This man knew out the secret ways of love,
No man could paint such things who did not know.
And now she's gone, who was his Cyprian,
And you are here, who are ‘The Isles’ to me.
And here's the thing that lasts the whole thing out:
The eyes of this dead lady speak to me.
Spare us the hint of slightest desecration,
Spotless preserve us an untainted shrine;
Not for thy sake, oh goddess of creation,
Not for thy sake, oh woman, but for mine.
Seeking to find his home, Odysseus crosses each water;
Through Charybdis so dread; ay, and through Scylla's wild yells,
Through the alarms of the raging sea, the alarms of the land too,--
E'en to the kingdom of hell leads him his wandering course.
And at length, as he sleeps, to Ithaca's coast fate conducts him;
There he awakes, and, with grief, knows not his fatherland now.
Toiletries are not necessary for your beauty,
silk-sari and gold ornaments are not necessary;
o flower, in which dress you stay
your beauty speaks penetrating each cell of your whole body.
Translated from Bengali by the poet
I wonder what the ocean is like today?
Cold and flat, hot and flat?
Cold and whippy,, tide out, in? The sand
will be warm, I'm sure
for the sun is out today, and although not warm
in the house
It is in the spot I am going to now.
Why should I be the first to phone?
He knows too:
last night came the first monsoon.
After years of wisdom
During which the world was transparent as a needle
Was it cooing about something else?
After having vied with returned favours squandered treasure
More than a red lip with a red tip
And more than a white leg with a white foot
Where then do we think we are?
Inanimate objects are always correct and cannot, unfortunately, be reproached with anything. I have never observed a chair shift from one foot to another, or a bed rear on its hind legs. And tables, even when they are tired, will not dare to bend their knees. I suspect that objects do this from pedagogical considerations, to reprove us constantly for our instability.
O, how sad!
Why of visitors
Should there be not one?
In melancholy, where I dwell
The wind comes upon the bush-clover leaves.
O wretched man! Why lov’st thou earthly life?
Which nought enjoys but cares and endless trouble;
What pleasure here, but breeds a world of grief?
What hour’s ease, that anguish doth not double;
No earthly joys, but have their discontents;
Then loathe that life, which causeth such laments
