Sensation Jibanananda Das Into the half light and shadow go I. Within my head Not a dream, but some sensation works its will. Not a dream, not peace, not love, A sensation born in my very being. I cannot escape it For it puts its hand in mine, And all else pales to insignificance—futile, so it seems, All thought—all times of prayer, Seem empty, Empty, so it seems. Who can go on, like the simple folk? Who can stop within this light and darkness Like the simple people? Who can speak Like them today? Who can know For certain anymore? Who seeks to understand The carnal savors anymore? Who apprehends the joys Of life anymore, like everyman? And sows seeds anymore like everyman? Where is that relish? And who, hungry for the harvest, Has smeared himself with scents of earth, Is anointed with the scents of water, Has gazed toward light with rapt attention And gained a peasant heart— Who would anymore remain awake upon this earth? Not a dream—not peace—but some sensation is at work Within my head. When I walk along the beach, or cross from shore to shore, I try to ignore it. I seize it like I would a dead mans skull And wish to smash it on the ground. Yet it spins like a living head All around my head, All about my eyes, Encircling my chest. I move, it too comes along with me. I stop— It halts also. As I take a seat among other beings Am I alone becoming estranged Because of my mannerisms? Is it just my eyes that are bedazzled? Is it just my path thats blocked? Those born into this world As children, Those who spent much time Giving birth in turn to children, Or those who must produce today The children, or they who come to the sown fields of this world To give birth—to give birth— Is not my heart Like theirs, their heart and head? Is not their mind Like my mind? Then why am I so alone? Yet I am all alone. Did I not raise my hand to see it hold a peasants plough? Have I not drawn water by the pail? Have I not, time and again, gone with sickle to the fields? How many wharves and rivers have I been to Like fisherfolk? Algae from a pond, the smell of fish Engulfed my body. —All these tastes. —All these Ive had. My life has flowed Like unchecked winds. My mind slept as I lay beneath the stars One day. All these desires I knew once—unchecked—unbounded. Then I left them all behind. Ive looked at women lovingly. Ive looked with apathy at women. With hate Ive looked at women. She has loved me, And come near. She has paid no heed to me. She has hated me and gone away—though I called her time and time again, Adoring her. Yet it was actually practiced one day—this love. I paid no heed to her words of contempt, No attention to the anger of her hate, And went my own way. I forgot That star—whose sinister influence Blocked my path of love, over and over and over again. Still this love—dust and mud. Within my head Not a dream, not love, but some sensation is at work. I leave all gods behind And come close to my heart— I speak to this heart. Why does it grumble to itself, alone, like churning waters? Is it never weary? Does it never have a moments peace? Will it never ever sleep? Will it not enjoy just Resting calmly? or not know the joy Of gazing at the face of man? Of gazing at the face of woman? Of gazing at childrens faces? This sensation—only this desire What does it gain, immense—profound? Does it not wish to leave the beaten paths And seek the starry span of sky? Has it vowed To look upon that mans face? To look upon that womans face? To look upon those childrens faces? Those sickly shadows under eyes, The ears that cannot hear, The hunchback—a goiter that arose upon the flesh, A spoiled cucumber—chancred pumpkin, All that came to be within the heart of man —All that. Translated from the Bangla by Clinton B. Seely
Posted on: Mon, 10 Mar 2014 12:20:51 +0000
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