Wednesday, June 16, 2021

Prometheus’s First Address

By: Mahakavi Laxmi Prasad Devkota

 Translated by: Padma Devkota


23

“O Men! In this world, pettiness always

keeps your head bowed down! Fearful of extinction,

weighed with doubt, uncertain! In your heart,

death casts its dark shadow like a sun-eclipse,

blocking the life-giving light. As if

troubled by the sun-swallowing demon,

Rahu called, you are lost in the darkness.

The future’s uncertain. To disperse your clouds,

to spread fresh light all over the sky

of your race, to resuscitate afresh

your near-death life, to create a future,

I, Prometheus, have taken avatar on earth.

24

“Heed my counsel. Man shall not die.

His is a long-lived, golden future.

He only has to recognize that

which is indestructible, the seed

immortal. You are neither worms that live

just for a day, nor locusts .... Your empire

spreads over the animal kingdom.

You shall not die like vegetation, Men,

growing in one spot, developing

and decomposing where it once stood.

In you, there is an eternal spark.

25

“This is day-break; the golden morn shall follow.

Knowledge shall be had unknowingly.

Rise with hope, O eager folks! Struggle

with darkness, your foe. The individual dies,

the race survives. Nutrition abounds

for the whole world; only he shall be immortal

who recognizes the immortality

of the race. That drop of water which falls

to mingle with water shall not die.

That which falls on dust shall disappear unseen.

That which selfishly basks alone in the sun

shall transform into short-lived vapor

which dissolves in the air.

26

Today there’s an eclipse; an eclipse

which is the shadow of destruction

of the universe, an absence of light,

an impurity of death in the world,

unclean, during which cognizant man

needs to stay pure, keeping in mind

his accountability on earth.

O Men! In this shadowy, dire moment,

partaking light, strengthen all your hearts.

27

“The lord of heaven, intolerant by nature,

irritable towards humans beings

because of the mess--as when seeing

feeble sticky long-legged creatures

in the water, an awful rage appears

in human eyes--Zeus is blind with rage

at humans today. The lining of his brow

is deep red, like the horizon,

red with clouds of dust before the storm.

In the line of his brow lies your destruction.

It is clearly written today.

Terrible destruction.

28

“But fear not, Men! I stand by you.

I, Prometheus. I, friend to man. I, protector of man.

I, the enemy of Zeus’s blind rage.

Intolerant of injustice, a god

in support of humans! Strongly threatened,

all heaven cowers down before Zeus.

I become a rebel against the tyrant

of heaven, for the sake of man.

Do not fear, O Men! I am friend of man.

29

“A boatman ferries a boat full of people

across the water’s current ... a clever boatman.

Have faith in divine genius. I too am

an immortal. Thought is light, like that of the day;

a single sun diffuses thousands of rays

all over innumerable paths.

Such are pure, exciting thoughts, death of darkness.

In the empire of wisdom shall be

the endless victory of thought. O world of feelings!

Follow me, O uncertain, shadow-frightened men.

30

“Fear not though fear advances in cruel billows ...

like suspicion of annihilation moves

on water where a stone has dropped at night.

Races anxious of fall are feeble:

halted constructions, stalled development,

worn and torn by constant thought of death,

burning terribly. Anxiety is

the mother of the pyre. Be optimistic.

Recall the sunshine. Recall the light.

Worship Usha, the light at day-break.

Attempt to fly. Hope is half a life.

Struggle with darkness, your life. In support

of your right, I shall bear very cruel torture.

31

“Don’t look down towards darkness, look up

like even vegetation does. Your hands

and feet, use them. Try. Don’t die in dejection,

helpless men. Don’t be deterred by tyranny.

Strength is truth. Know that power is not brutality.

There’s a great deal of brutality

in the king of the gods too. He has taken

a cruel vow, not to tolerate the weak.

I rebel against that, Men. I won’t allow

destruction of your racial seed.

I am your protector.

32

“What might that lord of heaven do to me

after all? That one blind with rage?

Anger is the strength of a fever

of unhealthy nature, sudden and unnatural rage,

a sudden heat which troubles and makes taut

the burning nerves, lowering the span of life.

He might thrash, might beat and might make blood spurt

from the body; he might storm on the rebel,

a super-speed hurricane; but I

shall remain a robust oak. He might cause

suffering in the name of punishment,

but I shall transform that into an yearning,

turning the joys of experience into lessons.

I have conquered fear, O Men! Fear is merely

the quivering of lifeless strands of hair,

slim doubts on one’s own existence!

I am ready, ready to mount the storm,

ready to drown in a sea of tears,

ready to be pierced, stabbed, beaten, clubbed,

nailed and trodden over by the scoundrel’s iron feet;

ready to be judged in eternity

by unending suffering today;

ready to pass the toughest test. Mine alone

is the nectar of truth, the sweetness of humanity!

Remove these two and the world is poison.

33

“I am a rebel. I defy heaven:

the power-principled, brute force of vexing

and irrational heaven .... I am a supporter

of divinity. Truth is emperor;

untruth, slave. Truth is my weapon. I have brought,

O Men! for you a gift from heaven--

a gift of my pity--the seed of the fire of the gods!

In the belly of this reed lies a power,

a strange spark of fire! As if it were

a flaming spark of gold surrounded by darkness

before twilight on the eastern peak,

in which there is infinite secret power ...

having spread all over the universe,

the secret of light! This spark is the mother

of all art. In it lies the flames of all

the happiness of civilizations.

34

“Imagine a ten thousand branched tree,

the root of the world. In darkness

its unknown roots are mysterious.

Innumerable systems of endless

juice-circulating nerves, as great epochs

and ages come, grow and wither away,

stand firmly against a thousand storms ...

always green and beautiful; birds in flight,

facing the light, possessing a golden fruit.

Such shall be human life, O Men!

Construct that with the warmth of this spark.

Become immortal! Become indestructible!

Become beautiful! Conquerors of the earth!

Become supreme! O Men! Defeat the gods!”


(From: Third Canto of Prometheus)

Monday, June 14, 2021

 

Song of the Nightingale

 By: Mahakavi Laxmi Prasad Devkota

Translated by: Padma Devkota

[“Song of the Nightingale” is a sample of pure poetry. It presents a “globe of feelings” where the bird, symbolizing a poet, turns out to be a brief historian of the pangs of love felt by all young human hearts from time immemorial. Sita, Krishna, Helene, Padmini, Usha and all other lovers “since the beginning of the earth” have felt the pang of separation and wept. The nightingale has learned this doleful speech from them and sings. However, in the very expression of pain lies a remedy. Such speech, now art, is superior to life because life is both ugly and beautiful, but art is beautiful and healing.]

 

I.

What says this nightingale?

    Well-formed downs of tear cover the skies,

undulating like waves that billow within the heart

    towards the queen-moon of loveliness.

With grief-laden youths in mind the nightingale sings

    the essence of their plight;

she cleaves the silence with her voice,

    a heart-ravisher with her song.

 

II.

Like gods who churned nectar from the ocean,

    annihilating the essence of all words

to create an universal sound, tremulous and rhythmic,

    causing sweet sadness of the lonely heart to surge,

opening her calyx-beak she sings, O tearful softness!

    emitting subtle fluid fragrance,

awakening something within each heart,

    rendering the earth into a globe of feeling.

 

III.

While flowers speak through fragrance,

    the colorful language of passion is thirst.

This is the song of the air-borne weeping bumble-bee;

    this is the story of life.

This is indeed the laconic language of Prakriti and Purusha;

    this is reverberating youth.

This is a drop of Sruti essence, a poet's emotion,

    a vase of love.

 

IV.

This is the murmur of water;

    its woeful flow towards the ocean.

This is the language of night addressed to the moon,

    the shimmering of the dew,

the fluttering of the moth toward the flame,

    the flickering of the flame toward the moth.

This is the bubbling heart of the tidal wave

    recalling a dream.

 

V.

Light embraces shadow and plays on the water,

    memory on nothingness.

A sense of something being somewhere else but not with me

    distresses me somewhat.

"Come, come," a glimmer seems to call, how unforgettably elusive

    is this touch of imagination!

Deep embedded impressions quicken each aching cell,

    nourishing only the desire to weep.

 

VI.

Beautiful creation, Nature, or she,

    who, watchful at the crossroads,

having well-adorned herself, waiting restlessly

    with lowered head, not united with her lover as yet,

weeps within some deep spot of her heart

    beyond a cloud of tears.

The bird echoes and scatters around

    the language-transcending song of that heart.

 

VII.

Young queens of all times and places weep

    cleansing their loneliness.

The soul shatters the clod to express itself,

    triumphant over the fragrance of the flower.

What mellifluence is this? The passion in the nightingale's voice

    revivified in death!

Speak, speak, sweet nightingale! I too am with you

    having transcended meaning, enjoying myself.

 

VIII.

Opening the calyx is designing a cup

    that will contain the water drops.

The flowers that bloom will weep, their hearts brimming

    with tears that glisten, poor souls!

This bird, answering the sadness of the flower's heart,

    emits just two syllables

and governs the fine art of happiness and of sorrow

    of the entire world.

 

IX.

Where the clod touched by the sun's rays

    commenced the procreation of love,

seeking language the grass grew into a flower,

    singing a lachrymatory song;

turning into a bird, it spilled into the ears,

    expressing acute grief:

Language is the awakening of all times in the heart,

    a divine boon, a curse.

 

X.

"Plee-plee-plee" is the first word of the yet unexpressed heart,

    the thirst and water at birth;

this is the language of love when earthlings dream of the moon

    which, poised in the apex of the sky,

draws the heart with the essence of all loveliness.

    The nightingale begins to sing.

With what anguish she recalls all who have existed

    since the beginning of earth.

 

XI.

Usha wept longingly, twisting her white limbs

    on a bed of velvet flowers,

nostalgic for the meaningful dream, bereaved by the sunrise,

    having lost her heaven, poor girl!

All the flowers of the forest wept

    surveying the daughter of Banasura.

You must have learnt the song of sadness there,

    O say, sweet bird!

 

XII.

Even as the sweet breezes scattered and dropped

    the blossoming white and peanut-colored flowers,

profusely shedding tears of sorrow on the breast

    expressive with moonlight,

becoming someone's Radha in her heart,

    this young and divine Samyogita

bubbled up a flood of tears in a solitary murmur

    lost in this enchantment.

 

XIII.

Janaki chanted these very tunes to herself,

    lost in the memory of Lord Rama.

Krishna's flute sounded the same melody

    as it echoed on the banks of Yamuna.

Helene probably weeps similar sad tunes

    that turn love into tragedy,

shedding very lovely drops of sadness

    beyond the vapors of war.

 

XIV.

This is a pang, a sweet pang, of the greatest sorrow;

    this is a luxurious grief;

a globe, sweet and voiceless, which, if difficult to bear,

    may yet be rewarded with paradise.

This is the golden tinge of the body, this is the emotion,

    this the holy abode of Gauri and Bhola.

Sing your plee-plee-plee O nightingale! each heart must express

    its inner world of tribulations.

 

XV.

This is the graceful murmur of the calyx,

    the pupil drowned in a life of emotion;

this is the voice of thirst, the ancient story

    of Prakriti and Purusha, the dual creative forces;

this is sad youth, self-expressing love,

    the primal queen of lyrics;

this is the snowy peak, the refuge of the world,

    this is the heart-beat within.

 

XVI.

The shadow of the densely clouded sky may descend;

    pour, O pour profusely!

Lightning may flash, O start!

    with intermittent memories in the heart.

Drops may fall, trees and vines undulate,

    the air will carry the vapour.

Thus, the world may continue; weighed down hearts

    may again utter the same grief-laden songs.

 

XVII.

Hearts may invite hearts, water water drops,

    youth may invite youth;

the thirsty ones may speak, transcending time and cage,

    finding an outlet in music.

The grass-cutter's girl may sprinkle the water of her heart

    even as the sickle flashes;

whistling a new dream of the heart, someone may ascend the slope,

    a love-worshipping grass-cutter.

 

XVIII.

Pour, pour your full-throated voice forever,

    O nightingale in the cage!

The Vedas say as much—longing souls

    turned to the exquisite dawn;

enmeshing the heart here with argent moonlight,

    giving a little indication,

thirstily have I also uttered my song beyond meaning

    slightly transcending this clod.

 

1956.