Chapter 59 Selected Poems of Sa Naidu

(India) Salojini Naidu LifeLife is like a stalactite of a wonderful dream, that dances in you like waves of the deep sea with flames of amber and amethyst at a carnival. Children, you have not lived, you only existed Till an irresistible time awoke and shook your hearts to love And longing with fervent longing That which burns your brows with blood-red pain. Till you have fought great sorrows and terrors, endured the strife of years of shattered dreams, bruised by strong desires, tortured by battles, children, you have not lived: for such is life.Poet let death stay a while, death, I cannot die While my sweet life is sprouting in its spring; my youth is sweet, and the boughs that echo the song of the lark are thick.

Stay a while, death, I cannot die, not yet all my flowering hopes are fruited, not all my joys are stored up, not all my songs are sung, not all my tears are shed. Stay a while, Till I have had enough of love and pain, Till I have had enough of earth and changing sky; Till all my human desires are satisfied, O Death, I cannot die!Crying when the first cymbals of dawn strike in the sky, rousing the world to do all kinds of work, to herd sheep, to bind fragrant ears of corn, to seek small profits from ardent labor, to be hungry People walking forward in haste, "Buy steamed buns, buy steamed buns," sang the longing street.When the scorching sun at noon makes the earth tremble, the river is dizzy, and the spring calls in the shade to silence the singing, the weak, thirsty blood is eager to be moistened in the heat in the sleepy throat to the rescue, "Buy fruit, buy fruit," slipping through this panting street.

When the twilight is twinkling in the bustling market, a tent of stars suddenly unfolds, when the strings are tuned and the incense torches are lit. Lovers sit on the bright white balcony and drink the deep sweetness of life, "Buy flowers , buy flowers," drifting across the singing street.To India, you have been young from time immemorial! Arise, mother, rise up and be born again from your darkness, and, like a bride on earth, bring forth new glory from your ever-young womb to the heavens. In the darkness of chains the nations are weeping beseeching you to lead them to the great morning light... Mother, O mother, why are you asleep?

Rise up and answer them for your children's sake! Your "future" beckons you with every voice to the new moon of glory, splendor, and great triumph; wake up, sleepy mother, and wear your crown, you were once in the dynasty of the "past" queen.O bird of time, the bird of time sits on your fruity branches What songs do you sing? …Singing about the glory and joy of life, the deep sorrow and fierce struggle, and the joy of singing loudly in spring; the hope that sows for the future years, the belief in the morning light that is delayed for dreams, the fragrance in the evening breath The stillness of life, and the mysterious silence that people call death.

O bird of time, tell me where did you learn these changing tunes? ...in the howling forest and crashing waves, in the bride's laughter, in the new spring's bird's nest, in the dawn trembling with a mother's prayer, in the night that shadows a hopeless heart, in the sighs of pity In the whimper of hate, and in the pride of a soul that has conquered fate.Song of my city How shall I feed you, my love? "With golden-red honey and fruit." How can I please you, my love? "With the sound of cymbals and harps." How should I style your bun? "Choose pearls from jasmine."

How should I scent your fingers? "With the lonely sand and the soul of the rose." How should I adorn you, dearest? ① A kind of grass. —Translator "In the shades of peacocks and doves." How should I pursue you, dearest person? "With the subtle silence of love." (Songs for Market Songs) What do you sell, eh, merchants? There are so many things on display. "A bright red and silver turban, a coat of green lotus and purple brocade, a mirror inlaid with amber, and a dagger with a jade handle." What do you call it, eh, hawkers? "Saffron, lentils and rice."

What are you grinding, eh, girls? "Sandalwood, henna and spices." What do you sell, huh, hawkers? "Chess and ivory dice." What do you make, O silversmiths? "Bracelets, anklets, and rings, and bells on the legs of green doves, as light as the wings of dragonflies, gilded girdles for dancers, and gilded scabbards for kings." What are you selling, huh, fruit sellers? "Citron, plum and pomegranate." What do you play, eh, musicians? "Cedar ① Sarangi ② and the snare drum." What do you wish, O magicians? "It's a spell to arrest ghosts and summon gods."

What do you play, oh, flower girls, with sky-blue and red tassels? "It is the cap worn on the bridegroom's brow, and the wreath that adorns his new bed, and the newly picked white flowers make the longevity quilt, and make the dead's long sleep sweet." Death and life, death caressed my hair, and whispered softly: "Poor boy, may I redeem you from your misery, revive your joy, and add to you some resurgence of revelry... ①②A bow-drawn instrument called the Indian violin.— Translator A kind of Indian lyre. The singing bird and the bee of Elaine, or the silver light of the raindrops, and the intoxicating fragrance of the acacia flower, the sound of the wind and the music of the white sea?"

I said, "Your pity makes my ears ashamed, O death, am I such a useless thing that my soul shall tremble and my body shall tremble till I have done my appointed poetry and the service my country requires Fear its cruel hour of mourning, or fall?" No, do not fret, though life is full of sorrow, the bright dawn will not be veiled by your pain, nor will the spring Take away the brilliance and beauty inherent in the lotus and the leaves of the carefree. Nay, do not grieve, for though life is dark with misery, time will not tarry in his way; today seems so long, so strange, so bitter, and will soon be a forgotten yesterday.

Nay, weep not; new hopes, new dreams, new faces, and all the unspent joys of years to come, shall prove your heart a betrayer of its sorrows, and make your eyes no more to their tears loyalty.Sleep in the night, my little ones, sleep in peace till dawn... We will watch the long night, we will sow while you sleep, and the day will be bright when you wake, so that your sickle may reap the ripe crops. Sleep, my little ones, sleep, yours is the golden Tomorrow, yours are the harvesting hands that reap the dreams we planted while you slept, our hopes and sorrows fed you, our weeping Tears make you rich.Dawn Children, my children, the day is dawning, the cymbals of the morning strike your time of awakening, the long night is over, our labor is at an end, and the wind blows our plowed and hoed fields, soon the crops will ripen for you Come reap the crop we planted while you slept.

Our hands are weak, but our work is careful, in the dark we dream of your bright dawns, we strive in silence for a happy tomorrow, irrigate your seedling fields with our sad wells, we labor to enrich your waking hours Happy dawn breaks, our night watch is past, and behold, it is dawn. Children, my children, you who wake to bear the last hope of our toiling spirits, say, when your young hearts cherish the dreams we sow for you to reap, will you reward us with praise or with pain ? Use your love to anoint the sacrifice, or use your forgiveness to accuse.Might cannot be subdued, fate, caught in the millstone of "pain", although you crush my life like broken rice, look, I will use my tears to ferment it and make it into "hope" cake To comfort and feed countless hearts that have no food but the bitter medicine of sorrow.Though thou hast thrown my flowering soul into the fire of Sorrow, and trampled it in the earth, behold, it re-opens like a bush Under the new leaves of Love Shades all but bitter buds There are countless souls without garden flowers. Postscript Mrs. Sarojini Naido (Mrs Sarojini Naido, 1879-1949) is a famous Indian national poet and an outstanding politician. As a poet, Mrs. Naidu occupies a place in the Indian literary world.She went to university in England when she was young, and her poems are written in English.As early as 1905, when she was 26 years old, she published her first collection of poems "Golden Threshold" (Golden Threshold), which revealed her talent for writing poems.In 1914, she was elected as a member of the Royal Society of Literature, and since then she has written (The Bird of Time), "The Broken Wings" (The Broken Wigg) and other collections of poetry.She has mastered the rhythmic form of poetry fully.The themes of her poems are also various: the praise of the motherland, the love of life, the hope for the future, the life of the working people, love and so on.Her technique is lyrical, but the poem is full of fiery patriotism, exuding a lively and fresh atmosphere. As a politician, Mrs. Naidu also occupies an important position in Indian political circles.Together with Gandhi, she was actively engaged in the work of the national movement. She was arrested and imprisoned many times, but this did not frustrate her courage and optimism. On the contrary, she led the struggle more courageously and promoted Movement forward.Mrs. Naidu’s poems are also closely combined with political struggles. She said in a poem:... As a poet, I sang a majestic song, and I sounded the horn calling for struggle. How will I burn—— O fire that awakened you from slavery! She is also a public speaker and speaks extremely fluently in several languages.Her speech was like a fire, and the audience was deeply moved.From 1928 to 1929, she traveled to North America to give lectures. Mrs. Naidu was the first woman in India to be elected as the leader of the Congress Party. She was the chairperson of the Women's Conference and she was actively engaged in breaking the "retreat system" of women in the upper class of India. Mrs. Naidu's life was also full of resistance. She was born in a Brahmin family. Her father was an educator and the principal of a university.But she fell in love with Naidu, who was born in a Sudra family.Regardless of class restrictions and slander, she married Naidu. The poems published here are selected from her collection of poems, The Sceptered Flute. (The translated poem was originally published in the August 1957 issue of "Yanwen".)