“Gift” by Rabindranath Tagore (repost)

O my love, what gift of mine
Shall I give you this dawn?
A morning song?
But morning does not last long—
The heat of the sun
Wilts like a flower
And songs that tire
Are done.

O friend, when you come to my gate.
At dusk
What is it you ask?
What shall I bring you?
A light?

A lamp from a secret corner of my silent house?
But will you want to take it with you
Down the crowded street?
Alas,
The wind will blow it out.

Whatever gifts are in my power to give you,
Be they flowers,
Be they gems for your neck
How can they please you
If in time they must surely wither,
Crack,
Lose lustre?
All that my hands can place in yours
Will slip through your fingers
And fall forgotten to the dust
To turn into dust.

Rather,
When you have leisure,
Wander idly through my garden in spring
And let an unknown, hidden flower’s scent startle you
Into sudden wondering—
Let that displaced moment
Be my gift.
Or if, as you peer your way down a shady avenue,
Suddenly, spilled
From the thick gathered tresses of evening
A single shivering fleck of sunset-light stops you,
Turns your daydreams to gold,
Let that light be an innocent
Gift.

Truest treasure is fleeting;
It sparkles for a moment, then goes.
It does not tell its name; its tune
Stops us in our tracks, its dance disappears
At the toss of an anklet
I know no way to it—
No hand, nor word can reach it.
Friend, whatever you take of it,
On your own,
Without asking, without knowing, let that
Be yours.
Anything I can give you is trifling—
Be it a flower, or a song.

Rabindranath Tagore

*Originally shared 5/29/15.

(I found this poem via the internet, but there is a Complete Works currently available at Amazon for Kindle for only $1.99.)

“Pain of Process” by Myriam Joseph Loeschen

Editor note: I’m very pleased to introduce Ms. Myriam Joseph Loeschen. Myriam will be guest-hosting Words for the Year this week, and has personally selected some beautiful, inspiring and transformative pieces for your consideration. Enjoy this week’s “Words With Myriam.” ~ Christy

Pain of Process

Each journey through any transformative process brings excruciating demands.  Life meets us where we look towards, responding to our inner callings and secret whispers. As we stand at the shore of the ocean at the most golden hour holding the wish “I want to be doing this in my career”, or secretly whispering out into the cold crisp air of a mountaintop at dawn “this far away place is calling me universe, get me there” it is our spirit that stands along side us and takes notes. Before we are fully aware, of what is ours to take, we find ourselves in the midst of moving towards that which was our most wanted change or secret dream. While the external of the dream or wish or change, looked exactly as we wanted and we knew we could “rock” if only someone would lead us there, we invite opportunity and possibility without the full understanding of what internal work will be required of us to land where our heart desires. Suddenly in the midst, we find ourselves standing in the depths of “how did I get here”, feeling alone and afraid. Lucky for us poetry can serve as a traveling companion during the painful, scary moments of a transformative process. Not to say that any one poem will ever bring one safely to shore, for we must do the swimming and work alone, but hopefully a poetry can serve as a life line as you swim the rough waters.

Each of the poems you will read this week has been selected for you to grasp, whether in despair or in joy. You are encouraged to read each poem more than once and when you find the one that resonates with you most deeply, hold on for dear life.

~ Myriam Joseph Loeschen

***

The song I have come to sing
remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my life
stringing and unstringing
my instrument.

~ Rabindranath Tagore, from “song number 13,” Gitanjali

 

 

“Gift” by Rabindranath Tagore

O my love, what gift of mine
Shall I give you this dawn?
A morning song?
But morning does not last long—
The heat of the sun
Wilts like a flower
And songs that tire
Are done.

O friend, when you come to my gate.
At dusk
What is it you ask?
What shall I bring you?
A light?

A lamp from a secret corner of my silent house?
But will you want to take it with you
Down the crowded street?
Alas,
The wind will blow it out.

Whatever gifts are in my power to give you,
Be they flowers,
Be they gems for your neck
How can they please you
If in time they must surely wither,
Crack,
Lose lustre?
All that my hands can place in yours
Will slip through your fingers
And fall forgotten to the dust
To turn into dust.

Rather,
When you have leisure,
Wander idly through my garden in spring
And let an unknown, hidden flower’s scent startle you
Into sudden wondering—
Let that displaced moment
Be my gift.
Or if, as you peer your way down a shady avenue,
Suddenly, spilled
From the thick gathered tresses of evening
A single shivering fleck of sunset-light stops you,
Turns your daydreams to gold,
Let that light be an innocent
Gift.

Truest treasure is fleeting;
It sparkles for a moment, then goes.
It does not tell its name; its tune
Stops us in our tracks, its dance disappears
At the toss of an anklet
I know no way to it—
No hand, nor word can reach it.
Friend, whatever you take of it,
On your own,
Without asking, without knowing, let that
Be yours.
Anything I can give you is trifling—
Be it a flower, or a song.

Rabindranath Tagore