Anthology of modern Indian poetry

by Unknown

I come. Ye ask, “Who art thou?” Gods have
not named me. I call myself “Humanity”;
I dwell on land and in the seas; I sweep through
the air and the ether.
I am man and woman and the intermediate one;
I am the ape and the tiger and the lamb.
I wander in the woods of dark continents as the
savage cannibal; I watch by the bedside
of the sick in the home of mercy.
I am ferocity in the beast of prey; I am compassion
in the heart of the mother.
I devour my own offspring; I sacrifice myself to
save others.
I change—every moment, every season, every
æon;
I fill the pages of my history with romances
written in blood;
Out of my dreams of heaven I create this earth;
I wax strong and wage war to please Death;
I laugh at Death and hurl him into the flaming
furnace of hell—and this I do to please my
children.
I enter the portals of Life with strong crying—and
with a sigh I bid farewell to Life.
I am prophet; I am idiot;
I am king and shepherd and fisherman.
I put my foot on the neck of kings and shepherds
and fishermen and turn them into dust;
And with their dust do I besmear myself and
madly dance over green meadows.
I am—what ye fear to think of me; I will be—what
ye love to dream of me.
But I will baffle all your fond expectations and
all your clever calculations;
In a moment of infinite time I will take the whole
world by the hand and lift it up to the heaven
of my heart.
I am the most erring of the High Mother’s children,
but one sure instinct I possess—I stand erect
the moment I fall, and by the aid of the very
obstacle that caused my fall do I rise again.
I sorrow not over my shortcomings and my
sufferings;
I hope—yet know that my hopes are too wild to
be realised.
In a part of Space called the Corner of Pain I
have made my home;
I breathe the atmosphere of pain—I drink from
the well of pain—I eat the fruits of the tree
of pain—my sleep is troubled by the dream
of pain.
I love not Pain—Pain loves me;
The whole history of my existence is a constant
fleeing from this cruel lover of mine;
I have prayed to God to be delivered from him—has
He heard my prayer?
I have worshipped a million lesser divinities—nature-gods,
man-gods, god-gods—throughout
the ages, hoping to be relieved of pain—have
they saved me?
I have believed in prophets, saviours, saints—have
they healed me?
I have listened to philosophers, scientists,
magicians—have they protected me?
Kings, statesmen, law-givers have boldly proclaimed
the gospel of peace and security—have
they not themselves plunged the
poisoned dagger into my heart?
I am old as Eternity—yet I feel not the burden
of eternal years;
I am young as the babe of to-day—yet I am wise
as all the hoary Bible-makers of all the races
of the earth.
I am one—I am many; I am spirit, ghost, man,
animal, and tree: yet my hidden life flows
ever with passionate impetuosity towards
the distant future above the heads of
nations.
To me the least is not less than the greatest; in
all I am their sensitiveness to pain—the pain
of a perpetual new birth of cosmos or of
chaos.
I am large, and my largeness moves me to face
great pain for the avoiding of great pain;
I am strong, and my strength lies in discovering
the source of consolation even in the moment
of suffering from suffering itself;
I am inured to pain—so that I delight in excitement
that brings pain and inflicts pain.
Who brought this pain upon me? Had it been
God-given, God would one day have taken
it away; has He taken it away?
Had it been the gift of Nature, I would have
revenged myself upon her; but I feel no
enmity to Nature—I desire that she be
endless, infinite, that I may ever conquer
her;
I desire to be charmed by her—yet to be her
master; I wonder, shall I ever wish to end
this play?

Deeming myself the mother of my pain, I seek
the aid of floods and earthquakes, war and
pestilence and famine, to bring destruction
on myself; but ever by a mysterious magic
I rise from my own ashes and live again;
and after my resurrection, sitting in the
dawn-light by the waveless ocean, Psyche
comes and whispers to my heart: “Not
thou, O sweet Humanity, art cause of thine
own pain!”
And I muse: If I be the father of my sufferings,
how can I desire to live again? How can I
inflict pain upon myself? How can I construct
machinery for my own torture?
I know that my nature is rooted in contradiction;
have I perhaps sought to grow at the cost
of happiness and peace?
Bright Powers in the heavens are watching over
my mysterious destiny. Have they lauded
me as good and true and beautiful? Have
they condemned me as bad and false and
ugly? Who will say whether I am developing
aright? Who will say whether the
daily use to which I am constrained to put
my life is not frustrating the Eternal Purpose?
I am left alone with my unforeseeing understanding
and my ever forward-springing
untamable energy.

My knowledge embraces not the whole reality.
Perchance my sensitiveness to pain has
sprung from my limited uncomprehending
understanding. True, in my own eyes I
grow from ugliness to beauty, from ignorance
to knowledge, from slavery to freedom, from
sin to holiness. I make progress in culture
and civilisation—but I rise to the zenith
only to descend to the nadir.
Henceforth I will seek new and inward space for
my progress. In the coming age I will
seek to bore a tunnel in the spirit, to find an
inner path to the Divinity of my Heart.
But I will not destroy the bridges which I
have built during the past ages, linking
this earth with the distant divinity of suns
and moons and stars.
I will be free, glorious, and immortal.

The Voice ceases.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.

All this is rhythm.
May-fields, child-hearts, evening skies,
Grow corn and wisdom and stars
By the throb of rhythm;
And Muses from the Milky Way
Nightly visit
The sleeping poet’s downy pillow
By the law of rhythm;
And angels bring him faces
Flushed with morning’s rose,
Tinted with even’s quiet,
By the sweet impulse of rhythm.
Wait, O soul!
Outside thy door, upon the green,
Heaven stands expectant,
Waiting to be ushered in
By Rhythm,
Just now—or perchance to-morrow.

Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Usarika.”

Friend, dwell thou
within my ruby-lotus heart of dreams;
Friend, see thyself
in the diamond mirror of my heart of hopes;
Friend, sport with me
in the garden-walks of my heart, fringed with everlastings;
Friend, sleep thou on the shore of the song-throated ocean of my heart;
Friend, shine in me
like sunlight in the heart of a rose-bud of jade.

Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Usarika.”

Thou art the rose,
I am the honey;
Thou drinkest the light
of the four heavens,
And my soul is suffused
with the rainbow of seven tints;
I give myself
to the bees
And become a song
on the wings of winds
that sing to the gods
and the fleecy clouds
and the sleeping children of Life.

Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.