Anvil - The Golden Boat.pdf - Inpress Books

ANVIL PRESS POETRY
Sample Poems from
The Golden Boat
by Rabindranath Tagore
Translated by Joe Winter
The Golden Boat
It’s deep monsoon. The thunder-sky-clouds call.
I wait alone but with no hope at all.
Now the paddy-harvest’s over,
brimming baskets stretch forever . . .
as the currents of the river cut and thrust and maul.
In harvest-time the rain began to fall.
On the bank in a small field I stay
alone. Across the stream’s cross-purpose-play,
I see the painting of a village
in cloud-shadow. Trees and foliage
cluster in a dark ink-collage. It’s early in the day.
In the field alone I sit and stay.
Who’s that bringing his boat in, singing a song
It seems as if I’ve known him all along.
On the course back out he’s starting,
looking nowhere, and departing
in full sail. The waves break, parting, helpless in their throng.
It seems as if I’ve known him all along.
Friend, where are you off to, what far shore
Turn and bring your boat in, just once more!
Then go where you will, your bounty
grant to whom you will in plenty –
but smiling for an instant, even, only take before
my golden paddy, coming to this shore.
Take however much you want aboard.
More yet – No, I’ve given all my hoard.
All that I was lost in, staying
on the river’s bank, delaying
long – all that in your boat laying, you have safely stored.
Now in your kindness take me too aboard.

No room, no room! The small boat, stacked today
even with my paddy’s gold, is under way.
In the Srabon sky forever
clouds are darkly wheeling over
an empty and deserted river where I sit and stay.
The golden boat took all there was away.
1892
The Guest
Love came and went, and left ajar the door.
No second entrance.
Only one more arrival, one guest more
to make acquaintance.
One day he’ll come in and the lamp extinguish,
carry me far
down the trackway of some wandering homeless
planet and star.
Till then I’ll sit alone, by open door,
work in attendance,
and when the time comes for that one guest more,
there’ll be no hindrance.
One day all the worship-rites I’ll finish –
prepared at last,
I’ll spread my arms and welcome home the homeless,
in silence vast.
The one today who left an open door,
still by the entrance
said, “Dry your eyes, for there is one guest more
to gain admittance.
Finish the weaving, all your work accomplish,
pluck out life’s thorn,
and to your new home carry – you, the homeless –
a wreath newborn.”
1902