eyes beg for music to break their silence and speak for them.
“Who is there to weave their passionate songs, if I sit on the shore of life and contemplate death and the beyond?
“The early evening star disappears.
“The glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river.
“Jackals cry in chorus from the courtyard of the deserted house in the light of the worn-out moon.
“If some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night and with bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who is there to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if I, shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds?
“It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey.
“I am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest of this village.
“Some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle in their eyes.
“Some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tears that are hidden in the gloom.
They all have need for me, and I have no time to brood over the afterlife.
“I am of an age with each, what matter if my hair turns grey?”

3
In the morning I cast my net into the sea.
I dragged up from the dark abyss things of strange aspect and strange beauty—some shone like a smile, some glistened like tears, and some were flushed like the cheeks of a bride.
When with the day’s burden I went home, my love was sitting in the garden idly tearing the leaves of a flower.
I hesitated for a moment, and then placed at her feet all that I had dragged up, and stood silent.
She glanced at them and said, “What strange things are these? I know not of what use they are!”
I bowed my head in shame and thought, “I have not fought for these, I did not buy them in the market; they are not fit gifts for her.”
Then the whole night through I flung them one by one into the street.
In the morning travellers came; they picked them up and carried them into far countries.

4
Ah me, why did they build my house by the road to the market town?
They moor their laden boats near my trees.
They come and go and wander at their will.
I sit and watch them; my time wears on.
Turn them away I cannot. And thus my days pass by.
Night and day their steps sound by my door.
Vainly I cry, “I do not know you.”
Some of them are known to my fingers, some to my nostrils, the blood in my veins seems to know them, and some are known to my dreams.
Turn them away I cannot. I call them and say, “Come to my house whoever chooses. Yes, come.”
In the morning the bell rings in the temple.
They come with their baskets in their hands.
Their feet are rosy red. The early light of dawn is on their faces.
Turn them away I cannot. I call them and I say, “Come to my garden to gather flowers. Come hither.”
In the mid-day the gong sounds at the palace gate.
I know not why they leave their work and linger near my hedge.
The flowers in their hair are pale and faded; the notes are languid in their flutes.
Turn them away I cannot. I call them and say, “The shade is cool under my trees. Come, friends.”
At night the crickets chirp in the woods.
Who is it that comes slowly to my door and gently knocks?
I vaguely see the face, not a word is spoken, the stillness of the sky is all around.
Turn away my silent guest I cannot. I look at the face through the dark, and hours of dreams pass by.

5
I am restless. I am athirst for far-away things.
My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance.
O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.
I am eager and wakeful, I am a stranger in a strange land.
Thy breath comes to me whispering an impossible hope.
Thy tongue is known to my heart as its very own.
O Far-to-seek, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I know not the way, that I have not the winged horse.
I am listless, I am a wanderer in my heart.
In the sunny haze of the languid hours, what vast vision of thine takes shape in the blue of the sky!
O Farthest end, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that the gates are shut everywhere in the house where I dwell alone!

6
The tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest.
They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate.
The free bird cries, “O my love, let us fly to wood.”
The cage bird whispers, “Come hither, let us both live in the cage.”
Says the free bird, “Among bars, where is there room to spread one’s wings?”
“Alas,” cries the cage bird, “I should not know where to sit perched in the sky.”
The free bird cries, “My darling, sing the songs of the woodlands.”
The cage bird says, “Sit by my side, I’ll teach you the speech of the learned.”
The forest bird cries, “No, ah no! songs can never be taught.”
The cage bird says, “Alas for me, I know not the songs of the woodlands.”
Their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing to wing.
Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to know each other.
They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, “Come closer, my love!”
The free bird cries, “It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of the cage.”
The cage bird whispers, “Alas, my wings are powerless and dead.”

7
O mother, the young Prince is to pass by our door,—how can I attend to my work this morning?
Show me how to braid up my hair; tell me what garment to put on.