Some Poems of Madhav Julian

(Rendered from Marathi)¹

(1)

THE ROWER TO HIS BELOVED

What shall I sing? Whence can I invoke such melodies as yours? Rather should you, as you hold the rudder-handle, sing your refreshing song.

Where the queen of melodies sings her lovely airs, why should my learned self unfold a dry tale? Sing, O Muse, your song of twilight passion. The lamp of Evening grows brighter: soar up into the empyrean.

There far away is the west coloured by the kisses of the golden water. On the river the waves have all sunk into silence. The thick clusters of trees on both the banks seem to rest on the river’s bosom. Only in the web of your sari and of your song there is the glancing of waves.

On such a charming evening, it is but your life to break into a song when the god Varuna sheds from above the light of the roseate feeling. Toil is my life whether peace is mine or not. My greatest fortune it is to mark time with my oars as you sing.

(2)

THE POOL YEARNING FOR RE-UNION

Where, in the past, entwining the threads of Life we danced the dance of Love, now I stand alone, looking round for my Beloved. She is nowhere to be seen, What, has she forsaken me? Does Love that has once arisen ever set?

Only the shallow, dry bed in all its sandy horror meets my eye. When the Beloved is not with me, my progress comes to a standstill. My deep mysterious heart is brimful with love but to no purpose.

Someone comes and remarks scornfully, "Look! Dead are his feelings. He laughs not, chats not, sports not! And when the stormy wind bent on mischief comes running to me, transient ripples pass over my face; but the heavy dullness of the soul cannot be broken.

There is no Light of Life in my home; and so I wear the sable. Only the moonlight appears to smile through the clouds though sadly. The stars gaze fixedly upon me and lose all enthusiasm for dancing.

Human beings and animals toiling in the scorching heat of the Sun, and out of breath, come to me in the evening. They rest themselves for a while and return home–home, and my heart pines away in silence.

When the drums of Indra² resound in the heaven above and the terrible golden Beauty flashes out and laughingly plays among the clouds–the gods’ hearts gather in the surging flood of joy that bursts through the thousand eyes of Indra.

Then the peacock dances on the earth, and frogs the twice born begin their loud chant–then, dear one, will you madly rush to me to hold me in a fast embrace? The gods will then erect over us their triumphal arch.

Let us, as we chant the auspicious woodland song, fling ourselves over precipitous rocks; and wearing the ochre coloured garb of Renunciation, united in Love but cut off from all wordly considerations–let us meet our goal in that Home, in the sea of Beatitude–but alas! the summer month of Waishakh is not yet over.

(3)

LOVE’S ADVOCACY

Put these questions, O Dear:

Why do you leave the earth, O Skylark? Why d you soar into the sky to sing a song to Morning?

Why do you open your heart. O Rose, and let the fickleminded wind plunder its fragrance? What is your gain in return?.

Consumptive is the Moon, O Sea, and the Sun’s warmth is rather unbearable. With what hopes do you dace, O fool? Love brings on but despair.

Should you, O fitful Lightning, marry the dark cloud? How should one describe the love that dis-regards the rule of homogeneity?

(4)

LOVE’S ANXIETIES

When in the evening, after the day’s toil, I hurry home, un-told fears rush upon my soul. The impatient soul is all ear to catch any sound of yours, my baby. As my hesitating step falls on the threshold, I hear your sportive voice as you play with your mother, and, at once, O darling, with joy I shout your name. And as you look up to offer me such sweetness from your eyes, I lift you up to press you to my heart and to kiss you.

When at home I am absorbed in work, a sudden cry from somewhere startles and drives me to you. And I look into the cradle to find you are in sound peaceful sleep. Lightly I place my hand on your head, and as lightly I kiss you but with a sad, sad tenderness.

The day is gloomy with clouds and rain; and yet, O child, your golden smiles brighten my home.

(5)

LET ME HEAR YOUR SWEET SPRING-CRY!

Oh let me hear your sweet Spring-cry, O Kokil!

Maina, Raghu, Salunki and Chandol–I want none of these songsters–nor do I want the varied artificial cadences of music.

Your note alone, I think, is priceless–it has the true ring of suffering. What makes you silent, O Kokil? The Spring is not yet over.

With the Spring, do go round the earth to please yourself with sight-seeing; but let me hear your last cry coming from leafy depths.

With trembling heart I shall wait for you for a year; but as you go away turn not down this small hope of mine.

(6)

COME, LET US FLY, BIRDIE

Come, let us fly, Birdie. Just see how lovely the rich earth is spread around us.

This billing and cooing is never without its joy. But this is pure selfishness on my part. It is not meet.

Buds break through their wrappings and then bloom; children play but in the open; and the fountain tumbles towards light and free air.

The warmth of soft downs is yours here; and though for you this home has a sweet attraction, how long is this leafy roof to last? Yours is the blue sky, O winged one.

O traveler of the sky, ply your wings and play about in the garden of the earth; but after you have lustily sung songs of life carry off. O ravisher of my heart, carry off the nectar of Immortality.

1 ‘Madhav Julian’ is the pen-name of the celebrated Marathi poet and schlar, Prof. Madhav T. Patwardhan, M. A., of the Rajaram College, Kolhapur. He has been, for many years, a valued contributor to ‘Triveni’. He has kindly rendered some of his poems into English, for publication in this journal.

Editor, Triveni

2 The God of rain and thunder.