Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the Goodreads database with this name.
Wife of famed illustrator, David Small, Sarah Stewart has written a number of children's books. She grew up in Texas, and lives in Michigan with her husband.
يقع الكتاب في 78 صفحة من القطع المتوسط هو ديوان شعري وبه مقطوعات تشبه القصص القصيرة، ما أعجبني في الكتاب هو أنه تخطى حاجز الترجمة من لغة إلى أخرى وهذا يرجع لسببين:- السبب الأول: موهبة طاغور الاستثنائية؛ والسبب الثاني: هو المترجم السوري الكبير د/بديع حقي أقتبس بعض ما أعجبني في الديوان وإن كان في ذلك بعض الظلم لبقي الديوان *خلصيني من أسر سِحْرك ، وردي إلي فُتُوَّتي، أقدم إليك قلبي المحرر *سأهزك وأنت في أرجوحة بين أغصان(السيبتابارنا)، بينما يجهد القمر المبكر،مساء،في لثم ثوبك، من فرجات الأوراق *أوه ايها الشاعر ، إن المساء ليدنو، وإن شعرك ليخُطَّةُ الشيبُ ،كنتِ تسيرين علي درب شاطيء النهر، وكانت الجَرَّة المسندة علي خصرتك مفعة *لماذا ادرت وجهك إلي، بخفة، ونظرت إلي من وراء خمارك المنسدل *آمِن بالحب ولو كان مصدراً للألم ولا تغلق قلبك *أنتِ سحابة المساء التي تعبر سماء أحلامي
Rating is not for Poems, its for translation. Poem felt like paragraphs, I wish someone translate it atleast to kannada from bengali so i can feel the words.
What an utter delight this is! A set of 85 poems, celebrating the joys and sorrows of love. He begins with a lover who addresses his sweetheart as queen, presenting himself as a servant, seeking to be her gardener: I will keep fresh the grassy path you walk in the morning, where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step by the flowers eager for death. And so he continues, in sensuous abandon. As reward for his service he asks to be allowed to … slip flower-chains over your wrists; to tinge the soles of your feet with the red juice of ashoka petals and kiss away the specks of dust that may chance to linger there. Let’s face it, folks, this is entirely over the top, but unblushingly so! In the hands of a lesser poet, this would all come across as silly stuff but Tagore was a brilliant fellow and he manages to make it seem entirely rational. It seems incredible that the works of a poet of such stature, a Nobel prize winner, should be largely forgotten today. Apart from his set of lectures on nationalism, very little of his work is still in print, woefully absent from libraries. None of his plays are performed today, at least in the West. His many prose-poems and sets of verses on connected themes are entirely accessible, never obscure or opaque. I’m afraid there’s little market for this sort of romantic entertainment today. Too bad! (I feel very fortunate to possess a collection of his poems and plays) In the final poem in “The Gardener” collection he sends a message to future readers: Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence? I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds. Open your doors and look around. From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before. In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years. Message received, thank you.
bunlar, tam bir şiir sayılmasa da, her biri 5-10 cümle içeren, bi nevi serbest nazım da diyebileceğimiz, duygusal yazılardan, fıkra-köşe yazılarında oluşan bir metin. aşk, doğa, acı, keder temalı sözler. evet, çoğu acı, keder, karamsar.
kitabın ilk parçası bahçıvan, köle ve kraliçe arasındaki diyalogdan oluşur. ve kitabın geri kalanıyla ilgisiz (bence), diğer şiirlerden-sözlerden bağımsız. sanırım farklı ruh haliyle yazılmış.
Perhaps it's age. Perhaps it's post-2020 pandemic life that made me learn how to read between the lines and the pauses... whatever it is, the words of Rabindranath Tagore speak more potently today compared to the last time I read these poems.
So many lines that I wish to revisit again and again... perhaps it's time I get myself a paperback copy so I can mark the pages with sticky bookmarks. Somehow an ebook doesn't really cut it when you wish to linger on the words and trace the prose with your finger.
"SERVANT. Make me the gardener of your flower garden.
QUEEN. What folly is this?
SERVANT. I will give up my other work. I will throw my swords and lances down in the dust. Do not send me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests. But make me the gardener of your flower garden."
"It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey. I am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest of this village. Some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle in their eyes. Some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tears that are hidden in the gloom. They all have need for me, and I have no time to brood over the afterlife. I am of an age with each, what matter if my hair turns grey?"
"I am restless. I am athirst for far-away things. My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore."
"If you must be mad and leap to your death, come, O come to my lake. It is cool and fathomlessly deep. It is dark like a sleep that is dreamless. There in its depths nights and days are one, and songs are silence. Come, O come to my lake, if you would plunge to your death."
Carving into bark till you bleed Nailing the doors shut, locking yourself up Living inside a dream from staying up too late Praying to shadows and walking on for so long Though I keep telling myself it takes time Though I keep writing it down
Whatever I do, wherever I am Nothing erases you, I'm thinking of you
Days go by as empty furrows Within reason but with no love My luck goes by and the winds change Only remains the absence, unabashedly Though I keep telling myself that I can't help it That you don't forget till you grow old
Whatever I do, wherever I am Nothing erases you, I'm thinking of you And whatever I learn, I don't know Why I am bleeding and you're not
There is no hate, there is no king No god or shackles that we're not fighting against What does it take, what power What arm can destroy indifference? Oh it's not fair, destiny is wrong It's like an insult, more than contempt
Ce-mi dai, cu toată voia-ți - primesc. Mai mult - nimic nu-ți cer. - ,,Da, da - ești mulțumitul cerșetor. Te știu. Vrei tot ce am să-ți dau”.
De aș putea avea astă floare rătăcită, aș strânge-o la piept cu foc nestins. - ,,Da, da - ești mulțumitul cerșetor. Te știu. Vrei tot ce am să-ti dau”.
O singură privire a ochilor tăi drăgăstoși mi-ar ferici viața pentr-o întreagă veșnicie. - ,,Dar dacă fi-va crudă privirea mea? - ,,Ia-ș păstra rana în adâncul nemăsurat al sufletului meu”. - ,,Da, da - ești mulțumitul cerșetor. Te știu. Vrei tot ce am să-ti dau”.
Beautiful words narrated well enough by Phil Schempf. It was not a perfect narration, as there were some jarring breaks in the middle of a few poems which messed up the experience a wee bit, but those seem to be editing / tech issues that are not the narrator's fault.
I enjoyed Mr Schempf's pacing and his intonation. And of course much thanks and appreciation to LibriVox and their volunteers for making this important work available in public domain.
I read this one for my girlfriend, and some of it was better than other bits of it. And my favorite one was the first one. And some of them fit more than I'd like. This was definitely an interesting choice and I have to say I love getting requests for her.
Lovely poems that were certainly translated well. The best line in the entire book has to be "My fate has not taken everything from me." and was a great reminder that we all usually have something good left in life if we truly understand what is valuable.
Luin jokin aikaa sitten Paolo Coelhon suositun teoksen Alkemisti ja se oli mielestäni säälittävää näennäishenkistä hölynpölyä. Eikä ollut edes omaperäinen. Libanonilainen Kahlil Gibran julkaisi 1923 kirjan Profeetta, jossa jokseenkin kömpelösti, mutta ainakin vilpittömästi luodataan uskonnollisia ja henkeviä teemoja. Ei sekään mielestäni varsinainen mestariteos ollut, mutta ainakin osoitti brasilialaisen Coelhon olevan perässäsoutaja. Nytpä löytyi vielä Profeettaakin edeltävä teos, vuonna 1913 ensimmäisenä aasialaisena kirjallisuuden Nobelin voittaneen Rabindranath Tagore runoteos Puutarhuri. Näiden kolmen nimet ovat muuten aika hämmentävän samankaltaisia. Joka tapauksessa Tagoren kirja on kaunis runojen muodostava kertomus rakkaudesta ja sen erinäisistä ilmenemismuodoista. Suomennos on Eino Leinon vuodelta 1913 ja kaikessa vanhanaikaisuudessan se lisää Puutarhuriin vielä tiettyä vuosisataista lyyrisyyttä. Tarina on hennon hento, kuin tuulessa kieppuva hius, mutta yksittäiset runot tekevät tästä miellyttävän lukukokemuksen.
El jardinero es un libro que se respira. Es un canto al cuerpo, al roce, al deseo. Pero incluso en su erotismo hay pudor, belleza, una especie de santidad. No hay vulgaridad en su fuego, sino ternura; no hay ansiedad, sino espera.
Cada poema es un pétalo que cae lentamente sobre la piel del alma. Me sentí mujer, amante, hija, tierra húmeda. Es un libro que se posa sobre el pecho como una mariposa. Ligero, pero conmovedor.
He amado a través de estos versos. Y he llorado, porque hay palabras que recuerdan lo que una ha perdido. O lo que aún no ha vivido.
“Él vino y se sentó a mi lado, pero no habló. Le tomé de la mano en la oscuridad y sentí que había amado en silencio toda mi vida.”
me gustó bastante, aunq tarde muchísimo en terminarlo pq sentía que no conectaba del todo con los poemas, a partir de las páginas 100-110 me fue gustando más y más; creo que mi poema favorito de todo el libro fue el LXVI otros q me gustaron fueron el V, XXVI, XXX, XLI, XLVI, LII y creo que el hecho de que sea de los primeros libros que he leído en físico, de cierta forma le da su mérito
Mỗi đoạn thơ đọc lên như một bài ca, dào dạt và giàu nhịp điệu. Lãng mạn khi chạm đến niềm khao khát cái vô hình, cái khôn cùng. Tận tuỵ khi dâng hiến vì tình yêu.
Escruta las pasiones humanas en el marco de las tradiciones de la cultura oriental, y los paisajes exóticos de la India rodeándonos de; brillos, fragancias y colores de flores exóticas, tintineo de joyas, música de flauta, silencios de muchachas, susurros desde la mistad, las fases de contemplación e idolatración al amado/a, el deseo y la eclosión de la pasión. Sorprende la facilidad para entrar y desmenuzar el pensamiento de las mujeres dando una visión realista y objetiva de ellas. En los últimos poemas reflexiona sobre la soledad, la hospitalidad, la mortalidad, la vanidad, la Madre Tierra.
Poesía en prosa en su mayoría, sencilla y carente de rima. En algunos poemas destaca su originalidad, acierto e intuición para trasladar su visión y sus sensaciones. A veces repite algunos versos generando ritmo y creando una sensación de musicalidad en su conjunto. Considero la obra como una fuente primaria, donde podremos reconocer a través de las descripciones el comportamiento y los sentimientos puros que nos ayudarán a diferenciar de otras sensaciones que hallamos podido sentir alguna vez. La finalidad de R. Tagore de descubrir, recopilar y transmitir estos pasajes y leyendas para su conocimiento es un aporte a la Cultura Oriental digno de reconocimiento.
The words are soft, the concepts quiet. Many phrases are beautiful. And yet, to a great extent, their sound is but the echo of an empty drum. Bengalis say that Tagore cannot be translated into English. Obviously, he can be but at what cost to the lyric beauty and enduring meaning?
I do blame the translation, that it feels more like a Cliff Notes book than a work of art. Even though the translator was the author himself in 1914. Nevertheless, he warns that his English "translations are not always literal--the originals being sometimes abridged and sometimes paraphrased."
You feel the vibrations of Tagore's bells but are deaf to the peal.
"Does the earth, like a harp, shiver into songs with the touch of my feet?
Is it true that the dewdrops fall from the eyes of, night when I am seen, and the morning light is glad when it wraps my body round?
It is true, is it true, that your love travelled alone through ages and world's in search of me?
That when you found me at last, your age-long desire found utter peace in my gentle speech and my eyes and lips and flowing hair?"
The Gardener by Rabindranath Tagore is a collection of eighty-five translated Bengali poems. It is one of the most beautiful collections of poetry I have ever read. I absolutely cannot wait to read more of Tagore.
هذا ما يمكن أن نطلق عليه جنة طاغور .. سواح أنت في حدائقه حين تقرأ له .. تقع على جدول جار، حيوان متخف، نبتة مجهولة ..
تتأمل السماء ، تعشق الأرض، تحب النجوم، تكتشف القمر ، تعانق الجبال ، وقبل كل هذا تتعرف على الإنسان الذي تحركه الفطرة و الطبيعة ، لا ذلك الذي صاغته المدنية و الحضارة المادية في قوالب جامدة لا حس فيها و لا حياة ..
تعود لتكتشف أشياء كنت قد نسيتها ، القلب ، الروح ، النفس الإنسانية في بساطتها .. تفكر بقلبك ، تستنتج بحدسك ، وتأخذ قراراتك من وحي وجدانك ..
طاغور شاعر الإنسان و الطبيعة .. الرجل الذي آمن بالإنسان حتى وهو في فورة يأسه وخذلانه على يد ذلك الإنسان الذي نافح عنه ..
Spiritul indic este un spirit contemplator. Poemele lui Tagore nu sunt altceva decât un cântec al unei meditații milenare. Sensibilitatea îmbinată cu starea de ascet, de brahman al unor timpuri vechi, este ceea ce marchează această antologie a liricii celui mai mare poet indian. Mirosul santalului, urmele cenușii, lotusul brahmanic, precum și apele sfinte ale Gangelui sunt ceea ce creează această poezia modernă a unui aed cum puțini sunt.