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Poet Jibanananda Das |
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Poems of Jibanananda Das translated by poet himself a. Banalata Sen : Bônôlôtān Shєn d. Cat : Birāl |
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(Bônôlôtān Shєn) Long I have been a wanderer of this world Many a night, My route lay across the The seas of I was in the dim world of Vimbisar
and Ashoka, and further off In the mistiness of Vidarbha. At moments when life was too much a sea of sounds, I had Banalata Sen of Natore and
her wisdom. I remember her hair dark as night at Vidisha, Her face: image of Sravasti; the
navigator, Undone in the blue milieu of the sea, Never twice saw the earth of grass before him, I have also seen her, Banalata Sen
of Natore. When day is done, no fall somewhere but of dews Dips into the dusk; the smell of the sun is gone Off the Kestrel’s wings. Light is your wit now, Fanning fireflies that pitch the wide things around I am ready with my stock of tales For Banalata Sen of Natore. |
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(Ôndhôkār) In deep darkness I awoke once more; Distracted by the splash and fret of the river flowing by I saw the pale moon wont to gleam on Vaitarani Had caught Kirtinasha
in its still noose of shade. I had slept by Dhanshiri river
on a cold December night, And had never thought of waking again. O Moon, dimmed to a faint blue disc, Day’s light you are not, you are not enterprise, ambition or dream; the quiet and peace of death, Its sleep—so dear to our heart Is like a holy tryst Which you moon have no means to spoil. Do you not know, O Moon, Do you not know, O Night, I have gone to bed with Darkness, And slept with her For long, silent ages; And then all of a sudden on a morning I have found myself awake in the horrid crack of this earth’s light— So loud, so foolish! The sun from a red sky, in a dry level tone, has called on me as
a soldier To range against foes I have never known. The vast belt of the sun-bedeviled earth Has shrieked and squealed like millions of pigs in merriment. Ah, mirth! . . . a penumbra in my soul radiating darkness— darkness
ever more. O Man, O Woman, I have never known your level; Nor am I a wanderer from another star, Only this I have known that wherever there is movement, desire, work and
thought There are divisions of friends, families, the whole range of day-time
madnesses. I am too full of sleep, of enveloping nescience; Why should you keep me awake? O Time, O Sun, O Kokil of January
night, O Memory, O Winter
wind, Why stir to announce me to the day? Never more shall I waken By the river’s ruthless gurgling. I shall not see how the dim, assorted moon Divides her flickering between the By the water of Dhanshiri I shall go to bed with Darkness that never ends, The sleep that never abates. |
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(Mônôshôrôni) We are closed in, fouled by the numbness of this concentration
cell. The honeybees on the upper wall know well enough That the man below have been crossed by the stars Turned on their uncertainty: They are lost Treading upon the phantasy of their
hearts, They should have been men. Outside the rage momently undoes What were patterns of human hope and love. In the sharp history of man, with his back turned upon the
sensuousness of the sea, And neck craning on to some usable good Every phase was glad of its own death Had it felt that keeping to their own past intent Were sons whom it bore— Holding out hopes of more mature dispensations. The golden sun, the wings of this, the wisp of grass which Grown miraculously somewhere in the waste Is at peace with its life and our mockery; The river bickering down with its sudden waters of death: Mirrored in the eyes of a couple of mating flamingoes— too late to be
saved— As the love of Nature that is forsworn; And the men who have played their parts to build And where outwitted by—genius, love, common mistake Or natural declension of the soul To pull down what they created; All the flavour stays in the Sun And moves forward on the fatal flood of times Like parables that improved as they are recounted. They are good, but whet the quest; You want deeper knowledge, completer experience. As long as honeybees with wings sparkling like spray fly in
the sun And the heron with a surer touch than the jet plane Brings home the virgin vastness of the blue Man will not rest content; Purged of follies, sin and tragic mistakes His sailor-soul will fare forward To move into a better discovery of life on this planet, A greater joy—a deeper communion. |
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(Birāl) All day long I hail a cat in shine, shades of brown leaves: He is just up from a few bones of fish; And then has will of this earth. Like a hushed bee. Is again a cat clawing the barks of krishnachura. Moves in the sun’s wake. He gleams upon me. He is gone. Autumn twilight. I see his white paws disembark Like love in and out on the mildewed sun__ Hauling in balls of darkness, And make it a world of night. |
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(Nābik) The sailor has a sense of defeat as he gets up with a start And finds that instead of taking his post at the helm He had dozed off hoping that his ship at mid sea Would take care of itself. He pulls himself together, resumes his position of watch and toil. Sun—the din and hurry of a port nearby And the row of palms hail him. His ship moves on. To the priestess with a shock of golden hair The evening sun seems like the egg of the bird of paradise, To the farmer a plaything amid his acres of ripening wheat. Human heads huddled together in dark Have a glimpse of Sunray’s slant Piercing like a lance into their hovel; They look, rapt, at the golden beam and the motes in it Rapidly throbbing and flying—flying and throbbing; why?
To what end? O Sailor, you press on, keep pace with the Sun; You have been caught awhile in the mirrors of Loosened yourself and headed for other shores, The impulse from Vaishali, Has been to you like thin, straight candles glowing on remembered
beaches. |
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