My friends find it weird that I read poetry like I read novels. I still haven’t found an answer to give to them as to why I do that. Maybe my incapacity to write one makes me read ’em. Yeah, I think that’s the reason.
I was reading from ‘Particles, Jottings, Sparks’ – a collection of brief poems of Rabindranath Tagore. And it has me spell-bound. Some verses are my favorites – I keep reading them over and over again. To me, it gives a whole new perspective to everyday things and it’s a whole new joy altogether when these lines just pop up into my head when I see a sunset or the moon!
Some ‘particles’ –
Let’s shut the door to block out sin!
“Then how”, says Truth, “shall I get in?”
Mud, you sully everyone’s purity.
But doesn’t that simplly make YOU dirty?
Weeping at night won’t bring back the sun,
And it makes the light of the stars seem vain.
Work and rest belong to each other –
Like eye and eyelid linked together.
Some ‘Jottings’ –
God desires to wear
A garland made by mankind;
Which is why his own basket of flowers
Is left in the lap of the soil
For us to find.
In my thorns, my errors lie,
Not in my flowers.
Let the thorns, my darling, be mine:
The flowers are yours.
Those flowers of dawn that have gone,
Deserting the day’s light,
At dusk come back again,
Dressed as the stars of the night.
Let go of what must go!
It will cause you hurt
If you do not open the door
To let it out.
And some ‘Sparks’ –
Of the rising sun.
Not fully pleased,
With a new sunflower
Earth tries again.
With the past’s pen in my hand
I write my name on the future.
Superimposed are the signatures
Of later writers.
In Time’s notebook the muddle
Of old and new combined:
A ceaseless scribble.
You might be wondering why I made a blog post out of this. I’ve always seen my blog as a bookmark to the things in my life that I want to go back and read about. Yeah, the floods too 😉 For the truly interested, poetry gives a lot of peace. Those moments when I’m reading them, there’s nothing else on my mind. It’s like pin-drop silence in my mind (which is otherwise a cacophony of noises!) with nothing but the poem reverberating through it. That, folks, has to be felt, not read about.