Today marks 77 years since the death of Rabindranath Tagore , the most famous of Indian poets. I'm sure many homes have an edition of his selected works. In mine, I have the most well-known one, published by Editorial Aguilar (Nobel Prize Library), with the translation by Zenobia Camprubi , wife of the poet Juan Ramón Jiménez.
That distinctive edition, with its blue softcover, embossed lettering, and gilt spine, captivated me from a very young age. It was one of the reasons I picked up the book and read Tagore's poetry even though I understood very little. Today, I'm sharing four of his love poems to remember this writer who won the Nobel Prize in 1913.
Rabindranath Tagore
Born in Calcutta in 1861, Tagore was not only a poet, but also a philosopher and painter . The youngest of fourteen children, he came from a wealthy family with a rich intellectual atmosphere. He went to England at the age of seventeen to complete his education, but returned to India before finishing his studies.
Tagore wrote stories, essays, short stories, travel books, and plays . But undoubtedly his fame stemmed from the exceptional beauty of his poems, which he also set to music. He was a champion of Indian independence , and in 1913 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in recognition of his entire career and also for his political and social activism. In 1915, he was knighted by King George V. In the last years of his life, he also dedicated himself to painting.
Among his extensive works, notable titles include * Cantos de la aurora * (Songs of the Dawn ), inspired by mystical experiences; * El movimiento nacional* (The National Movement ), a political essay on his stance in favor of his country's independence; * La ofrenda lÃrica * (The Lyrical Offering ), one of his best-known works; * El cartero del rey* (The King's Postman ), a play; and the poetry collections * El Jardinero* (The Gardener), *Luna nueva* (New Moon), and * La fugitiva* (The Fugitive).
4 poems
He said to me softly: «My love, look me in the eyes ...
He said to me softly: «My love, look me in the eyes.
"I scolded him, sour, and said:" Go away. " But it did not go away.
He came to me and held my hands… I told him: "Leave me."
But it did not go away.
He put his cheek to my ear. I pulled away a little
I stared at him and said, "Aren't you ashamed?"
And it did not move. His lips brushed my cheek. I shuddered,
and I said, "How dare you say?" But he was not ashamed.
He pinned a flower in my hair. I said, "It's in vain!"
But it wouldn't budge. He removed the garland from my neck, and left.
And I cry and I cry, and I ask my heart:
"Why, why doesn't he come back?"
***
It seems to me, my love, that before the day of life ...
It seems to me, my love, that before the day of life
you were standing under a waterfall of happy dreams,
filling your blood with its liquid turbulence.
Or perhaps your path was through the garden of the gods,
and the merry multitude of jasmine, lilies and oleanders
fell into your arms in heaps and, entering your heart,
there was a commotion there.
Your laugh is a song, whose words are drowning
in the screaming of melodies; a rapture of the smell of flowers
do not wear; It's like the moonlight breaking through
from the window of your lips, when the moon is hiding
in your heart. I don't want any more reasons; I forget the reason.
I only know that your laughter is the tumult of life in rebellion.
***
Forgive me today my impatience, my love ...
Forgive me today my impatience, my love.
It is the first rain of summer, and the grove of the river
She is jubilant, and the kadam trees, in bloom,
They tempt the passing winds with glasses of aroma wine.
Look, for all the corners of the sky the lightning
their glances dart, and the winds rise through your hair.
Forgive me today if I surrender to you, my love. What of each
day he is hidden in the vagueness of the rain; all the
jobs have stopped in the village; the meadows are
abandoned. And the coming of the rain has found in your
dark eyes his music, and July, at your door, wait, with
jasmine for your hair in her blue skirt.
***
I take your hands, and my heart, looking for you ...
I take your hands, and my heart, looking for you,
that you always elude me after words and silences,
sinks into the darkness of your eyes.
Yet I know that I must be content in this love,
with what comes in gusts and flees, because we have found
for a moment at the crossroads.
Am I so powerful that I can carry you through this
swarm of worlds, through this labyrinth of paths?
Do I have food to sustain you through the dark yawning passage,
of arches of death?