Santiniketan – The Place where Rabindranath Tagore opened his School, University and this is the place where the Nobel Laurette wrote all his award winning poems and stories.
A wandering madman was seeking
the touchstone, with matted locks,
tawny and dust-laden, and body worn
to a shadow, his lips tight-pressed,
like the shut-up doors of his heart,
his burning eyes like the lamp of a
glow-worm seeking its mate.
Before him the endless ocean
roared. The garrulous waves ceaselessly
talked of hidden treasures, mocking
the ignorance that knew not their
meaning. Maybe he now had no hope remaining,
yet he would not rest, for
the search had become his life,–
Just as the ocean for ever lifts its
arms to the sky for the unattainable-
Just as the stars go in circles, yet
seeking a goal that can never be
reached-Even so on the lonely shore the
madman with dusty tawny locks still
roamed in search of the touchstone.
One day a village boy came up and
asked, “Tell me, where did you come
at this golden chain about your
waist?”The madman started–the chain
that once was iron was verily gold;
it was not a dream, but he did not
know when it had changed.
He struck his forehead wildly–
where, O where had he without know-in it achieved success? It had grown into a habit, to pick
up pebbles and touch the chain, and
to throw them away without looking
to see if a change had come; thus the
madman found and lost the touchstone.
The sun was sinking low in the west,
the sky was of gold. The madman returned on his foot-
steps to seek anew the lost treasure,
with his strength gone, his body bent,
and his heart in the dust, like a tree
By: Rabindranath Tagore
Glory falls around us
as we sob
a dirge of
desolation on the Cross
and hatred is the ballast of
which his upon our necks
We have woven
robes of silk
and clothed our nakedness
From crawling on this
murky planet’s floor
we soar beyond the
through the clouds
and edge our waays from hate
and blind despair and
to our brothers, and to our sisters cheer.
We grow despite the
horror that we feed
upon our own
By: Maya Angelou
The First Jasmines
Ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines!
I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands
with these jasmines, these white jasmines.
I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth;
I have heard the liquid murmur of the river
through the darkness of midnight;
Autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of the road
in the lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil
to accept her lover.
Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines
that I held in my hands when I was a child.
Many a glad day has come in my life,
and I have laughed with merrymakers on festival nights.
On grey mornings of rain
I have crooned many an idle song.
I have worn round my neck the evening wreath of
BAKULAS woven by the hand of love.
Yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh jasmines
that filled my hands when I was a child.
By: Rabindranath Tagore