“Every child comes into the world with the message that God has not yet given up on people”
R. Tagore
Dear friends and guests of the Music of the Soul blog!
Today I want to dwell on the work of an amazing person. Few are given the difficult ability to live. A remarkable Indian writer, inspired lyric poet, novelist, short story writer, playwright, composer, founder of two universities, Rabindranath Tagore, possessed this skill to the full extent. For the Belgalis, Rabindranath Tagore is not only a great poet, not only an example of a wonderful way of life, but also an integral part of their own life. They grow up with Tagore's language on their lips, and their best feelings are often given vent by his own words, his own poetry. His life is extraordinarily rich, rich in events not only external, but also internal, spiritual.
Rabindranath Tagore was born in 1861 in a family known throughout Bengal at that time. He was the youngest of 14 children. His grandfather Dvorkonath possessed truly fabulous wealth. He owned indigo factories, coal mines, sugar and tea plantations, huge estates.
Father Debendronath, nicknamed the Maharshi (Great Sage), played an important role in awakening the national identity of the Indians. Tagore's numerous brothers and sisters were endowed with various talents. An atmosphere of artistry, humanity, mutual respect reigned in this family, an atmosphere in which all talents flourished.
Rabindranath Tagore in 1873
Rabindranath Tagore started writing poetry at the age of 8. The only merit of these first experiments, he later jokingly wrote, was that they were lost. Tagore's mother died when he was 14 years old. Having lost his mother, the boy began to lead a secluded life, the echoes of this loss went through his whole life.
Sarada Devip (Tagore's mom)
remembrance
I never remember my mother
And only sometimes when I run out
Out in the street to play with the boys
Some kind of melody all of a sudden
Takes possession of me, I do not know where being born,
And it seems to me like it's mom
She came to me, merged with my game.
She, shakingcradlemine
Maybe she sang this song
But everything is gone, and mom is no more,
And my mother's song was gone.
I never remember my mother.
But in the month of Ashshin, among the thickets of jasmine
As soon as it starts to dawn
And the wind, smelling of flowers, is moist,
And the wave gently laps
Memories rise in my soul
And she appears to me.
That's right, my mother often brought
Flowers to offer prayers to the gods;
Isn't that why mother's fragrance
I hear every time I enter the temple?
I never remember my mother.
But looking out the bedroom window
To a world that cannot be embraced with a glance,
To the blue of heaven, I feel it again
She looks into my eyes
Attentive and gentle look,
As in golden times
When, putting me on my knees,
She looked into my eyes.
And then her gaze was imprinted in me,
And he closed the sky from me.
Tagore with his wife Mrinalini Devi (1883)
At 22, R. Tagore marries. And he becomes the father of five children.
There is love that floats freely in the sky. This love warms the soul.
And there is love that dissolves in everyday affairs. This love brings warmth tofamily.
Rabindranath Tagore with his eldest son and daughter
The very first published collection of poems "Evening Songs" glorified the young poet. Since that time, collections of poems, stories, novels, dramas, articles have come out from under his pen in a continuous stream - one can only marvel at the inexhaustible power of his genius.
In 1901, the poet and his family moved to the family estate near Calcutta and opened a school with five associates, for which he sold the copyright to publish his books.
A year later, his beloved wife dies, he experienced this death very hard.
When I don't see you in my dream
It seems to me that whispers spells
Earth to disappear under your feet.
And cling to the empty sky
Raising my hands, in horror I want ...
(translated by A. Akhmatova)
But the misfortunes did not end there. The following year, one of the daughters died of tuberculosis, and in 1907, the youngest son died of tuberculosis.
You want to change everything, but efforts are in vain:
Everything remains exactly the same. as before.
If you destroy all sorrows, soon
Recent joys will turn into sorrows
In 1912, with his eldest son, Rabindranath Tagore left for the United States, making a stop in London. Here he showed his poems to his friend writer William Rotenstein. Tagore becomes famous in England, in America.
The awarding of the Nobel Prize to Tagore in 1913, recognition of his indisputable merits, was greeted with the greatest rejoicing throughout Asia.
R. Tagore never in his life, even in the most difficult moments, did not lose his inescapable optimism, faith in the inevitable final triumph of good over evil.
In the crevice of the wall, in the midst of the cool of the night,
A flower blossomed. He didn't please anyone's looks.
His rootless, squalor reproach
And the sun says, "How are you, brother?"
His favorite image is a flowing river: sometimes the small river Kopai, sometimes the full-flowing Padma, and sometimes the all-entraining flow of time and space. This is how we see his work: rich, varied, nourishing ...
Light comes from his work, helping to find oneself. In ancient India, the poet was viewed as a "rishi" - a prophet who leads among people. At almost 70 years old, Rabindranath Tagore discovered painting. And the following years he devoted himself to drawing.
“The morning of my life was filled with songs, let the sunset of my days be filled with colors,” said Tagore. After himself, he left not only thousands of beautiful lines, but also about 2 thousand paintings and drawings.
He did not study painting, but painted as his heart felt. His impulsive paintings are written quickly, with inspiration and confidence. This is a splash of emotions on paper. “I succumbed to the spell of lines ...” - he said later. With ornate designs, Tagore filled in the crossed-out spaces on the pages of his manuscripts. As a result, these patterns resulted in paintings that inspire many young artists to create, and a new trend in art has appeared in India.
His exhibitions were held in many countries of the world, they conquered people with their sincerity and originality and sold well. Tagore invested money from the sale of paintings in the creation of the university.
Now his paintings can most often be found in private collections. In 2010, a collection of 12 paintings by Rabindranath Tagore was sold for $2.2 million.
The poet is the author of the text of the hymns of Bangladesh and India.
In this sunny world I don't want to die
I would like to live forever in thisbloomingforest,
Where people leave to return again
Where hearts beat and flowers gather dew.
Throughout his life, he argued that the feet should touch the ground, and the head should go to the sky. Only in the interaction of worldly and spiritual life can a person count on the success of his inner search.
At a late hour, he who wished to renounce the world said:
“Today I will go to God, my house has become a burden to me.
Who kept me by sorcery at the threshold of mine?
God told him, "I am." The man did not hear him.
In front of him on the bed, breathing serenely in a dream,
The young wife held the baby to her breast.
"Who are they - the offspring of Maya?" the man asked.
God told him, "I am." The man heard nothing.
The one who wanted to leave the world stood up and shouted:Where are you, god?»
God told him, "Here." The man did not hear him.
The child was brought in, cried in a dream, sighed.
God said, "Come back." But no one heard him.
God sighed and exclaimed, “Alas! Be your way, let it be.
Only where will you find me if I stay here.
(translated by V. Tushnova)
Tagore considered personality to be the highest value and was himself the embodiment of a whole person. The word for him was not a unit of information or description, but a call and a message. Throughout his long life, with amazing harmony, Rabindranath Tagore combines in his work the contradictions between the spirit and the flesh, man and society, between the search for truth and the enjoyment of beauty. And he felt beauty with a subtlety peculiar only to a few. And with high, noble inspiration he knew how to recreate it in his lyrical poems, which may be the best of everything that he wrote.
Something from light touches, something from vague words, -
This is how tunes arise - a response to a distant call.
Champak in the midst of the spring bowl,
polash in the blaze of bloom
Sounds and colors will tell me, -
this is the path to inspiration.
Something will appear in a flash,
Visions in the soul - without number, without counting,
And something is gone, ringing - you can’t catch the melody.
So the minute changes to a minute - the hammered ringing of bells.
(translationM. Petrovyh)
For modern Bengali literature, Tagore is still a beacon to navigate. Tagore's ageless poetry is becoming more and more popular. Just as Mahatma Gandhi is called the father of the Indian nation, Rabindranath Tagore can rightly be called the father of Indian literature. Tagore knew the old age of the body, but not the old age of the soul. And in this unfading youth is the secret of the longevity of his memory.
Poems and quotes by Rabindranath Tagore
Someone built a house for himself -
So mine is broken.
I made a truce
Someone went to war.
If I touched the strings -
Somewhere, their bells have stopped.
The circle closes right there
Where does it start.
***
Clap before mistakesDoor.
The truth is in turmoil: "How will I enter now?"
"O fruit! O fruit! the flower screams.
Tell me, where do you live, my friend?
“Well,” the fruit laughs, “look:
I live inside you."
* * *
“Aren't you,” I once asked fate, “
Pushing me so mercilessly in the back?”
She croaked with an evil smile:
"Your own past drives you."
* * *
Respondsechoto everything that is heard around:
It does not want to be anyone's debtor.
* * *
Woke up babyflower. And suddenly appeared
The whole world is in front of him, like a huge beautiful flower garden.
And so he said to the universe, blinking in amazement:
"While I live, live, too, dear."
In this sunny world I don't want to die
I would like to live forever in this flowering forest,
Where people leave to return again
Where hearts beat and flowers gather dew.
Life goes on the earth in strings of days and nights,
A change of meetings and partings, a series of hopes and losses, -
If you hear joy and pain in my song,
It means that the dawns of immortality will illuminate my garden at night.
If the song dies, then, like everyone else, I will go through life -
Nameless drop in the flow of the great river;
I will be like flowers, I will grow songs in the garden -
Let tired people come into my flower beds,
Let them bow down to them, let them pick flowers on the go,
To throw them away when the petals fall to dust.
(Rabindranath Tagore)
Rabindranath Tagore
(Indian writer and public figure, poet, musician, artist. Nobel Prize winner in 1913 for literature. Wrote in Bengali).
“When I think about invincible energy, about blessed enthusiasm, about pure culture, I always see the image of Rabindranath Tagore so close to me. The potential of this spirit must be great in order to tirelessly put into practice the foundations of true culture. After all, Tagore's songs are inspired calls to culture, his prayer for a great culture, his blessing to those who seek the path of ascent. Synthesizing this huge activity - all going up the same mountain, penetrating into the narrowest lanes of life, how can anyone refrain from feeling inspiring joy? So blessed, so beautiful is the essence of the song, the call and the labors of Tagore.
I very much love the following lines from Tagore's work: “Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but only for fearlessness, meeting them. Yes, I do not ask to calm my pain, but only that my heart overcome it. May I not seek allies in the battle of life, but only my own strength. Grant me the strength not to be cowardly, sensing Your Mercy only in my successes, but let me feel the shaking of Your Hand in my mistakes.
Letters to E.I. Roerich in nine volumes / Letters. Volume VI (1938-1939), Page 3 5. 35. H.I. Roerich - F.A. Butzen April 5, 1938
Poetry, excerpts from works, philosophical lines.
The Sun is a great poet in the measured choir of planets.
The Almighty respected me as long as I could rebel, but when I fell at his feet, he neglected me.
Sky blue in the rays in the morning.
By the touch of the palms of the saints
The multicolored earth is awakened.
If I contemplate the world through chants
It becomes possible for me to comprehend the world.
The music sounds like a verbal heavenly light full of bliss.
The dust of the earth awakens the voice of inspiration.
The world seems to enter the soul, dropping the shell.
The heart responds with a tremble to each leaf.
In this feeling of the ocean - forms are collapsing and edges,
The whole universe is in close unity with me.
Happy, make everyone happy,
Because love is grace, not sin.
It is good news for good news,
Generosity is a support along the way.
Truth will shine in the night skies,
Able to save in a world of doubt;
Love will sweeten you on the road and overcome all vicissitudes,
He will reward with new strength and grant success to the silent ones.
We languish in the world, we mourn in the world,
But remember: the lover is unshakable;
The donkey was thirsty by the pond.
“Dark,” he shouted, indignantly, “water!”
Perhaps the water is dark for the donkey, -
It is bright for enlightened minds.
A flower does not realize its beauty: what is easily received, easily gives.
When service, having become true, possesses you completely, you comprehend that it is beautiful.
Winds tear flowers.
This is a waste of time:
For the flowers in the dust will only die in vain.
He who, having raised a flower, wove it into his wreath, -
Treasure and decoration from negligence saved.
I give songs to those who are able to understand them,
Find in the road dust and raise with respect.
We bring the substance of sweetness from outside.
The essence of joy is in itself.
Entrance and exit - through the same gate,
Do you know about it, blind?
If they block the way of leaving,
The way to enter is blocked before you.
With a smile, the dawn star entered, warmed with joy,
In the last page of darkness, the salutatory song of the dawn.
I didn't give you happiness
Just gave me freedom
The last bright victim of separation
the night lit up.
And there's nothing left
No bitterness, no regret
No pain, no tears, no pity,
No pride, no contempt.
I won't look back!
I give you freedom.
The last precious gift
On the night of my departure.
Darkness reigns forever, locked in its chambers,
And you open your eyes to the world - and the eternal day is in front of you.
When the lamp goes out, we see: the sky is starry,
And we distinguish our way, although it is dark and late.
Will you turn or curl into a ball -
Your left side will remain the same.
To avoid grief - there is no such mercy.
Let there be enough strength to endure grief.
The moment flies away without a trace, forever,
But it also dreams not to sink without a trace.
Who are you, not opening your mouth? -
Kindness asks softly.
And the gaze answers, whose radiance
Do not overshadow with tears:
- I'm grateful.
The top spoke with boastfulness:
- My abode is the blue sky.
And you, O root, dweller of the dungeon.
But the root was indignant:
- Empty!
How funny you are to me with your arrogance:
Am I not lifting you up to heaven?
Seeing the fall of a star, the lampada laughed:
- The unbearable proud fell down. ... So she needs it!
And the night says to her:
- Well, laugh before it goes out.
You must have forgotten that the oil is running out soon.
Traveler, traveler! You're lonely -
You saw the invisible in your heart.
You saw a sign in the sky
Wandering at night.
There will be no footprints on your path.
You didn't take anyone with you.
Along the winding mountain path
You decided to go up there
Where the eternal radiance is a bright campaign
In the morning the star ends.
Morning dawn.
She is the breath of young life
As if filling a moonless hour,
In a mysterious time
invisible to the inner eye,
When above the thick of darkness,
Where the dream lurks
The sun is rising.
With the dawn from the shore of the night
The morning word came.
And the world woke up refreshed
Surrounded by a fence of light.
O night, lonely night!
Under the boundless sky
Looking into the face of the universe
Hair untwisted
Affectionate and swarthy
Is that you singing, oh night?
Awakening entered the realm of sleep,
The trembling passed through the earth,
A bird's chirp woke up on the branches,
On the flowers - the buzzing of bees.
***
Someone built a house for himself -
So mine is broken.
I made a truce
Someone went to war.
If I touched the strings -
Somewhere, their bells have stopped.
The circle closes right there
Where does it start.
***
We slam the door before mistakes.
Confused is the truth: "How shall I enter now?"
* * *
“O fruit! O fruit! the flower screams.
Tell me, where do you live, my friend?
“Well,” the fruit laughs, “look:
I live inside you."
* * *
“Aren't you,” I once asked fate, -
Pushing me so mercilessly in the back?”
She croaked with an evil smile:
“Your past is driving you.”
* * *
The echo responds to everything that it hears around:
It does not want to be anyone's debtor.
* * *
The little flower woke up. And suddenly appeared
The whole world is in front of him, like a huge beautiful flower garden.
And so he said to the universe, blinking in amazement:
“While I live, live, too, dear.”
***
The flower withered and so decided: “Trouble,
Spring is gone from the world forever
***
The cloud that the winter winds
Drove through the sky on an autumn day,
Looks with eyes full of tears,
Like it's about to rain.
***
You didn't even manage
What came naturally.
How do you deal with getting
Everything you want?
***
Man is worse than an animal when he becomes an animal.
***
I saved up the wisdom of many years,
stubbornly comprehended good and evil,
I have accumulated so much junk in my heart,
that became too heavy for the heart.
***
A leaf told a flower in a sleepy grove,
That the shadow fell passionately in love with the light.
The flower learned about the modest lover
And smiles all day.
SAINTS OF R. TAGORA:
In fact, it is often our moral strength that enables us to do evil with great success.
Loyalty in love requires abstinence, but only with the help of it can one know the hidden beauty of love.
Even a gang of robbers must comply with some moral requirements in order to remain a gang; they can plunder the whole world, but not each other.
If, on the path to perfection, one adheres to reasonable abstinence, not a single trait of the human character will suffer, on the contrary, all of them will sparkle with even brighter colors.
There is love that floats freely in the sky. This love warms the soul. And there is love that dissolves in everyday affairs. This love brings warmth to the family.
Stars are not afraid of being mistaken for fireflies.
When any one religion has a claim to force all mankind to accept its doctrine, it becomes a tyranny.
He who thinks too much about doing good has no time to be good.
A lie can never grow into truth by growing in power.
Many fools consider marriage to be a mere union. That is why this union is so neglected after marriage.
Pessimism is a form of spiritual alcoholism, he rejects healthy drinks and is carried away by the intoxicating wine of reproof; it plunges him into a painful despondency, from which he seeks salvation in an even stronger dope.
Crying for the sun, you do not notice the stars.
Having wallowed in pleasures, we cease to feel any pleasure.
No matter how happy a drunkard feels from wine, he is far from true happiness, because for him it is happiness, for others it is grief; today it is happiness, tomorrow it is misfortune.
Not hammer blows, but the dance of water brings the pebbles to perfection.
Woman
You are not only a creation of God, you are not a product of the earth, -
A man creates you from his spiritual beauty.
For you, the poets, O woman, weaved an expensive outfit,
Golden threads of metaphors on your clothes are burning.
Painters have immortalized your female appearance on canvas
In an unprecedented grandeur, in amazing purity.
How many all kinds of incense, colors were brought to you as a gift,
How many pearls from the abyss, how much gold from the earth.
How many delicate flowers have been plucked for you in spring days,
How many bugs have been exterminated to paint your feet.
In these saris and bedspreads, hiding his shy look,
Immediately you became more accessible and more mysterious a hundred times.
In a different way, your features shone in the fire of desires.
You are half being, you are half imagination.
Translation by V. Tushnova
Impossible
Loneliness? What does it mean? Years go by
You go into the wilderness, not knowing why and where.
The month of Srabon drives over the forest foliage of the cloud,
The heart of the night was cut by lightning with a wave of the blade,
I hear: Varuni splashes, her stream rushes into the night.
My soul tells me: the impossible cannot be overcome.
How many times a bad night in my arms
The beloved fell asleep, listening to the downpour and the verse.
The forest was noisy, disturbed by the sob of the heavenly stream,
The body merged with the spirit, my desires were born,
Precious feelings gave me a rainy night
I'm leaving in the dark, wandering along the wet road,
And in my blood there is a long song of rain.
The sweet smell of jasmine was brought by a gusty wind.
The smell of a tree of smallness, the smell of girlish braids;
In the braids of the pretty flowers, these smelled just like that, exactly the same.
But the soul says: the impossible cannot be overcome.
Immersed in thought, wandering somewhere at random.
There is someone's house on my road. I see the windows are on fire.
I hear the sounds of the sitar, the melody of the song is simple,
This is my song, irrigated with warm tears,
This is my glory, this is sadness, gone away.
But the soul says: the impossible cannot be overcome.
Translation by A. Revich.
Night
O night, lonely night!
Under the boundless sky
You sit and whisper something.
Looking into the face of the universe
untangled hair,
Affectionate and swarthy ...
What are you eating, O night?
I hear your call again.
But your songs until now
I cannot comprehend.
My spirit is uplifted by you,
The eyes are clouded by sleep.
And someone in the wilderness of my soul
He sings your song, O beloved.
With your light voice
Singing with you
Like your own brother
Lost in the soul, alone
And anxiously looking for roads.
He sings the hymns of your fatherland
And waiting for an answer.
And, waiting, he goes towards ...
As if these fugitive sounds
Wake up the memory of someone past
As if he was laughing here, and crying,
And he called someone to his starry home.
Again he wants to come here -
And can't find a way...
How many affectionate half-words and bashful
half smiles
Old songs and sighs of the soul,
How many tender hopes and conversations of love,
How many stars, how many tears in silence,
Oh night, he gave you
And buried in your darkness! ..
And these sounds and stars float,
Like worlds turned to dust
In your endless seas
And when I sit alone on your shore
Songs and stars surround me
Life hugs me
And, beckoning with a smile,
Floats forward
And it blooms, and melts away, and calls ...
Night, today I have come again,
To look into your eyes
I want to be silent for you
And I want to sing for you.
Where my old songs are, and my
lost laugh,
And swarms of forgotten dreams
Save my songs night
And build a tomb for them.
Night, I sing for you again
I know the night, I am your love.
Hide the song from close malice,
Bury in the treasured land ...
The dew will slowly fall
Forests will sigh measuredly.
Silence, lean on your hand,
Be careful coming there...
Only sometimes, slipping a tear,
A star will fall on the tomb.
Translation by D. Golubkov
holiday morning
Opened in the morning the heart inadvertently,
And the world flowed into him like a living stream.
Confused, I watched with my eyes
Behind the golden arrows-rays.
A chariot appeared to Aruna,
And the morning bird woke up
Greeting the dawn, she chirped,
And everything around became even more beautiful.
Like a brother, the sky called out to me: “Come!>>
And I crouched, clung to his chest,
I went up to the sky along the beam, up,
The bounties of the sun poured into the soul.
Take me, O solar stream!
Guide Aruna's boat to the east
And into the ocean, boundless, blue
Take me, take me with you!
Translation by N. Podgorichani
NEW TIME
All the chorus of the old song is remembered to this day:
The Lord of Dance moves everything: in eternal renewal -
A waterfall of names, rituals, songs, generations.
Those who in their youth breathed the truth of these words, -
Were created differently, from other foundations.
Everyone knew - his lamp floats on the waves,
He brought gifts to the goddess at the sacred waters.
Dull timidity reigned in thoughts and in hearts.
Death scared, life scared, tormented by eternal fear.
Now the lords are tyranny, then the enemies are raided,
A timid man expected earthquakes.
And it is dangerous to walk to the river along a dark path -
Somewhere thieves lurk, sin, trouble, robbery.
They listened to fairy tales, where there are many most wonderful things, -
As from the wrath of the evil goddess, the righteous burned down ...
From empty family strife in the villages then
Grew up, inflamed, formidable enmity.
And a network of insidious intrigues and deceptions was woven,
For the strong to overcome the weak faster.
The vanquished was expelled, after long quarrels,
And others took away his house and yard.
Besides God, who will help, protect in trouble?
And there was no other refuge anywhere.
Thoughts are timid and powerless. The man is quiet...
And the mistress lowered her eyes in front of strangers.
She circled her eyes with black, and there was a spot on her forehead.
It's time to light the lamp - it's dark in the room.
Prays the earth, sky, water: "Protect us!"
Waiting for the inevitable misfortune every day and hour.
To keep a child alive, witchcraft is needed:
The blood of sacrificial animals smears his forehead.
Cautious gait, fearful look, -
How do you know where troubles threaten her now?
At night they rob on the roads and in dense forests,
And the machinations of evil spirits threaten her family.
Everywhere he sees the seal of crimes and sins
And from horror he can not raise his head ...
Someone's voice flies, disturbing the dark blue:
"Right - Ganges, left - Ganges, shallow - in the middle."
And the river splashed in the same way, clinging to the banks ...
Like lamps, the stars glided over the waves.
And merchants crowded boats near the market,
And in the mist of the dawn oars, blows were heard.
The world is quiet and calm, but the dawn is near, -
Pink, the fisherman's sail lit up.
At the end, everything subsided, as if exhausted,
Only the trembling came from the crane's wings.
The day has passed, the rowers are tired, it's time to have dinner.
At the edge - a dark shore and a fire of a fire.
The silence of calm is only sometimes a jackal
Somewhere in the thickets of the coastal howling broke.
But it all disappeared, leaving the earthly world.
There are no formidable judges, guards, rulers left.
Decrepit teachings crush with a heavy burden.
They no longer go on a long journey with a buffalo in a harness.
A new page is inevitable in the book of life, -
All customs and destinies must be renewed.
All the rulers will disappear, formidable lords,
But the splash of the great river will remain the same.
A fisherman will sail on a boat and a visiting merchant, -
And the sail will be the same, the splashes of the oars will be the same.
And the same trees will be by the river, -
Fishermen will again tie boats to them for the night.
And they will sing in other centuries just as they do now:
"Right - Ganges, left - Ganges, shallow - in the middle."
INDIA-LAKSHMI
O you who bewitch people,
You, O earth, shining in the brilliance of the sun's rays,
Great Mother of mothers,
The valleys washed by the Indus with a noisy wind - forest,
trembling bowls,
With the Himalayan snow crown flying into the sky;
In your sky the sun rose for the first time, for the first time the forest
heard the Vedas of the saints,
Legends sounded for the first time, live songs, in your houses
And in the forests, in the open spaces of fields;
You are our ever-growing wealth, giving to the peoples
a full bowl
You are Jumna and Ganga, there is no more beautiful, more free, you are -
Life's nectar, mother's milk!
Tagor_-_Eto_ne_son._(sbornik).fb2 (Collection of poems)
compilation
Download file:
Where the mind is without fear, and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world is not broken into pieces by the narrow walls of the house;
Where words come from the depths of truth;
Where relentless striving stretches out its hands to perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way in the dry desert sands of dead habit;
Where the mind is led by Thee to ever-expanding thought and action.
In those skies of freedom, my Father,
Let my country wake up!
RABINDRANAT TAGORE (1861–1941)
Short biography.
Rabindranath Tagore belonged to one of the oldest Indian families. His ancestors held an influential position in the court of the rulers of Bengal. His surname came from Thakur - translated as "holy lord", which foreigners transformed into Tagore.
Rabindranath was born on May 6, 1861 at the ancestral home at Jorashanko in Calcutta. He was already the fourteenth child of Debendranath Tagore (from the age of twenty-eight he was called Maharshi, that is, a man known for wisdom and a righteous life). 
The head of the family, even if he lived at home, and was not usually in the Himalayas, was inaccessible to the family. All household chores fell on the shoulders of the mother - Sharoda Debi, and she had little time and energy left to raise her youngest son. 
The boy spent his childhood and early adolescence under the care of domestic servants. He went to school very early, that was the Eastern Seminary. Some time later, when Roby was not yet seven years old, he was accepted to another school, which was considered exemplary and was created according to British standards. At the same time, the boy composed his first poems in the Poyar size, which is popular in Bengal. In 1875, Tagore experienced one of the most powerful shocks of his life - his mother died suddenly. Her death caused him such a severe depression that his father had to take his son on a long trip through the foothills of the Himalayas. Upon his return, Rabindranath continued his education, but not in an English school, but in a teacher training college, where teaching was conducted in the Bengali language. After graduation, Tagore spent several years at the Bengal Academy, where he studied cultural history and Indian history. At this time, he was already constantly published in various literary magazines, and in 1878 his first major work, the poem "The History of the Poet", was published.
Soon his father sent him to England so that Rabindranath could become a student at the University of London. Tagore lived in England for almost two years. He diligently studied law, but his main interests were connected with English literature and history. While in London, he was constantly published in Indian magazines, and on his return he collected his notes and published them in the form of a book, calling it Letters of a Traveler to Europe. Never having received a law degree, Tagore returned to India.
In 1882-1883, poetry collections of the young author were published - "Evening Songs" and "Morning Songs".
On December 9, 1883, the wedding of Rabindranath and the ten-year-old girl Mrinalini Debi, the daughter of an employee in one of the Tagore estates, took place. That was the will of the father. Unlike many other families, Tagore not only carefully raised his wife, but also did not interfere with her studies. As a result, Tagore's wife became one of the most educated Indian women. Three years later, the first child in the family appeared - the daughter of Madhurilota. They later had two more sons and two daughters. 
In 1890, Tagore was forced to leave his home, on behalf of his father, he took up the position of manager of the Shelaideho family estate in East Bengal. He settled in a houseboat on the Padma River, combining literary pursuits with administrative activities. In 1901, Tagore was finally able to reunite with his family, after a brief stay in Calcutta they moved to the family estate near the city, where, together with five teachers, Tagore opened his own school. The death of his wife, then his youngest daughter, and a little later his father had a strong impact on all the activities of Rabindranath Tagore. Tagore became the heir to a huge fortune, but Rabindranath was not in the least interested in material problems, and he transferred the right to manage the estates to his brothers.
He published extensively at home and abroad. Tagore was in Shantiniketon when the news came that on 13 November 1913 he had been awarded the Nobel Prize. Tagore was the first to imprint in the minds of the Western intelligentsia the fact, which has now become universally recognized, that the "wisdom of Asia" is alive, that it must be treated like a living being, and not like a curious museum exhibit. Since that time, the period of recognition of Tagore's work begins both in India itself and beyond its borders. In 1915, the English king elevated Tagore to a knighthood. Oxford University awarded him an honorary doctorate.
Tagore traveled a lot, visited European countries, Japan, China, the USA, the Soviet Union (1930). At home, Tagore lived on his estate, where he continued his literary and teaching activities. After the outbreak of World War II, Tagore issued an appeal against fascism. However, the writer was already mortally ill. Tagore died at his estate near Calcutta on August 7, 1941.
Biography of R. Tagore (Book of Kripalani Krishna from the cycle Life of Remarkable People)
RERICH AND TAGOR
Plyusnina Elvira
Nicholas Roerich (1874 - 1947) and Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941), two outstanding cultural figures, two great thinkers and artists of the late 19th - first half of the 20th century, knew each other well. They met in London in 1920 and became lifelong friends.
The literary genius of Tagore in its scale and versatility is not inferior to the titans of the European Renaissance. In India, compatriots call him Kabiguru - a poet-teacher, thus accurately defining the essence of his work. Tagore is primarily a poet, but he is also the greatest Indian prose writer and playwright. He is a composer whose songs are sung in his homeland to this day, and two of them have become the national anthems of India and Bangladesh. He rendered invaluable services to the theater not only as a playwright, but also as a talented director and actor. He is an original painter who does not belong to any of the schools. In addition to all this, he is a philologist, philosopher, political publicist, educator.
His creative heritage is grandiose - over two thousand lyrical poems and songs, hundreds of ballads and poems, eleven collections of short stories, eight novels, more than twenty plays, articles on literary, social, political, philosophical topics, speeches and performances. In the last twelve years of his life, he became interested in painting and graphics and managed to create about three thousand paintings and sketches.
Jawaharlal Nehru in his book "The Discovery of India" (1942) devoted several pages to Rabindranath Tagore and gave a deep assessment of his literary, cultural and socio-political activities. J. Nehru wrote: “More than any other Indian, he helped to harmonize the ideals of East and West… He was India's most prominent internationalist, who believed in international cooperation and worked in its name. He brought to other countries what India could give them, and to India what the world could give to his own people... Tagore was the great humanist of India.”1
Back in 1926, the Soviet orientalist academician S.F. Oldenburg wrote about the universal significance of Tagore’s work: “He is a Bengali, and we are people of various countries - in a Bengali poet we still understand a person intoxicated with the beauty of life, the beauty of nature and the beauty of man. He tells us about his homeland, about Bengal, about the Ganges, and we listen to him, and each of us sees his homeland, his own river.
Tagore's homeland of Bengal, with its main city of Calcutta, in the 19th century became the center of the beginning of the national awakening of India. And in Bengal, the Tagore family played a leading social role. It was a rich ancient aristocratic family, one of the most educated people of that time. First, the poet's grandfather, and then the poet's father, led the Brahmo Samaj society (Society of the One God Brahma). It was founded in 1828 by the religious reformer and educator Ram Mohan Rai and was the first public organization of a new type in India, whose members sought to reform the religion of Hinduism, rejecting medieval caste divisions and family and everyday customs. The poet's father, Debendranath Tagore, who was considered a "maharishi" (great sage), asserted the cultural independence of the Indians, speaking out against the blind admiration for everything Western, which was implanted by the British colonial authorities and the school.
Young Rabindranath, the fourteenth child in the family, grew up in an atmosphere of philosophical discussions, literary and scientific studies of his older brothers, his education was conducted in Bengali, and not in English. At the age of eight, he began writing poetry. When he was fourteen, his poems and notes on literature began to be published, and the seventeen-year-old poet already owned two collections of lyrical poems. In 1877, he went with his older brother to study law in England, where he spent two years, studying mainly literature and music, and returned without completing his legal education.
At the end of the 19th century, Tagore became interested in pedagogy: he was very worried about the state of public education in the country. The colonial government was unwilling to bear any expense for this purpose, and as a result the state of enlightenment in India at the beginning of the 20th century was almost the same as at the beginning of the 19th century. The number of literate people increased by 1-2% per decade. For example, in 1921 it was 7%, and the one who could only put his signature was considered literate. In his numerous articles, Tagore drew attention to the fact that the school, organized according to the English model, is alien to the soul of an Indian child, it disfigures and destroys the youth, offends its national dignity.
An example of a practical approach to solving the problem of education is the pedagogical activity of Tagore himself, who in 1901 founded a school at his own expense in the family estate of Shanti-niketon (“Resident of Peace”). At first it was a small ashram school, where he himself was a teacher, not using any textbooks and manuals, but having a subtle and deep understanding of the child's soul. Then the school turned into a college, and in 1919 the famous Vishvabharati National University was established, one of the world centers for studying the spiritual culture of the peoples of the East, which later became an important center for educating personnel for independent India. Here, in 1920, Tagore founded the Union of Artists and an art school, which became the center of a new movement - the Bengal Renaissance, which laid the foundations for the modern national art of India. Tagore's role in the development of the visual arts of that time was therefore not limited to his own original painting, which did not belong to any of the directions and so amazed his compatriots. In 1922, Tagore also organized a rural secondary school (peasant educational center) in Sriniketon, where, along with general education subjects, students were taught agricultural technology and crafts.
The experience of school work in Shantiniketon and Tagore's pedagogical views were used by his ardent supporter M. Gandhi to draw up and implement a plan for the reform of the elementary school in India.
A staunch opponent of oppression and exploitation, Tagore has always been a supporter of the socialist idea. In 1930, at the age of seventy, he visited the Soviet Union and wrote his famous "Letters on Russia", in which he praised the successes of the Soviet people, especially in the field of education. “Everything I saw amazed me. For eight years, enlightenment has changed the spiritual face of the people. (…)
It is hard to imagine how lightning fast the changes are with such a huge population. The soul rejoices when you see how the waters of enlightenment gush into a dry bed. Initiative and creativity are in full swing everywhere. The light of new hope illuminates their path. Full-blooded life is in full swing everywhere. This book, imbued with sincere sympathy for our country, was published in Bengali in 1931 and was banned by the British authorities in India, because it sounded like a call to fight for the freedom of the Indian people.
World fame came to the poet in 1912, when a small book of Tagore's poems "Gitanjali" ("Sacrificial Songs") was published in England in the author's translation into English. And already in 1913, R. Tagore was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for this collection. This fact itself was unprecedented - for the first time it was presented to a representative of the peoples of Asia. From 1913 Tagore's translations began to appear in Russia as well. In 1914, the book "Gitanjali" was translated into Russian with the participation and under the editorship of the Russian and Lithuanian poet Jurgis Baltrushaitis. It was this edition that was for Elena Ivanovna and Nikolai Konstantinovich Roerich the key to the "heartfelt depth" of Tagore's poetry.
Here is how N.K. Roerich writes about discovering Tagore's work: “She found [H.I. Roerich] and Tagore's Gitanjali translated by Baltrushaitis. Like a rainbow shone from these heartfelt tunes, which subsided in the Russian figurative verse of Baltrushaitis unusually in tune. In addition to the sensitive talent of Baltrushaitis, of course, the affinity of Sanskrit with the Russian, Lithuanian and Latvian languages also helped. Prior to this, Tagore in Russia was known only in fits and starts. Of course, they knew perfectly well how welcoming Tagore's name was all over the world, but we Russians have not yet had a chance to touch the poet's heart.
"Gitanjali" was a whole revelation. Poems were read at parties and at internal conversations. It turned out that precious mutual understanding, which you can’t achieve with anything other than genuine talent. The quality of persuasiveness is mysterious. The basis of beauty is inexpressible, and every uncontaminated human heart trembles and rejoices from a spark of beautiful light. Tagore brought this beauty, this all-luminous response about the soul of the people. What is he like? Where and how does this giant of thought and beautiful images live? The primordial love for the wisdom of the East found its embodiment and touching consonance in the persuasive words of the poet. How they immediately fell in love with Tagore! It seemed that the most diverse people, the most irreconcilable psychologists, were united by the call of the poet. As under the beautiful dome of a temple, as in the consonances of a majestic symphony, the inspirational song victoriously united human hearts. Just as Tagore himself said in his What is Art:
"In art, our inner essence sends its answer to the Highest, which reveals itself to us in a world of boundless beauty over the lightless world of facts."
Everyone believed, believes and knows that Tagore did not belong to the earthly world of conventional facts, but to the world of great truth and beauty.
"Gitanjali" is a dialogue of a person with God, it is a spiritual lyric, which uses and rethinks the ideas and images of the traditional Vaishnavism poetry "bhakti". In this poetry, the Supreme Being is perceived by a person as close and beloved, as a father or mother, beloved or beloved, and this brings it closer to Christian religious poetry. The famous researcher and translator of Tagore, M.I. Tubyansky, made the following insightful observation: “The idea of love as the highest value of life and as the basis of religion is in Tagore’s worldview a legacy of the religion of Vaishnavism, especially Vaishnavist religious lyrics, which Tagore was fond of in his early youth ... Old Vaishnavist lyrics - the main source of those Tagore poems in which the religious content takes the form of love lyrics.
Let us cite, for example, fragments of free arrangements from the book "Gitanjali". The girl dreams of meeting her Beloved, but her heart is closed:
I came to You with a lute, but the song remained unsung,
And the strings did not obey, and the rhythm slipped far away.
The flower did not open, and the wind sighed sadly,
The heart of the meeting was looking for, but it is not easy to meet You.
Helena Ivanovna Roerich has a letter dated September 10, 1938, dedicated to the work of Tagore. Here is what she writes about his philosophical and religious poetry: “Now, regarding the many-sidedness of the poet in his representations of the Deity. The poet, addressing the Supreme Being, rises in spirit to the highest image of the manifested beauty, and where to look for this beauty, if not in the highest symbol for us, in the form of the crown of Creation? (...) The Upanishads say: "The Supreme Being penetrates everything by itself, therefore, it is the innate property of everyone." And every Hindu imbibed this concept with mother's milk. (...) He knows that he himself is only a reflection of the Supreme Being, which is in a constant process of revealing its infinite essence. (…)
Therefore, the idea of a Higher Being always fully corresponds to the stage of development at which a person is. (…)
The East says: “The two kinds of people do not worship God as a man: the man-beast, who has no religion, and the liberated soul, who has risen above human weaknesses and passed beyond the limits of his nature. Only she can worship God as He is."
The Supreme Being in the view of Tagore contains all the most beloved by him, all the most beautiful Appearances that live in his poet's heart. Each touch evokes the fire of thought-creation, and each string of the heart will resound in its own way to the affected depths of consciousness.
The first meeting between Nicholas Roerich and R. Tagore took place on June 17, 1920 in London. The eldest son of the poet writes about this: “... After dinner, Suniti Chatterjee brought Nicholas Roerich, a Russian artist, and his two sons. Roerich showed us an album of reproductions of his paintings. The paintings are really wonderful. There is nothing like it in Western art. They made a very big impression on my father ... The whole family is going to India in September. Their sincere simplicity and natural manners are charming, they are so fresh, so different from the stiff English. We would like to get to know them better."
After this meeting, Roerich wrote the first letter to Tagore on June 24: “Dear master! Let my words remind you of Russia…” He invited Tagore to see the paintings in the workshop, and Tagore accepted the offer.
Tagore's friend Kedarnath Das Gupta in 1934 in New York recalled his visit to Roerich's workshop: “It happened 14 years ago in London. At that time I was in the house of R. Tagore, and he said to me: "Today I will give you great pleasure." I followed him and we drove to South Kensington, to a house filled with beautiful paintings. And there we met Nicholas Roerich and Madame Roerich. When Madame Roerich showed us the pictures, I thought about our beautiful ideal of the East: Prakriti and Purusha, the man revealed through a woman. This visit will forever remain in my memory.
By the arrival of R. Tagore, paintings inspired by Indian scenes were staged in the studio. Some of the paintings were not yet finished, but the author considered that the main thing was not the completion of the work, but the theme that was already visible. At this time, Roerich worked on the Indian series - "Dreams of the East". The whole room was hung with paintings, and numerous sketches lay everywhere.
Tagore was amazed by the name of the Roerich estate - Izvara, very similar to the Indian word "Ishvara", denoting in Hinduism the personal God, the creator of the Universe (translated as "Lord" or "Lord").
N.K. Roerich also recalled this meeting: “I dreamed of seeing Tagore, and now the poet personally in my studio ... in London in 1920. (...) And at that very time, the Hindu series was being painted - the panel "Dreams of the East". I remember the surprise of the poet at the sight of such a coincidence. We remember how beautifully he entered and his spiritual appearance made our hearts tremble.
On July 24, R. Tagore wrote a letter to Nicholas Roerich, in which he expressed sympathy for the Russian artist and delight in his work: “Dear friend! Your paintings, which I saw in your studio in London, and the reproductions of some of your paintings that appeared in art magazines, captured me deeply. They made me realize what is, of course, obvious, but still must be discovered again and again by us in ourselves: that Truth is infinite. When I tried to find words to describe to myself the ideas contained in your paintings, I could not do it. And I couldn't because the language of words can express only one facet of Truth, and the language of a picture finds its own area in Truth, which is not accessible to verbal expression. Each kind of art reaches its perfection only when it opens in our soul those special gates, the key to which is in its exclusive possession. When a picture is truly great, we should not be able to say what the greatness is, but still we should see and know it. The same applies to music. When one art can be fully expressed by another, that is not real art. Your pictures are clear and yet inexpressible in words. Your art defends its independence because it is great art. Sincerely yours, Rabindranath Tagore.
Tagore was the first who introduced the Indians to the work of Nicholas Roerich. On his recommendation and insistence, already in December 1920, translations of Nicholas Roerich's poems were published in the Calcutta magazine "The Modern Review", and in 1921 - a large article about his paintings.
A year later they met again in the USA. In America, Tagore lectured on art. Recalling this, Nikolai Konstantinovich draws a parallel between the work of R. Tagore and L.N. Tolstoy, seeing the similarity between them in the pursuit of Beauty and the good of mankind: “Then we also met in America, where in lectures the poet spoke so convincingly about the unforgettable laws Beauty and human understanding. In the hustle and bustle of the Leviathan City, Tagore's words sometimes sounded as paradoxical as Tolstoy's magical land that lived in the heart of the great thinker. All the more was the feat of Tagore, tirelessly going around the world with an imperative call for Beauty. (…)
Are these calls far from life? Are they just the dreams of a poet? Nothing happened. All this truth in all its immutability is given and can be fulfilled in earthly life. In vain will the ignoramuses assert that the world of Tagore and Tolstoy is utopian. Three times wrong. What kind of utopia is that you need to live beautifully? What kind of utopia is that there is no need to kill and destroy? What kind of utopia is that you need to know and saturate everything around with enlightenment? After all, this is not a utopia at all, but reality itself. If the light of Beauty did not penetrate into the darkness of earthly life, even in isolated, subdued sparks, then earthly life in general would be unthinkable. What deep gratitude of mankind should be brought to those giants of thought who, not sparing their hearts, truly selflessly bring reminders and orders about the eternal foundations of life!
The theme of accepting life in its entirety, admiring the beauty of the world, glorifying happiness, love and good human feelings was present in Tagore's poetic work throughout his life.
I contemplated the illumined face of the world, without closing my eyes,
Marvel at his perfection.
The breath of Lakshmi from the garden where the Eternal Beauty,
It blew my lips.
Generous joy of the universe and sighs of her sorrows
I expressed with my flute, -
he wrote already in his declining years in the poem "The End of the Year" (1932).
Roerich especially appreciated the combination of modernity with the precepts of ancient wisdom in Tagore's work, which seemed impossible to many even recognized philosophers. They saw retrograde or lifelessness in the study of knowledge that has come down to us from time immemorial. “In Tagore, such knowledge is innate, and his deep knowledge of modern literature and science gives him that balance, that golden path, which in the minds of many would seem like an impossible dream. And he is here in front of us, if only to carefully and benevolently examine him.
N.K. Roerich informed R. Tagore about many of his undertakings, in particular, about the Pact for the Protection of Cultural Property in Time of War, about the foundation of the Urusvati Research Institute in the Himalayas. Responding to Roerich’s request to express his opinion about the Pact, Tagore wrote to the artist on April 26, 1931: “I have closely followed your wonderful achievements in the field of art and your great humanitarian work for the benefit of all peoples, for whom your Peace Pact with its banner of protection of cultural treasures will be an exclusively active symbol. As if responding to this assessment, Roerich writes in the article “Vijaya Tagore” (“Victory of Tagore”), dedicated to the poet’s seventieth birthday (1931): “When I think about unbreakable energy, about blessed enthusiasm, about pure culture, I always get image of Rabindranath Tagore so close to me. (...) After all, Tagore's songs are inspired calls to culture, his prayer for a great culture, his blessing to those who seek the path of ascent. Synthesizing this huge activity - all going up the same mountain, penetrating into the narrowest lanes of life - how can anyone refrain from feeling inspiring joy? So blessed, so beautiful is the essence of Tagore's song, call and labor. (...) Isn’t it a sacred joyful feeling to look at the eternal snows of the Himalayas, saturated with the miraculous dust of meteors of distant worlds, and to realize that now Rabindranath Tagore lives among us, that, at the age of seventy, he tirelessly elevates the beautiful and tirelessly builds the eternal stones of culture, creating from them strongholds of the joy of the human spirit?
It's so necessary! This is so urgently needed!.. Let us tirelessly exclaim about this true pride of the nation and the whole world!”10
Correspondence between Roerich and Tagore continued until the death of the poet. He invited Nikolai Konstantinovich to visit Shantiniketon, but this trip did not take place. In his memoirs about the poet, Nicholas Roerich cites lines from Rabindranath Tagore's letters to him: “I was very glad to hear from you again and learn that you had safely returned to your monastery after a difficult expedition to Central Asia. I envy your fascinating adventures and impressions received in these remote, inaccessible parts of the world ... In my solitary life of an old man, full of worries about a developing training Center, I am forced to satisfy my curiosity only by reading about the triumphs of the indomitable human spirit over the forces of nature. “I am sure that you will be very interested in the spirit of internationalism that prevails in the Center and in educational work. And believe me, it will give me real pleasure to introduce you to the brainchild of my life, which is Shantiniketon.
In connection with the events of World War II, Tagore wrote to Roerich: “The ugly manifestations of open militarism in all directions portend an ominous future, and I almost lose faith in civilization itself. (…) Today I am just as confused and upset as you are due to the turn of events in the West. Let's hope that the world can come out cleaner from this carnage. (…) You dedicated your life to your work. I hope that fate will keep you for a long time so that you continue to serve Culture and Humanity.
On the eve of his eightieth birthday, R. Tagore wrote an article entitled "The Crisis of Civilization". “The dying Tagore cries out about the crisis of civilization. He complains about the hatred that has enveloped humanity everywhere, ”N.K. Roerich noted. Nevertheless, realizing his imminent departure, the poet did not lose his sense of historical optimism. Tagore's article ends with the words: “To lose faith in humanity is a terrible sin; I will not stain myself with this sin. I believe that after the storm, in the sky cleared of clouds, a new light will shine: the light of selfless service to man. A new, unsullied page of history will open. (…) To think that mankind can suffer a final defeat is criminal!”13
In Roerich's diary entries dedicated to the memory of Tagore, there are the following words: “Rabindranath is gone. Another page of Culture has ended. (…)
India will not forget Gitanjali, Sadhana and all Tagore's inspirational heritage. It displays the soul of India in all its sophistication, sublimity. (...) The ties between the two glorious peoples are great. It was in the Russian translation that Tagore's songs sounded great. In other languages, they lose, their flame and sincerity go out. But the idea of India is perfectly expressed in the Russian word. No wonder we have so many identical words with Sanskrit. This relationship is still little appreciated. I remember how Tagore was read to us. They fell in love with his songs not for their outward appearance, but for their deep feeling, which gave the appearance of India dear to the heart. Something more sincere could be sent to the poet, something else could be expressed. But you don't say, you think. His memory will be bright."
It only remains for us to join these words of N.K. Roerich.
Two great people, two wonderful lives dedicated to the service of Culture.
1 Cited. by: R. Tagore. Favorites. M., 1987. S. 5.
2 Quot. by: Rabindranath Tagore. Life and creation. M.: Nauka, 1986. S. 21.
3 R. Tagore. Collected works. T. 12. M., 1965. S. 259.
4 N.K. Roerich. Diary sheets. T. 2. M.: MCR, 1995. S. 92.
5 Cited. by: Rabindranath Tagore. Life and creation. S. 19.
6 E.I. Roerich. Letters. VI. M.: MCR, 2006. 09/10/1938.
7 N.K. Roerich. Diary sheets. T. 2. S. 93.
8 N.K. Roerich. Diary sheets. T. 2. S. 93 - 94.
9 Ibid. T. 2. S. 95.
10 N.K. Roerich. State of Light. M.: 1999. S. 258 - 259.
11 N.K. Roerich. Diary sheets. T. 2. S. 437.
12 Ibid. pp. 437 - 438.
13 R. Tagore. Collected works. T. 11. M., 1965. S. 381.
14 N.K. Roerich. Diary sheets. T. 2. S. 436.
Internet addresses:
http://nasati.ru/rabindranat-tagor.html
http://www.liveinternet.ru/users/3166127/post286446304/
http://www.newsps.ru/muzy-ka-iskusstvo-i-literatura/30828.html
http://dic.academic.ru/dic.nsf/enc_colier/4506/TAGOR
https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bibliography_Rabindranath_Tagore
http://www.litera-asia.ru/avtor/rabindranat-tagor/
http://rupoem.ru/tagor/all.aspx
http://poetrylibrary.ru/stixiya/menu-date-152.html
And The memories of Tagore as a person in the book Autobiography of a Yogi by Parahamsa Yogananda are interesting:“Scholars have severely and mercilessly criticized Rabindranath Tagore for introducing a new style to Bengali poetry. He mixed colloquial and classical expressions, ignoring all prescribed restrictions, dear to the heart of the pandits. His songs, in emotionally appealing terms without much attention to accepted literary forms, embody a deep philosophical truth.
One influential critic literally dismissed Rabindranath, calling him "a foppish poet who sells coos to the press at a rupee apiece." But Tagore's revenge was close: soon after he translated his Gitanjali into English, the entire Western world laid endless confessions at his feet. A host of pundits, including his former critics, went to Santiniketan to offer congratulations.
After a deliberately long delay, Rabindranath nevertheless received the guests and listened to their praises in stoic silence. Finally, he turned on them their own accustomed tool of criticism: "Gentlemen," he said, "the fragrance of the honors you have bestowed on me here does not much match your old foul-smelling contempt. Is there any connection between my Nobel Prize and your suddenly heightened ability to judge? I am the same poet that you did not like when I first brought modest flowers to the shrine of Bengal.”
Newspapers published a report about Tagore's bold performance. I was delighted with the directness of a man who did not succumb to the hypnosis of flattery. In Calcutta, I was introduced to Tagore by his secretary, Mr. C.F. Andrews, simply dressed in a Bengali dhoti, spoke fondly of Tagore as his gurudeva.
Rabindranath kindly received me. He radiated a soft aura of calm, charm, culture and courtesy. To my question about the prehistory of his literature, Tagore replied that one of his long-standing sources of inspiration, in addition to our religious epic, has always been the work of the 14th-century folk poet Vidyapati.
About two years after the founding of the school at Ranchi, I received a cordial invitation from Rabindranath to visit him in Santiniketan and discuss the ideals of raising children. This invitation was gratefully accepted. When I entered, the poet was sitting in his office. As at the first meeting, it occurred to me that he was such a wonderful living model of noble courage that any painter could wish for. His finely carved face of a noble patrician was framed by long hair and a flowing beard. Big touching eyes, an angelic smile and a voice that literally bewitches like a flute. Strong, tall and serious, he combined an almost feminine tenderness with the delightful spontaneity of a child. It was impossible to find a more suitable embodiment of the ideal idea of a poet than in this meek singer.
Tagore and I soon plunged into a comparative study of our schools, both based on an unorthodox direction. We found many similarities: outdoor learning, simplicity, enough space for the creative spirit of children. But Rabindranath attached great importance to the study of literature and poetry, as well as expressing himself through music and singing ...
Tagore told me about his own struggles in parenting: “I ran away from school after the fifth grade,” he said, laughing. It was quite understandable how his innate poetic sophistication was offended by the dull, disciplinary atmosphere in the classroom. He continued:
"That's why I opened Shantiniketan in the shade of trees and under majestic skies," he pointed emphatically at a small group practicing in a pretty garden. “The child is in his natural environment among flowers and songbirds. Only in this way can he fully express the hidden wealth of his individual talent. Genuine education can never be hammered into the head and perceived from the outside, rather, it should contribute to the spontaneous extraction to the surface of the endless repositories of wisdom hidden within.
I agreed, because I believe that the passion for ideals, the cult of heroes among young people will die out on a diet of mere statistics and chronology of epochs. The poet spoke lovingly of his father Devendranath, who had inspired the undertakings of Shantiniketan:
“My father gave me this fertile land, where he has already built an inn and a temple,” Rabindranath told me. “I started my educational experience here in 1901 with only ten children. All 8,000 English pounds that came to me with the Nobel Prize went to the beautification of the school.”
Rabindranath invited me to spend the night at his inn. It was truly a wonderful sight to see the poet sitting with a group of students on the patio in the evening. Time turned back: this view was reminiscent of a scene from an ancient monastery - a happy prince surrounded by people devoted to him, and everyone is shining with divine love. Tagore tightened all the bonds with the strings of harmony. Without any dogmatism, he attracted and captivated hearts with irresistible magnetism. A rare flower of poetry that blossomed in the garden of the Lord attracted others with its natural fragrance!
In a melodious voice, Rabindranath recited to us some newly written lovely verses. Most of the songs and plays written for the joy of his students were composed in Santiniketan. The beauty of these verses for me lies in his art, which was that in almost every line he spoke about God, yet rarely mentioned the holy name. “Intoxicated with the bliss of singing,” he wrote, “I forget myself and call You a friend, You, Who is my Lord.”
The next day, after lunch, I reluctantly took leave of the poet. I am glad that his small school has now grown into the international university of Vishva-Bharati, where scientists from all countries found the right path.
Biography of Rabindranath Tagore
The famous Indian writer, poet, composer, artist and public figure Rabindranath Tagore was born on May 7, 1861 in Calcutta, British India. Rabindranath Tagore was descended from an ancient family. His father was a famous religious figure, the founder of the Brahmo Samaj religious society, Debendranath Tagore. Rabindranath's mother passed away when he was 14 years old. Tagore's family was rich and famous.
In 1866, Rabindranath was sent to the Eastern Seminary, then he entered an ordinary school. At the age of 11, Rabindranath underwent the Upanayama rite, which marks the transition from childhood to adolescence. After that, the young man entered one of the highest varnas. Then he left his hometown with his father and traveled for several months. By those standards, Rabindranath Tagore received a decent education at home.
At the age of 16, Rabindranath Tagore tries to publish his first works. His literary debut was a Maithili poem published in Bharoti magazine.
In 1877, the aspiring poet published the poem "Bikharini" ("Beggar Woman") - the first literary work in the Bengali language. In addition, around the same time, he published the collections "Evening Songs" and "Morning Songs".
In 1878, Tagore began attending a public school in Brighton, England. Then he entered the University of London College, where he studied law, but soon left it in order to study literature.
In 1880, Rabindranath returned to Bengal.
In 1883, Rabindranath Tagore marries Mrinalini Devi. She was from a Pirali Brahmin family. The couple had five children. Since 1890, Tagore has been living in his estate in Shilaidakh.
1890 was the year of publication of the most famous book of the poet - a collection of poems "The Image of the Beloved".
The years 1891-1895 are considered the peak of Tagore's literary activity. During this period of time, most of the works that were later included in the three-volume Galpaguchcha were written.
In 1901, Rabindranath Tagore moved to Shantiniketan, in this place he decided to found an ashram - the abode of sages and hermits. His ashram consisted of an experimental school, prayer room, library and gardens. The following years became difficult for the writer: in 1902 his wife died, then in 1903 his daughter died of tuberculosis, in 1905 his father died, and in 1907 his youngest son died of cholera.
Despite his personal losses, Tagore continues to write and be active in public life. He spoke in defense of the Indian revolutionary Tilak. Tagore was one of the founders of the Swadeshi movement, which opposed the Curzon Act to partition Bengal. These events inspired the poet to write a number of patriotic works "Golden Bengal" and "Land of Bengal". Later, when the Swadeshi movement began to take on a revolutionary character, Tagore moved away from it, as he believed that society should change through education, not revolution.
Beginning in 1912, Tagore traveled extensively. He managed to visit Europe, USA, Japan, Russia. The writer made independent translations of several of his works into English. While in England, he showed them to the art critic William Rothenstein. Thanks to his assistance, these translations were published in England, and after a while, translations into Russian were made, these works were also published.
In 1913, Rabindranath Tagore won the Nobel Prize in Literature. His work was highly appreciated by the Swedish Academy. In 1921, Tagore, together with Leonard Elmhurst, decided to found the Institute for Agricultural Reconstruction at Surul.
In the 1930s, Tagore paid special attention to the problem of "untouchables" in India, as a result of his social activities, he managed to obtain permission for these people to visit the Krishna Temple in Guruvayur.
In his later years, Tagore began to take an interest in science. He studied biology, physics and astronomy. This interest was reflected in Tagore's poetry.
At the end of his life, Rabindranath was very ill. In 1937 and 1940, the poet suddenly lost consciousness and fell into a coma. After the last incident, he never recovered. The poet died on August 7, 1941 at the Jorasanko estate.
Creativity Tagore
Rabindranath Tagore was a rather versatile personality. He showed himself creatively both in literature and in the visual and musical arts. He is best known as the author of novels, essays, short stories, dramas and songs. Tagore is considered the father of the Bengali novel genre. The distinctive features of Tagore's poetry are considered:
- rhythm
- optimism
- lyricism
The plot of Tagore's works is based on the description of the life of ordinary people.
A special place in the literary work of Tagore belongs to poetry. Tagore's poetry was stylistically rich. His work can be attributed to the classical, dreamy, and comic style. Tagore's poetry was especially influenced by the Vaishnava poets of the 15th and 16th centuries. Tagore also bowed to the work of the rishi poets - the sages to whom the gods opened the Vedic hymns.
In his poetic works, Tagore refers to divinity through nature.
In the 1930s, the poet was engaged in the introduction of modernism and realism into the literature of Bengal. An example of such experiments is the verses "Africa" or "Kamalia".
The most famous poetic books of Rabindranath Tagore are:
- "Image of the Beloved"
- "Golden Boat"
- "Cranes"
- "Evening Melodies"
- "Golden Boat"
- "Gitanjali"
Remark 1
For the collection Gitanjali, the poet was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1913.
Many of Tagore's poems were subsequently set to music.
A large place in the literary work of Tagore is given to prose. He is the author of a large number of novels and short stories. Tagore's most famous prose works are:
- "Chaturanga"
- "Farewell Song"
- "Four parts"
- "Nookadooby"
Basically, the writer's short stories tell about the everyday life of the peasants of Bengal. Tagore's first works in English were published in 1913 in the collection Worrying Stones and Other Stories.
Most of Tagore's novels and short stories raise important social questions. One of the writer's most famous novels, Home and Peace, tells about nationalism, terrorism and religious prejudices that reign in Indian society.
Another famous Tagore novel, The Fair Face, raises the issue of Indian identity and religious freedom.
Quite complex issues are consecrated in the novel "Relationships". The novel focuses on the plight of Bengali women, who are most often forced to choose between duty, family honor and children.
In addition to serious works, more cheerful works came out from Tagore's pen, for example, The Last Poem, one of the writer's most lyrical novels.
Remark 2
Some of Tagore's works have been filmed, such as "Chokher Bali" and "Home and Peace".
Among other things, Rabindranath Tagore is the author of documentary works. They are mainly devoted to history, linguistics, religion. There are also autobiographical works in Tagore's documentary work.
- "Sacrifice"
- "Mail"
- "Red Oleanders"
- "Mountain"
Remark 3
Rabindranath Tagore enjoyed great popularity and respect in his homeland, in Bengal, he was equated with a national hero. In the West, his works were less popular, mainly because of the lack of quality translations.
Rabindranath Tagore (Beng. May 7, 1861 – August 7, 1941) was an Indian writer, poet, composer, painter, public figure. His work shaped the literature and music of Bengal. He was the first non-European to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature (1913).
I do not remember the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life.
What power made me open in this great mystery, like a forest bud at midnight.
When I saw the light in the morning, I immediately felt that I was not a stranger in this world, that the unknown, knowing neither name nor image, embraced me in the image of my mother.
In the same way, at the hour of death, this unknown will appear, like an ancient known. And because I love life, I know that I will love death.
Dissolve the door;
Let my gaze sink into the blue of heaven,
Let the smells of flowers penetrate here,
And the light of the rays of the initial
Fill the body, each will have a vein.
I'm alive! - Let me hear that word again
In the leaves that rustle.
And this morning
Let me cover my soul with a veil,
Like young green meadows.
I feel in this sky
Silent language of love
that dominated my life.
I will take a bath in her water.
I see the truth of life as a necklace
On the endless blue
Heaven...
Rabindranath Tagore (translated by Anna Akhmatova)
Tagore began writing poetry at the age of eight. At the age of sixteen he wrote his first short stories and dramas, published his poetry tests under the pseudonym Sunny Lion (Beng. Bh;nusi;ha). Having received an upbringing saturated with humanism and love for the motherland, Tagore advocated the independence of India. He founded Vishwa Bharati University and the Institute for Agricultural Reconstruction. Tagore's poems are today the anthems of India and Bangladesh.
The work of Rabindranath Tagore includes lyric works, essays and novels on political and social topics. His most famous works - "Gitanjali" (Sacrificial Chants), "Mountain" and "House and Peace" - are examples of lyricism, colloquial style, naturalism and contemplation in literature.
Rabindranath Tagore, the youngest of the children of Debendranath Tagore (1817-1905) and Sharada Devi (1830-1875), was born at the estate of Jorasanko Thakur Bari (north of Calcutta). The Tagore clan was very ancient and among its ancestors were the founders of the Adi Dharm (English) Russian religion. Father, being a Brahmin, often made pilgrimages to the holy places of India. Mother, Sharada Devi, died when Tagore was 14 years old.
The Tagore family was very famous. Tagores were large zamindars (landowners), many prominent writers, musicians and public figures visited their house. Rabindranath's elder brother Dwijendranath was a mathematician, poet and musician, the middle brothers Dijendranath and Jyotirindranath were famous philosophers, poets and playwrights. Nephew Rabindranath Obonindranath became one of the founders of the school of modern Bengali painting.
At the age of five, Rabindranath was sent to the Eastern Seminary, and later transferred to the so-called Normal School, which was distinguished by official discipline and a shallow level of education. Therefore, Tagore was more fond of walks around the estate and the surrounding area than schoolwork. Upon completion of the Upanayana at the age of 11, Tagore left Calcutta on February 14, 1873, and traveled with his father for several months. They visited the family estate at Shantiniketan. and stopped in Amritsar. Young Rabindranath received a good education at home, studying history, arithmetic, geometry, languages (particularly English and Sanskrit) and other subjects, got acquainted with the work of Kalidasa. Tagore noted in his Memoirs:
“Our spiritual education was successful because we studied in childhood in Bengali language ... Despite the fact that they were everywhere talking about the need for an English education, my brother was firm enough to give us “Bengali”. »
A promising young barrister, Tagore entered a public school in Brighton (East Sussex, England) in 1878. Initially, he stayed for several months in a house near Brighton and Hove, which belonged to the Tagore family. A year earlier, he was joined by his nephews, Suren and Indira, children of his brother Satyendranath. who came with their mother. Rabindranath studied law at University College London, but soon left to study literature: Shakespeare's Coriolanus and Antony and Cleopatra, Religio Medici. Thomas Brown and others. He returned to Bengal in 1880 without completing his degree. However, this familiarity with England later manifested itself in his familiarity with the traditions of Bengali music, allowing him to create new images in music, poetry and drama. But Tagore, in his life and work, never fully accepted either the criticism of Britain or the strict family traditions based on the experience of Hinduism, instead absorbing the best of these two cultures.
On December 9, 1883, Rabindranath married Mrinalini Devi (born Bhabatarini, 1873-1902). Mrinalini like Rabindranath
She came from a Pirali Brahmin family. They had five children: daughters Madhurilata (1886-1918), Renuka (1890-1904), Mira (1892-?), and sons Rathindranath (1888-1961) and Samindranath (1894-1907). In 1890, Tagore was entrusted with huge estates in Shilaidakh (English) Russian. (now part of Bangladesh). His wife and children joined him in 1898.
"We live in this world only when we love it."
"By touching we can kill; by moving away we can possess."
"We know a person not by what he knows, but by what he enjoys."
"What a huge difference between the beautiful, free, unclouded world of nature, so calm, quiet and incomprehensible, and our daily bustle, with its insignificant mournful anxieties and disputes."
...............
The water in the vessel is transparent. The water in the sea is dark. Little truths have clear words; great Truth has great silence.
"Your sunshine smiles on the winter days of my heart, not for a moment doubting the return of its spring flowers."
"A lie can never grow into truth by growing in power."
"Not the blows of a hammer, but the dance of the water brings the pebbles to perfection."
"Being honest is easy when you're not going to tell the whole truth."
"Bloody in pleasures, we cease to feel any pleasure."
"The river of truth flows through the channels of error."
"Scientists say that the real day will begin when you go out," said the firefly to the stars. The stars didn't answer.
"The grass is looking for crowds of its own kind on the earth; the tree is looking for its loneliness in the sky."
"The main thing that life teaches a person is not that there is suffering in the world, but that it depends on him whether he turns suffering to his own good, whether he turns it into joy."
"War, where brother rebels against brother,
The Almighty will curse a hundredfold. "
"Dark clouds turn into heavenly flowers when light kisses them."
"In the rays of the moon you send me your love letters," Night said to the Sun.
- I'll leave my answers - tears on the grass. "
"You are the big dewdrop under the lotus leaf, and I am the small droplet on its upper side," said Dewdrop to the Lake.
“I lost my dewdrop,” the flower complains to the morning sky, which has lost all its stars ...
"If you don't see the sun, don't cry - because of tears you won't see the stars."
(Crying at night for the sun, you do not notice the stars.)
"Stars are not afraid of being mistaken for fireflies."
"I have stars in the sky... but I miss the little lamp that was not lit in my house."
"When any one religion has a claim to force all mankind to accept its doctrine, it becomes a tyranny."
"When hearts are full of love and beat only from meeting to parting, a slight hint is enough to understand each other."
"A man is worse than a beast when he is a beast."
............
"Every child that is born is a message that God has not yet given up on people."
"Of course, I could do without flowers, but they help me maintain respect for myself, because they prove that I am not bound hand and foot by everyday worries. They are evidence of my freedom."
"I asked the tree, 'Tell me about God.'
And it bloomed."
Clouds enter the courtyard of Srabon, the sky is rapidly darkening,
Accept, soul, their volatile path, rush into the unknown,
Fly, fly into the boundless space, become an accomplice of mystery,
Do not be afraid to part with the earthly warmth, your native corner,
Let your pain burn with cold lightning in your heart,
Pray, soul, all-destruction, giving birth to thunder with spells.
Be involved in the hiding place of secrets and, with thunderstorms, making the way,
In the sobs of the doomsday night - end, end.
Translation by M. Petrovs
Annihilation
Everywhere reigns the last trouble.
She filled the whole world with sobs,
Everything was flooded, like water, with suffering.
And the lightning among the clouds is like a furrow.
On the distant shore, the thunder does not want to stop,
The wild madman laughs again and again,
Unrestrained, without shame.
Everywhere reigns the last trouble.
Rampant death life is drunk now,
The moment has come - and you check yourself.
Give her everything, give her everything
And don't look back in despair
And don't hide anything anymore
Bowing your head to the ground.
There was no trace left of peace.
Everywhere reigns the last trouble.
We must choose the path now:
At your bed the fire went out,
The house is lost in pitch darkness,
A storm broke in, rages in it,
The building is amazing to the core.
Can't you hear the loud call
Your country, floating to nowhere?
Everywhere reigns the last trouble.
Be ashamed! And stop the unnecessary crying!
Do not hide your face from horror!
Do not pull the edge of the sari over your eyes.
Why is there a storm in your soul?
Are your gates still locked?
Break the lock! Get away! Will be gone soon
And joys and sorrows forever.
Everywhere reigns the last trouble.
Really in a dance, in a formidable swaying
Bracelets on the legs do not sound?
The game with which you wear the seal -
Fate itself. Forget what happened before!
Come dressed in blood red
How did you come as a bride then.
Everywhere, everywhere - the last trouble.
Translation by A. Akhmatova1
Hero of Bengal
Behind the wall of Bhulubabu, losing weight from exhaustion,
Read the multiplication table aloud.
Here, in this house, is the abode of the friends of enlightenment.
The young mind is glad to know.
We B.A. and M.A., me and my older brother,
Read three chapters in a row.
The thirst for knowledge in the Bengalis revived.
We read. Burning kerosene.
There are many pictures in the mind.
Here is Cromwell, warrior, hero, giant,
Beheaded the lord of Britain.
The king's head rolled like a mango
When a boy knocks him down from a tree with a stick.
Curiosity grows... We read for hours on end
All the more insistent, all the more relentless.
People sacrifice themselves for their homeland,
They fight for religion
They are ready to part with their heads
In the name of a lofty ideal.
Leaning back in my chair, I read voraciously.
It's cozy under the roof and cool.
The books are well written and well written.
Yes, you can learn a lot by reading.
I remember the names of those who are in search of knowledge
In the power of daring
Started wandering...
Birth ... Death ... Date behind the date ...
Don't waste your minutes!
I wrote it all down in my notebook.
I know that many have suffered
For the holy truth once.
We leafed through scholarly books,
We shone with our eloquence,
Looks like we've grown up...
Down with humiliation! Down with submission!
Bison day and night, we fight for our rights.
Big hopes, big words...
Involuntarily, here the head will go round,
Involuntarily you will go into a frenzy!
We are not stupider than the British. Forget about them!
We are slightly different from them,
Well, that's not the point!
We are the children of glorious Bengal,
We hardly give way to the British.
We have read all English books.
We write comments to them in Bengali.
Feathers serve us well.
"Aryans" - Max Muller spoke.
And here we are, not knowing worries,
Decided that every Bengali is a hero and a prophet
And it's not a sin for us to sleep off now.
We will not allow cheating!
We'll let the fog in!
Shame on those who do not recognize the greatness of Manu!
Sacred we touch the cord and curse the blasphemer.
What? Are we not great? Come on
Let science refute the slander.
Our ancestors shot from a bow.
Or is it not mentioned in the Vedas?
We scream loudly. Isn't that the case?
Aryan valor did not fail.
We will shout at the meetings boldly
About our past and future victories.
In contemplation the saint remained tireless,
Rice on palm leaves mixed with banana,
We respect the saints, but we are more drawn to gourmets,
We have adapted to the age hastily.
We eat at the table, we go to hotels,
We are not in classes for whole weeks.
We have kept purity, marching towards lofty goals,
For Manu was read (in translation, of course).
The heart is filled with delight when reading the Samhita.
However, we do know that chickens are edible.
We, the three famous brothers,
Nimai, Nepah and Bhuto,
Compatriots wanted to enlighten.
We twirled the magic wand of knowledge at each ear.
Newspapers... Meetings a thousand times a week.
We seem to have learned everything.
We should hear about Thermopylae,
And the blood, like a lamp wick, lights up in the veins.
We can't stay calm
Marathon remembering the glory of immortal Rome.
Would an illiterate person understand this?
He will open his mouth in amazement,
And my heart is about to break
Thirst for glory tormented.
They should at least read about Garibaldi!
They could also sit in a chair,
Could fight for national honor
And for progress.
We would talk on various topics,
We would compose poems together,
We would all write in the newspapers
And the press would flourish.
But it is not appropriate to dream about it yet.
They are not interested in literature.
Washington's date of birth is unknown to them,
They had not heard of the great Mazzini.
But Mazzini is a hero!
For the edge he fought native.
Motherland! Cover your face in shame!
You are still ignorant.
I was surrounded by piles of books
And greedily clung to the source of knowledge.
I never part with books.
Pen and paper are inseparable with me.
It would piss me off! The blood is on fire. inspiration
I am possessed by the powerful.
I want to enjoy beauty.
I want to be a top notch stylist.
In the name of the common good.
Battle of Nezby... Read about it!
Cromwell immortal titans stronger.
I will never forget him until my death!
Books, books ... Behind a pile of piles ...
Hey, maid, quickly bring the barley!
Ah, Noni Babu! Hello! third day
I lost the cards! It would not be bad to win back now.
Translation by V. Mikushevich
The time has come to assemble the tunes - the path is long before you.
The last thunder rumbled, moored the ferry to the shore, -
Bhadro appeared without violating the deadlines.
In the kadambo forest, a light layer of flower pollen turns yellow.
Ketoki inflorescences are forgotten by the restless bee.
Embraced by the silence of the forest, dew lurks in the air,
And in the light from all the rains - only glare, reflections, hints.
Translation by M. Petrovs
Woman
You are not only a creation of God, you are not a product of the earth, -
A man creates you from his spiritual beauty.
For you, the poets, O woman, weaved an expensive outfit,
Golden threads of metaphors on your clothes are burning.
Painters have immortalized your female appearance on canvas
In an unprecedented grandeur, in amazing purity.
How many all kinds of incense, colors were brought to you as a gift,
How many pearls from the abyss, how much gold from the earth.
How many delicate flowers have been plucked for you in spring days,
How many bugs have been exterminated to paint your feet.
In these saris and bedspreads, hiding his shy look,
Immediately you became more inaccessible and more mysterious a hundred times.
In a different way, your features shone in the fire of desires.
You are half being, you are half imagination.
Translation by V. Tushnova
Life
In this sunny world I don't want to die
I would like to live forever in this flowering forest,
Where people leave to return again
Where hearts beat and flowers gather dew.
Life goes on the earth in strings of days and nights,
A change of meetings and partings, a series of hopes and losses, -
If you hear joy and pain in my song,
It means that the dawns of immortality will illuminate my garden at night.
If the song dies, then, like everyone else, I will go through life -
Nameless drop in the flow of the great river;
I will be like flowers, I will grow songs in the garden -
Let tired people come into my flower beds,
Let them bow down to them, let them pick flowers on the go,
To throw them away when the petals fall to dust.
Translation by N. Voronel.
life is precious
I know that this vision will one day end.
On my heavy eyelids the last sleep will fall.
And the night, as always, will come, and shine in bright rays
Morning will come again to the awakened universe.
Life's game will continue, noisy as always,
Under each roof, joy or misfortune will appear.
Today with such thoughts I look at the earthly world,
Greedy curiosity today owns me.
My eyes do not see anything insignificant anywhere,
It seems to me that every inch of land is priceless.
The heart needs any little things,
Soul - useless itself - there is no price anyway!
I want everything I had and everything I didn't have
And that I once rejected, that I could not see.
Translation by V. Tushnova
From the clouds - the roar of the drum, the mighty rumble
incessant...
A wave of dull hum shook my heart,
His beating was drowned out by the thunder.
Pain lurked in the soul, as in the abyss - the more sad,
the more wordless
But the damp wind flew by, and the forest roared lingeringly,
And my grief suddenly sounded like a song.
Translation by M. Petrovs
From the darkness I came, where the rains are noisy. You are now alone, locked up.
Under the arches of the temple of your traveler shelter!
From distant paths, from the depths of the forest, I brought you jasmine,
Dreaming boldly: do you want to weave it into your hair?
I'll slowly walk back into the dusk, full of the sound of cicadas,
I won’t utter a word, I’ll only bring the flute to my lips,
My song - my parting gift - sending you out of the way.
Translation by Y. Neumann.
Indian, you won't sell your pride,
Let the merchant look at you insolently!
He came from the West to this region, -
But don't take off your light scarf.
Walk firmly on your path
Not listening to false, empty speeches.
Treasures hidden in your heart
Worthy decorate a humble house,
The forehead will be dressed with an invisible crown,
The dominion of gold sows evil,
Unbridled luxury has no boundaries,
But don't be embarrassed, don't fall down!
You will be rich in your poverty,
Peace and freedom will inspire the spirit.
Translation by N. Stefanovich
india lakshmi
O you who bewitch people,
O earth shining in the brilliance of the sun's rays,
great mother of mothers,
The valleys washed by the Indus with a noisy wind - forest,
trembling bowls,
With the Himalayan snow crown flying into the sky
In your sky the sun rose for the first time, for the first time the forest
heard the Vedas of the saints,
Legends sounded for the first time, live songs, in your houses
and in the forests, in the open spaces of the fields;
You are our ever-growing wealth, giving to the peoples
a full bowl
You are Jumna and Ganga, there is no more beautiful, more free, you are -
life nectar, mothers milk!
Translation by N.Tikhonov
To civilization
Give us back the forest. Take your city, full of noise and smoky haze.
Take your stone, iron, fallen trunks.
Modern civilization! Soul Eater!
Give us back shade and coolness in the sacred forest silence.
These evening baths, sunset light over the river,
Herd of cows grazing, quiet songs of the Vedas,
Handfuls of grains, herbs, return from the bark of clothes,
Talk about the great truths that we always carried on in our souls,
These days that we spent are immersed in thought.
I don't even need royal pleasures in your prison.
I want freedom. I want to feel like I'm flying again
I want the strength to return to my heart again.
I want to know that the fetters are broken, I want to break the chains.
I want to feel the eternal trembling of the heart of the universe again.
Translation by V. Tushnova
Karma
I called the servant in the morning and did not call.
I looked - the door was unlocked. Water is not poured.
The tramp did not return to spend the night.
Unfortunately, I can't find clean clothes without him.
Whether my food is ready, I don't know.
And time went on and on... Ah, so! OK then.
Let him come - I will teach the lazy man a lesson.
When he came in the middle of the day to greet me,
Respectfully folded palms,
I said angrily: "Get out of sight immediately,
I don't want idlers in the house."
Staring blankly at me, he silently listened to the reproach,
Then, slowing down with an answer,
With difficulty uttering the words, he told me: “My girl
She died before dawn today.
He said and hurried to start his work as soon as possible.
Armed with a white towel,
He, as always until then, diligently cleaned, scraped and rubbed,
Until the last one was done.
* Karma - zd. retribution.
Translation by V. Tushnova.
Cry
Can't turn us back
Nobody ever.
And those who block our way,
Misfortune awaits, trouble.
We are tearing the fetters. Go-go -
Through the heat, through the cold weather!
And those who weave networks for us,
Get there yourself.
Trouble awaits them, trouble.
That is Shiva's call. Away sings
His calling horn.
Calling midday sky
And a thousand roads.
Space merges with the soul,
The rays are intoxicating, and the gaze is angry.
And those who love the twilight of holes,
Rays are always scary.
Trouble awaits them, trouble.
We will conquer everything - and the height of peaks,
And any ocean.
Oh don't be shy! You are not alone,
Friends are always with you.
And for those who are afraid
Who languishes in loneliness
Stay within four walls
For many years.
Trouble awaits them, trouble.
Shiva awakens. Will blow.
Our banner will fly into space.
Barriers will collapse. The path is open.
An old dispute is over.
Let the whipped ocean boil
And give us immortality.
And those who honor death as a god,
Don't miss the court!
Trouble awaits them, trouble.
Translation by A. Revich
When suffering brings
Me to your doorstep
You call him yourself
Open the door for him.
It will give up everything, so that in return
To taste the hands of a happy captivity;
The path will hurry steep
To the light in your house...
You call him yourself
Open the door for him.
I come out of pain with a song;
After listening to her
Step out into the night for a minute
Leave your home.
Like a swift that is shot down by a storm in the darkness,
That song beats on the ground.
Towards my grief
You hurry into the darkness
Ah, call him yourself
Open the door for him.
Translation by T. Spendiarova
When I don't see you in my dream
It seems to me that whispers spells
Earth to disappear under your feet.
And cling to the empty sky
Raising my hands, I want in horror.
I wake up in a fright and see
Like wool you spin, bending low,
Sitting motionless next to me,
Himself showing all the peace of creation.
Translation by A. Akhmatova
Once upon a time, embarrassed by the wedding dress,
Here, in the world of vanity, you have become close to me,
And the touch of hands was trembling.
By a whim of fate did everything happen all of a sudden?
It was not an arbitrariness, not a fleeting moment,
But a secret craft and a command from above.
And I lived my life with my favorite dream,
What will we, you and I, unity and couple.
How richly you drew from my soul!
How many fresh streams she once poured into her!
What we created in excitement, in shame,
In labors and vigils, in victories and trouble,
Between ups and downs - that, forever alive,
Who is able to complete? Just you and me, two.
Translation by S. Shervinsky
Who are you, distant? Sang in the distance
The flute ... Swayed, the snake is dancing,
Hearing the chant of an unfamiliar land.
Whose song is this? To what region
The flute is calling us... is your flute?
You are spinning. Scattered, soared
Hair, rings. Like the wind is light
Your cape is torn into the clouds,
Arcs of the rainbow thrown up.
Shine, awakening, confusion, takeoff!
There is excitement in the waters, the thicket sings,
Wings are noisy. From depths to heights
Everything opens - souls and doors -
Your flute is in a hidden cave,
The flute calls me imperiously to you!
Low notes, high notes
Mixing sounds, waves without counting!
Waves upon waves and again a wave!
Sounds burst into the edge of silence -
In the cracks of consciousness, in vague dreams -
The sun is getting drunk, the moon is sinking!
Dance enthusiastic closer and closer!
I see the hidden, I see the hidden
Whirlwind covered, in burning joy:
There in the dungeon, in the cave, in the gorge,
Flute in your hands! flute fun,
Drunk lightning pulled out of the clouds,
Breaks into the ground from the darkness
Juices - in champa, in leaves and flowers!
Like ramparts, through, through dams,
Inside through the walls, through the thickness, through the piles
Stone - in the depths! Everywhere! Everywhere
A call and a spell, a ringing miracle!
leaving darkness,
Age-old creeps
A snake hidden in the heart-cave.
Swallow haze
Quietly lay down -
She hears the flute, your flute!
Oh, enchant, enchant, and from the bottom
To the sun, she will come to your feet.
Call out, get out, tear out of those!
In a bright beam is visible from everywhere,
It will be like foam, like a whirlwind and a wave,
Merged in a dance with everything and everyone,
Curl to the sound
Opening the hood.
How will she approach the grove in bloom,
To the sky and shine
To the wind and splash!
Drunk in the light! All in the world!
Translation by Z. Mirkina
mother bengal
In virtues and vices, in the change of ups, downs, passions,
Oh my Bengal! Make your children adults.
Do not keep your mother's knees locked up in houses,
Let their paths scatter on all four sides.
Let them scatter all over the country, wander here and there,
Let them look for a place in life and let them find it.
They, like boys, do not entangle, weaving a network of prohibitions,
Let them learn courage in suffering, let them be worthy
meet death.
Let them fight for the good, raising the sword against evil.
If you love your sons, Bengal, if you want to save them,
Skinny, respectable, with eternal silence in the blood,
Tear away from your usual life, tear away from the rapids.
Children - seventy million! Mother blinded by love
You raised them to be Bengalis, but you didn't make them human.
Translation by V. Tushnova
Metaphor
When there is not enough strength to overcome obstacles near the river,
Draws a veil of stagnant water silt.
When old prejudices rise everywhere,
The country becomes frozen and indifferent.
The path that they walk on remains a thorny path,
It will not disappear, the weed will not overgrow with grass.
The codes of mantras were closed, they blocked the path of the country.
The flow has stopped. She has nowhere to go.
Translation by V. Tushnova
Sea waves
(Written on the occasion of the death
boats with pilgrims near the city of Puri)
In the darkness, like incoherent delirium, celebrate your destruction -
O wild hell!
That wind whistling frantic or millions of wings
Are they rattling around?
And the sky instantly merged with the sea, so that the gaze of the universe
Stop blinding.
That sudden lightning arrows or it's a terrible, white
Smiles of evil twists?
Without a heart, without hearing and vision, it rushes in intoxication
Some giants' army -
Destroy everything in madness.
No colors, no shapes, no lines. In the bottomless, black abyss -
Confusion, anger.
And the sea rushes about with a cry, and beats in wild laughter,
Osatanev.
And fumbles - where is the border to be crushed about it,
Where are the shores of the line?
Vasuki in a roar, screeching shafts breaks into spray
Tail kick.
The earth sank somewhere, and the whole planet storms
Shocked.
And the networks of sleep are torn.
Unconsciousness, Wind. Clouds. There is no rhythm, and there are no consonances -
Only the dance of the dead.
Death is looking for something again - it takes without counting
And without end.
Today, in the haze of lead, she needs new mining.
And what? At random,
Feeling no distance, some people in the fog
They fly to their death.
Their path is irrevocable. Contains several hundred
People in the boat.
Everyone clings to his life!
It's hard to fight back. And the storm throws the ship:
"Let's! Let's!"
And the foaming sea rumbles, echoing the hurricane:
"Let's! Let's!"
Surrounding on all sides, blue death whirls,
Turned pale with anger.
Now do not hold back the pressure - and the ship will collapse soon:
The sea is terrible anger.
For the storm and it's a prank! Everything is confused, mixed up -
And heaven and earth...
But the helmsman is at the helm.
And people through the darkness and anxiety, through the roar, cry out to God:
“O omnipotent!
Have mercy, O great one! Prayers and cries rush:
"Save! Cover!"
But it's too late to call and pray! Where is the sun? Where is the star dome?
Where is happiness grace?
And were there irretrievable years? And those who were so loved?
The stepmother is here, not the mother!
Abyss. Thunder strikes. Everything is wild and unfamiliar.
Madness, haze...
And the ghosts are endless.
The iron board could not stand it, the bottom was broken, and the abyss
Mouth open.
It is not God who reigns here! Here the dead nature is predatory
Blind power!
In the impenetrable darkness, the cry of a child resounds loudly.
Confusion, trembling...
And the sea is like a grave: what was not or was -
You won't understand.
As if an angry wind blew out someone's lamps...
And at the same time
The light of joy has gone out somewhere.
How could a free mind arise in chaos without an eye?
After all, dead matter
Senseless beginning - did not understand, did not realize
Himself.
Where does the unity of hearts, the fearlessness of motherhood come from?
The brothers hugged
Saying goodbye, yearning, crying... O hot sunbeam,
O past, come back!
Helplessly and timidly through their tears shone
Hope again:
The lamp was lit by love.
Why do we always obediently surrender to black death?
Executioner, dead man,
The blind monster waits to devour everything holy -
Then the end.
But even before death, pressing the child to the heart,
The mother does not back down.
Is it all in vain? No, evil death has no power
Take her child away from her!
Here is an abyss and an avalanche of waves, there is a mother, protecting her son,
Worth one.
Who is given to take away his power?
Her power is infinite: she blocked the child,
Covering yourself.
But in the kingdom of death - where does love come from such a miracle
And is this light?
In it is the life of an immortal grain, a miraculous source
Innumerable bounties.
Who will touch this wave of heat and light,
That mother will get.
Oh, that she has risen all hell, trampling death with love,
And a terrible storm!
But who gave her such love?
Love and the cruelty of revenge always exist together, -
Entangled, fighting.
Hopes, fears, anxieties live in one hall:
Communication everywhere.
And everyone, having fun and crying, solve one problem:
Where is the truth, where is the lie?
Nature strikes on a grand scale, but there will be no fear in the heart,
When you come to love
And if the alternation of flourishing and withering,
Victory, shackles -
Just an endless dispute between two gods?
Translation by N. Stefanovich
Courageous
Or women can't fight
Forge your own destiny?
Or there, in the sky,
Has our lot been decided?
Should I be at the edge of the road
Stand humble and anxious
Wait for happiness on the way
Like a gift from heaven ... Or can't I find happiness myself?
I want to strive
Chasing him like a chariot
Riding an indomitable horse.
I believe waiting for me
A treasure that, like a miracle,
Without sparing myself, I will get it.
Not girlish shyness, ringing with bracelets,
And let the courage of love lead me
And boldly I will take my wedding wreath,
Twilight cannot be a gloomy shadow
To eclipse a happy moment.
I want my chosen one to comprehend
I do not have the timidity of humiliation,
And the pride of self-respect,
And before him then
I will throw back the veil of unnecessary shame.
We'll meet on the seashore
And the roar of the waves will fall like thunder -
To make the sky sound.
I will say, throwing back the veil from my face:
"Forever you are mine!"
From the wings of birds there will be a deaf noise.
To the west, overtaking the wind,
In the distance the birds will fly by the starlight.
Creator, oh, don't leave me speechless
Let the music of the soul ring in me at the meeting.
Let it be at the highest moment and our word
Everything higher in us is ready to express,
Let the speech flow
Transparent and deep
And let the beloved understand
Everything that is inexpressible for me,
Let a stream of words gush from the soul
And, having sounded, it will freeze in silence.
Translation by M. Zenkevich
We live in the same village
I live in the same village as her.
Only in this we were lucky - me and her.
Only the thrush will be filled with a whistle at their dwelling -
My heart will immediately dance in my chest.
A pair of cutely raised lambs
Under the willow we graze in the morning;
If, having broken the fence, they enter the garden,
I, caressing, take them on my knees.
We live almost nearby: I'm over there,
Here she is - only a meadow separates us.
Leaving their forest, maybe in the grove to us
A swarm of bees fly in with a buzz suddenly.
Roses are those that at the hour of regular prayers
They are thrown into the water from the ghat as a gift to God,
Nails to our ghat in a wave;
And it happens, from their quarter in the spring
To sell carry flowers to our bazaar.
Our village is called Khonjon,
Our rivulet is called Onjona,
What is my name - it's known to everyone here,
And she is called simply - our Ronjona.
That village was approached from all sides
Mango groves and green fields.
In the spring, flax sprouts on their field,
Rises on our hemp.
If the stars rose above their dwelling,
Then a south breeze blows over ours,
If the downpours bend their palms to the ground,
Then in our forest a flower-code blooms.
Our village is called Khonjon,
Our rivulet is called Onjona,
What is my name - it's known to everyone here,
And she is called simply - our Ronjona.
Translation by T. Spendiarova
Impossible
Loneliness? What does it mean? Years go by
You go into the wilderness, not knowing why and where.
The month of Srabon drives over the forest foliage of the cloud,
The heart of the night was cut by lightning with a wave of the blade,
I hear: Varuni splashes, her stream rushes into the night.
My soul tells me: the impossible cannot be overcome.
How many times a bad night in my arms
The beloved fell asleep, listening to the downpour and the verse.
The forest was noisy, disturbed by the sob of the heavenly stream,
The body merged with the spirit, my desires were born,
Precious feelings gave me a rainy night
I'm leaving in the dark, wandering along the wet road,
And in my blood there is a long song of rain.
The sweet smell of jasmine was brought by a gusty wind.
The smell of a tree of smallness, the smell of girlish braids;
In the braids of the pretty flowers, these smelled just like that, exactly the same.
But the soul says: the impossible cannot be overcome.
Immersed in thought, wandering somewhere at random.
There is someone's house on my road. I see the windows are on fire.
I hear the sounds of the sitar, the melody of the song is simple,
This is my song, irrigated with warm tears,
This is my glory, this is sadness, gone away.
But the soul says: the impossible cannot be overcome.
Translation by A. Revich.
Twilight descends and the blue edge of the sari
Envelops the world in its dirt and burning, -
House collapsed, clothes torn shame.
Oh, let, like calm evenings,
Sorrow for you will descend into my poor spirit and darkness
Whole life will envelop with her melancholy bygone,
When I dragged along, I was worn out, frail and lame.
Oh, let her in the soul, merging evil with good,
He draws a circle for me for golden sadness.
There are no desires in the heart, the excitement was silent ...
May I not indulge again in a deaf rebellion, -
All the former is gone ... I go there,
Where the flame is even in the lamp of goodbye,
Where the lord of the universe is eternally joyful.
Translation by S. Shervinsky
Night
O night, lonely night!
Under the boundless sky
You sit and whisper something.
Looking into the face of the universe
untangled hair,
Affectionate and swarthy...
What are you eating, O night?
I hear your call again.
But your songs until now
I cannot comprehend.
My spirit is uplifted by you,
The eyes are clouded by sleep.
And someone in the wilderness of my soul
Singing with you
Like your own brother
Lost in the soul, alone
And anxiously looking for roads.
He sings the hymns of your fatherland
And waiting for an answer.
And, having waited, he goes towards ...
As if these fugitive sounds
Wake up the memory of someone past
As if he was laughing here, and crying,
And he called someone to his starry home.
Again he wants to come here -
And can't find a way...
How many affectionate half-words and bashful
half smiles
Old songs and sighs of the soul,
How many tender hopes and conversations of love,
How many stars, how many tears in silence,
Oh night, he gave you
And buried in your darkness! ..
And these sounds and stars float,
Like worlds turned to dust
In your endless seas
And when I sit alone on your shore
Songs and stars surround me
Life hugs me
And, beckoning with a smile,
Floats forward
And blooms, and melts away, and calls ...
Night, today I have come again,
To look into your eyes
I want to be silent for you
And I want to sing for you.
Where my old songs are, and my
lost laugh,
And swarms of forgotten dreams
Save my songs night
And build a tomb for them.
Night, I sing for you again
I know the night, I am your love.
Hide the song from close malice,
Bury in the treasured land ...
The dew will slowly fall
Forests will sigh measuredly.
Silence, lean on your hand,
Be careful going there...
Only sometimes, slipping a tear,
A star will fall on the tomb.
Translation by D. Golubkov
O flaming boyshakh, listen!
Let your bitter ascetic sigh herald decay
heyday,
Motley rubbish will sweep away, circling in the dust.
The haze of tears will dissipate in the distance.
Overcome earthly fatigue, destroy
Ablution in the burning heat, immersion in dry land.
Exterminate the weariness of everyday life in an angry blaze,
With a terrible rumble of a shell, redemption descended,
Heal from blissful peace!
Translation by M. Petrovs
Oh, the unity of mind, spirit and mortal flesh!
The secret of life, which is in the eternal cycle.
Uninterrupted from time immemorial, full of fire,
In the sky play magical starry nights and days.
The universe embodies its anxieties in the oceans,
In steep rocks - severity, tenderness - in dawns
crimson.
A web of existences moving everywhere
Everyone in himself feels like magic and a miracle.
Unknown waves sometimes rush through the soul
hesitation,
Each contains the eternal universe in itself.
A bed of union with the lord and creator,
I carry the throne of the immortal god in my heart.
Oh, boundless beauty! O king of earth and heaven!
I am created by you, as the most wonderful of miracles.
Translation by N. Stefanovich
Oh I know they will
My days will pass
And in some year in the evening sometimes
The dimmed sun, saying goodbye to me,
Smile sadly at me
One of the last minutes.
The flute will linger along the road,
A strong-horned ox will graze peacefully near the creek,
A child will run around the house,
The birds will sing their songs.
And the days will pass, my days will pass.
I ask for one thing
I beg for one thing:
Let me know before leaving
Why was I created
Why did you call me
Green land?
Why did the silence make me nights
Listen to the sound of stellar speeches,
Why, why bother
Soul the radiance of the day?
That's what I'm begging for.
When my days are through
The earthly term will end,
I want my song to sound to the end,
For a clear, sonorous note to crown it.
For life to bear fruit
Like a flower
I want that in the radiance of this life
I saw your bright face,
So that your wreath
I could put on you
When the term ends.
Translation by V. Tushnova1
Ordinary girl
I am a girl from Ontokhpur. It's clear,
That you don't know me. I have read
Your last story "Garland
Withered flowers", Shorot-Babu
Your shorn heroine
She died at the age of thirty-five.
From the age of fifteen, misfortunes happened to her.
I realized that you really are a wizard:
You let the girl triumph.
I'll tell about myself. I'm a little old
But the heart I already attracted
And she knew a reciprocal thrill to him.
But what am I! I'm a girl like everyone else
And in youth, many enchant.
Kindly, I beg you, write a story
About a very ordinary girl.
She is unhappy. What's in the depths
She has something extraordinary
Please find and show
So that everyone notices it.
She is so simple. She needs
Not truth, but happiness. So easy
Captivate her! Now I will tell
How did this happen to me.
Let's say his name is Noresh.
He said that for him in the world
There is no one, there is only me.
I did not dare to believe these praises,
But she couldn't believe it either.
And so he went to England. Soon
From there, letters began to arrive,
Not very common, however. Still would!
I thought he was not up to me.
There are a lot of girls there, and everyone is beautiful,
And everyone is smart and will be crazy
From my Noresh Sen, in chorus
Regretting that he was hidden for so long
At home from enlightened eyes.
And in one letter he wrote,
That went with Lizzy to the sea to swim,
And brought Bengali verses
About a heavenly maiden emerging from the waves.
Then they sat on the sand
And the waves rolled up at their feet,
And the sun from the sky smiled at them.
And Lizzie said quietly to him:
“You are still here, but soon you will go away,
Here is the open shell. proleus
At least one tear in it, and it will be
She is more valuable to me than pearls.”
What bizarre expressions!
Noresh wrote, however: “Nothing,
What is clearly so high-flown words,
But they sound so good.
Flowers of gold in solid diamonds
After all, it is also not in nature, but meanwhile
Artificiality does not interfere with their price.
These comparisons are from his letter
Thorns secretly pierced my heart.
I am a simple girl and not so
Spoiled by wealth, so as not to know
The real price of things. Alas!
Whatever you say, it happened
And I couldn't pay him back.
I beg you write a story
About a simple girl with whom you can
Say goodbye forever and ever
Stay in a select circle of friends
Near the owner of seven cars.
I realized that my life is broken
That I'm out of luck. However, the one
Which you bring out in the story,
Let me shame my enemies in revenge.
I wish your pen happiness.
Malati name (that's my name)
Give it to the girl. They don't recognize me in it.
There are too many malati, they cannot be counted
In Bengal, and they are all simple.
They are in foreign languages
They do not speak, but only know how to cry.
Give Malati the joy of celebration.
After all, you are smart, your pen is powerful.
Like Shakuntala temper her
In suffering. But have pity on me.
The only one that I
I asked the Almighty, lying at night,
I am deprived. save it
For the heroine of your story.
May he stay in London for seven years,
All the time in the exams cutting off,
Always busy with fans.
In the meantime, let your Malati
Get a PhD
at Calcutta University. Do It
With a single stroke of a pen
Great mathematician. But this
Don't limit yourself. Be more generous than God
And send your girl to Europe.
May the best minds there
Rulers, artists, poets,
Captivated like a new star
As a woman to her and as a scientist.
Let her thunder not in the country of the ignorant,
And in a society with a good upbringing,
Where along with English
French and German are spoken. Necessary,
So that there are names around Malati
And receptions were prepared in honor of her,
So that the conversation flows like rain,
And so that on the streams of eloquence
She swam more confidently,
Than a boat with excellent rowers.
Depict how buzzing around her:
"The heat of India and thunderstorms in this gaze."
I note, by the way, that in my
Eyes, unlike your Malati,
Passes through love to the creator alone
And that with your poor eyes
I didn't see one here
well-bred European.
Let her witness her victories
Noresh is standing, pushed aside by the crowd.
And what then? I won't continue!
This is where my dreams come to an end.
You still grumble at the Almighty,
A simple girl, had the courage?
Translation by B. Pasternak
Ordinary person
At sunset, with a stick under my arm, with a burden on my head,
A peasant walks home along the shore, on the grass.
If centuries later, by a miracle, whatever it is,
Returning from the realm of death, he will appear here again,
In the same guise, with the same bag,
Confused, looking around in amazement,—
What crowds of people will run to him immediately,
How everyone surrounds the stranger, keeping an eye on him,
How greedily every word they will catch
About his life, about happiness, sorrows and love,
About the house and about the neighbors, about the field and about the oxen,
About the thoughts of his peasant, his everyday affairs.
And the story of him, who is not famous for anything,
Then it will seem to people like a poem from poems.
Translation by V. Tushnova
Renunciation
At a late hour, who wished to renounce the world
“Today I will go to God, my house has become a burden to me.
Who kept me by sorcery at the threshold of mine?
God told him, "I am." The man did not hear him.
In front of him on the bed, breathing serenely in a dream,
The young wife held the baby to her breast.
"Who are they - the offspring of Maya?" the man asked.
God told him, "I am." The man heard nothing.
The one who wanted to leave the world stood up and shouted: “Where are you,
deity?"
God told him, "Here." The man did not hear him.
The child was brought in, cried in a dream, sighed.
God said, "Come back." But no one heard him.
God sighed and exclaimed, “Alas! As you wish,
Only where will you find me if I stay here.
Translation by V. Tushnova
Ferry
Who are you? You are transporting us
Oh man from the ferry.
Every night I see you
Standing on the threshold of the house
Oh man from the ferry.
When the market ends
Wandering ashore young and old,
There, to the river, a human wave
My soul is attracted
Oh man from the ferry.
To the sunset, to the other shore you
Directed the run of the ferry,
And the song is born in me
Unclear as a dream
Oh man from the ferry.
I stare at the surface of the water,
And the eyes will be covered with moisture of tears.
Sunset light falls on me
Weightless to the soul
Oh man from the ferry.
Your mouth has become dumb,
Oh man from the ferry.
What is written in your eyes
Clear and familiar
Oh man from the ferry.
As soon as I look into your eyes,
I am getting deep.
There, to the river, a human wave
My soul is attracted
Oh man from the ferry.
Translation by T. Spendiarova
Star herds roam at night to the sound of a flute.
You always graze your cows, invisible, in heaven.
Luminous cows illuminate the orchard,
Between flowers and fruits, wandering in all directions.
At dawn they run away, only the dust swirls after them.
You bring them back to your pen with evening music.
Disperse I gave desires, and dreams, and hopes.
O shepherd, my evening will come - will you gather them then?
Translation by V.Potapova
holiday morning
Opened in the morning the heart inadvertently,
And the world flowed into him like a living stream.
Confused, I watched with my eyes
Behind the golden arrows-rays.
A chariot appeared to Aruna,
And the morning bird woke up
Greeting the dawn, she chirped,
And everything around became even more beautiful.
Like a brother, the sky called out to me: “Come!>>
And I crouched, clung to his chest,
I went up to the sky along the beam, up,
The bounties of the sun poured into the soul.
Take me, O solar stream!
Guide Aruna's boat to the east
And into the ocean, boundless, blue
Take me, take me with you!
Translation by N. Podgorichani
Come, O storm, do not spare my dry branches,
It's time for new clouds, it's time for other rains,
Let a whirlwind of dance, a shower of tears, a brilliant night
The faded color of past years will soon be thrown away.
Let everything that is destined to leave, leave soon, soon!
I will spread the mat at night in my empty house.
Change clothes - I'm cold in the weeping rain.
The valley was flooded with water - itching in the banks of the river.
And as if beyond the line of death, life awoke in my soul.
Translation by M. Petrovs
Drunk
O drunk, in drunken unconsciousness
Go, throw open the doors with a jerk,
You all go down one night,
You go home with an empty wallet.
Despising prophecies, go on your way
Contrary to calendars, signs,
Wander around the world without roads,
At the same time, carrying a load of empty deeds;
You set the sail under a squall,
Rope cutting helmsman.
I am ready, brothers, to accept your vow:
Get drunk and - in the heat of the head!
I saved up the wisdom of many years,
Stubbornly comprehended good and evil,
I have accumulated so much junk in my heart,
That became too heavy for the heart.
Oh how many nights and days I have killed
In the most sober of all human companies!
I saw a lot - my eyes became weak,
I became blind and decrepit from knowledge.
My cargo is empty - all my luggage is poor
Let the storm wind dispel.
I understand, brothers, happiness is only
Get drunk and - in the heat of the head!
Oh, straighten up, doubt curvature!
Oh wild hops, lead me astray!
You demons must get me
And carry away from the protection of Lakshmi!
There are family men, darkness workers,
Their peaceful age will be lived with dignity,
There are big rich people in the world
They meet smaller. Who can!
Let them, as they lived, continue to live.
Carry me, drive me, oh crazy flurry!
I comprehended everything - occupation is the best:
Get drunk and - in the heat of the head!
From now on, I swear, I will abandon everything, -
Leisure, sober mind including -
Theories, wisdom of sciences
And all understanding of good and evil.
I will empty the vessel of memory,
Forever I will forget both sadness and grief,
I aspire to the sea of foamy wine,
I will wash my laughter in this unsteady sea.
Let me rip off my dignity,
I'm being carried away by a drunken hurricane!
I swear to go the wrong way:
Get drunk and - in the heat of the head!
Translation by A. Revich
Raja and his wife
One raja lived in the world ...
On that day, I was punished by Rajoy
For the fact that, without asking, into the forest
He left and climbed a tree there,
And from above, all alone,
I watched the blue peacock dance.
But suddenly cracked under me
A knot, and we fell - me and a bitch.
Then I sat locked up
I didn’t eat my favorite pies,
In the garden of the rajah did not pick fruit,
Alas, I didn't attend...
Who punished me, tell me?
Who is hidden under the name of that Raja?
And the raja had a wife -
Good, beautiful, honor and praise to her ...
I listened to her in every way...
Knowing about my punishment,
She looked at me
Then, sadly bowing his head,
She hastily left for her rest.
And the door closed tightly behind her.
Haven't eaten or drunk all day
I didn't even go to the party...
But my punishment is over -
And in whose arms did I find myself?
Who kissed me in tears
Rocked like a little one in his arms?
Who was that? Tell! Tell!
Well, what is the name of that Raja's wife?
Translation by A. Efron
For the sake of the coming morning, which will light the fires of happiness,
My fatherland, take courage and keep purity.
Be free in chains, your temple, aspiring
Hurry up to decorate with festive flowers.
And let the fragrance fill your air,
And let the aroma of your plants ascend to the sky,
In the silence of expectation, bowing before eternity,
Feel the connection with the light that is not moving.
What else will comfort, rejoice, strengthen
Among heavy misfortunes, losses, trials, insults?
The woman that was dear to me
I used to live in this village.
The path to the lake pier led,
To rotten footbridges on rickety steps.
The name of this distant village,
Perhaps only the inhabitants knew.
The cold wind brought from the edge
Earthy smell on cloudy days.
Such sometimes his impulses grew,
The trees in the grove leaned down.
In the dirt of the fields liquefied by rains
Green rice was choking.
Without the close participation of a friend,
who lived there at the time,
Probably, I would not know in the district
No lake, no grove, no village.
She took me to the Shiva temple,
Drowning in the dense forest shade.
Thanks to getting to know her, I'm alive
I remembered village wattle fences.
I would not know the lake, but this backwater
She swam across.
She loved to swim in this place,
The footprints of her nimble feet are in the sand.
Supporting jugs on the shoulders,
Peasant women trudged from the lake with water.
Men greeted her at the door,
When they walked past from the field of freedom.
She lived in the suburbs,
How little things have changed!
Sailing boats under the fresh breeze
As of old, they slide along the lake to the south.
Peasants are waiting on the shore of the ferry
And discuss rural affairs.
The crossing would not be familiar to me,
If only she didn't live here.
Translation by B. Pasternak
Pipe
Your pipe is covered in dust
And don't lift my eyes.
The wind died down, the light went out in the distance.
The hour of misfortune has come!
Calls wrestlers to fight,
He orders the singers - sing!
Choose your own path!
Fate awaits everywhere.
Wallows in the empty dust
Fearless Trumpet.
In the evening I went to the chapel,
Pressing the flowers to my chest.
Wanted from the storm of being
Find safe shelter.
From wounds on the heart - exhausted.
And I thought the time would come
And the stream will wash away the dirt from me,
And I'll be clean...
But across my paths
Your pipe is down.
The light flashed, illuminating the altar,
Altar and darkness
A garland of tuberose, as of old,
Now gossip to the gods.
From now on the old war
I'll finish, meet the silence.
Perhaps I will return the debt to the sky ...
But again he calls (to the slave
In a minute turning one)
Silent pipe.
Magic stone of youth
Touch me quickly!
Let, rejoicing, pour your light
The delight of my soul!
Piercing the chest of black darkness,
Calling to heaven
A bottomless horror awakening
In the land that is dressed in darkness,
Let the soldier sing the motive
Trumpet of your victories!
And I know, I know that a dream
It will leave my eyes.
In the chest - as in the month of Srabon -
The streams of water roar.
Someone will come running to my call,
Someone will cry out loud
The night bed will tremble -
Terrible fate!
Sounds happy today
Great pipe.
I wanted to ask for peace
Found one shame.
Put it on to cover everything,
Armor from now on.
Let the new day threaten trouble
I will remain myself.
May the grief given by you
There will be a celebration.
And I'll be forever with a pipe
Your fearlessness!
Translation by A. Akhmatova
The heaviness of the viscous resin in the aroma dreams of pouring out,
The fragrance is ready to shut up forever in resin.
And the melody asks for movement and strives for rhythm,
And the rhythm hurries to the roll call of melodious frets.
Looking for a vague feeling and form, and clear edges.
The form fades in the mist and melts in a formless dream.
The boundless asks for boundaries and tight outlines,
In a hundred years
Who will you be,
Reader of poems left of me?
In the future, a hundred years from the present day,
will they be able to convey a particle of my dawns,
Boiling my blood
And the song of birds, and the joy of spring,
And the freshness of the flowers given to me
And strange dreams
And rivers of love?
Will the songs keep me
In the future, a hundred years from now?
I do not know, and yet, friend, that door that faces south,
open up; sit by the window, and then,
Dali veiled with a haze of dreams,
Remember that
What's in the past, exactly one hundred years before you,
Restless exultant thrill, leaving the abyss of heaven,
He clung to the heart of the earth, warmed her with greetings.
And then, freed by the arrival of spring from the fetters,
Drunk, crazy, the most impatient in the world
The wind that carries pollen and the smell of flowers on its wings,
South wind
He swooped in and made the earth bloom.
The day was sunny and wonderful. With a soul full of songs
Then a poet appeared in the world,
He wanted the words to bloom like flowers,
And love warmed like sunlight,
In the past, exactly one hundred years before you.
In the future, a hundred years from now,
Poet singing new songs
Will bring greetings from me to your house
And today's young spring
So that the songs of my spring stream merge, ringing,
With the beating of your blood, with the buzzing of your bumblebees
And with the rustle of leaves that beckons me
To the future, a hundred years from now.
Translation by A.Sendyk
Something from light touches, something from vague words, -
So there are tunes - a response to a distant call.
Champak in the midst of the spring bowl,
polash in the blaze of bloom
Sounds and colors will tell me, -
this is the path to inspiration.
Something will appear in a flash,
Visions in the soul - without number, without counting,
And something is gone, ringing, - you can’t catch the melody.
So the minute replaces the minute - the chased ringing of bells.
Translation by M. Petrovs
Shakespeare
When your star lit up over the ocean
For England that day you became a desirable son;
She considered you her treasure,
Touching your hand to your forehead.
Not long among the branches she rocked you;
For a short time the covers lay on you
Fog in the thick of herbs sparkling with dew,
In the gardens, where, having fun, danced a swarm of girls.
Your anthem has already sounded, but the groves were sleeping peacefully.
Then the distance barely moved:
Your firmament held you in its arms,
And you already shone from the midday heights
And he lit up the whole world with himself, like a miracle.
Centuries have passed since then. Today - as everywhere -
From Indian shores, where rows of palms grow,
Between the quivering branches they sing your praise.
Translation by A. Akhmatova
Young tribe
Oh young, oh daring tribe,
Always in dreams, in crazy dreams;
Struggling with the obsolete, you overtake time.
In the bloody hour of dawn in the native land
Let everyone talk about his own,
Despising all arguments, in the heat of intoxication,
Fly into space, throwing off the burden of doubt!
Grow, o violent earthly tribe!
The irrepressible wind shakes the cage.
But our house is empty, silent in it.
Everything is motionless in the secluded room.
A decrepit bird sits on a pole,
The tail is lowered, and the beak is tightly closed,
Motionless, like a statue, sleeps;
Time has stopped in her prison.
Grow, stubborn earthly tribe!
The blind do not see that spring is in nature:
The river roars, the dam breaks,
And the waves rolled free.
But the children of inert lands doze
And they don't want to walk in the dust,
They sit on rugs, they have gone into themselves;
They are silent, covering the top of the head from the sun.
Grow, disturbing earthly tribe!
Resentment will flare up among the stragglers.
The rays of spring will disperse dreams.
"What an attack!" they will cry out in dismay.
Your mighty blow will strike them.
Jump out of bed, blind in a rage,
Armed, they rush into battle.
Truth will fight with lies, the sun with darkness.
Grow, mighty earthly tribe!
The altar of the goddess of slavery is in front of us.
But the hour will strike - and he will fall!
Madness, invade, sweeping away everything in the temple!
A banner will rise, a whirlwind will rush around,
Your laughter will split the sky like thunder.
Break the vessel of errors - all that is in it,
Take it for yourself - O joyful burden!
Grow, earthly insolent tribe!
I will renounce the world, I will become free!
Open space in front of me
I will go forward relentlessly.
Many obstacles await me, sorrows,
And my heart thrashes in my chest.
Give me firmness, dispel doubts -
Let the scribe go with everyone
Grow, O free earthly tribe!
O eternal youth, always be with us!
Throw away the ashes of centuries and rust of shackles!
Sow the world with seeds of immortality!
Swarm in thunderclouds of fierce lightning,
The earthly world is full of green hops,
And you lay on me in the spring
A garland of a glass1 - the time is near.
Grow, immortal earthly tribe!
Translation by E. Birukova
I love my sandy shore
Where lonely autumn
storks nest,
Where flowers bloom white
And flocks of geese from cold countries
They find shelter in winter.
Here in the gentle sun they bask
Turtles lazy herd.
Evening fishing boats
Sailing here...
I love my sandy shore
Where lonely autumn
Storks nest.
Do you love woodland
On your shore
Where the branches are plexus,
Where shaky shadows sway,
Where is the nimble snake of the path
Goes around the trunks on the run,
And above it bamboo
Waving a hundred green hands
And around the semi-darkness coolness,
And the silence around...
There at dawn and in the evening,
Passing through the shady groves,
Women gather near the pier,
And children until dark
Rafts float on the water...
Do you love woodland
On your shore
Where the branches are plexus,
Where shaky shadows sway.
And between us the river flows -
Between you and me
And I shore an endless song
He sings with his wave.
I'm lying on the sand
On its deserted shore.
You are on your side
Grove cool passed to the river
With a jug.
We listen to the river song for a long time
Together with you.
You hear a different song on your shore,
Than me on my...
The river flows between us
Between you and me
And I shore an endless song
He sings with his wave.
I'm circling the forests like crazy.
Like a musk deer, I can't find it
Peace, persecuted by its smell.
Oh, false night! - everything rushes past:
And the south wind, and spring dope.
What purpose beckoned me in the darkness?..
And desire burst out of my chest.
That rushes far ahead
That grows into a persistent guardian,
It circles around me like a night mirage.
Now the whole world is drunk with my desire,
I don't remember what got me drunk...
What I strive for is madness and deceit,
And what is given itself is not nice to me.
Alas, my flute has gone mad:
She cries herself, she rages herself,
The frantic sounds went crazy.
I catch them, stretch out my hands...
But the dimensional system is not given to the insane.
I rush through the sea of sounds without feeding ...
What I strive for is madness and deceit,
And what is given itself is not nice to me.
Translation by V. Markova
A crowd of dark blue clouds appeared, asharkh knew.
Don't leave the house today!
Downpours washed away the earth, flooded the rice fields.
Beyond the river is darkness and thunder.
The wind rustles on the empty shore, the waves rustle on the run,—
A wave is driven by a wave, cramped, attracted ...
It's getting late, there won't be a ferry today.
You hear: the cow mooing at the gate, it's time for her to go to the barn for a long time.
A little more and it will be dark.
See if those who have been in the fields since morning have returned—
it's time for them to come back.
The shepherd forgot about the herd - it strayed in disarray.
A little more and it will be dark.
Don't go out, don't leave the house!
Evening descended, moisture in the air, languor.
A dank haze on the way, it is slippery to walk along the shore.
Look how the evening slumber cradles the bowl of bamboo.
Translation by M. Petrovs
