A Purpose Without a Purpose

A tribute to Edgar Allen Poe

O how I hope when hope has lost!
Hoping love to get across,
A bridge of hope - the bridge of loss -
You aren't right and you aren't wrong
I lost not though I lost long;
Do I lose and do I love
With a purpose from above,
Is loss and gain the summary
Of Joy bartered for misery?
All that we do and don't
Is with a purpose without a purpose.

I first traded my song
Of joy and happiness long,
I then traded my dreams
Of orange yellow themes -
With such purpose I sought!
A life - and so dearly I bought,
Look! Look what I got!
O God! Can I not revise
My purpose and be wise?
O God! Can I not redeem
Just one last dream?
Is all that we do and don't
With a purpose without a purpose?

Above is a poem on the lines of Edgar Allen Poe's famous A Dream Within A Dream. Poe's poems have an inherent darkness, a lurking death wish. Even the happy ones do and this one - I think it should be banned like Gloomy Sunday. I am yet to read a text with more inspiration for suicide.

Almost everyone can identify with the second para, standing on a sea shore and losing sand held in one's hand - and if one has recently lost someone, then with Poe's
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! Can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?

I loved making something on the lines. Thanks Poe.

I measure every grief I meet

I measure every grief I meet

(A Tribute to Emily Dickinson)

लम्बा नाटा, भारी हल्का

खुद नाप लिये मैं चलता हूँ

अपने दुख का नाप बना कर

औरों के दुख से मिलता हूँ ।

इनकी ये कल शाम की चोट -

या बड़ा पुराना घाव रिसा है ?

मेरा मुझको कुछ याद नहीं

हाँ दर्द बड़ा ये करता है

रोज़ जीने से क्या इनके

दिल का दर्द बढ़ता है ?

क्या ये बेबस होतें हैं जब -

मरने का जी करता है ?

बूढ़े दुख के होठों पर पर

कभी खुशी हँसती भी है -

जैसे तेल की याद में बाती

बुझती बुझती जलती सी है ।

ये बूढ़ा दुख जब और जीयेगा

क्या और बढ़ेगा, और हरेगा ?

या समय का दिल कुछ पिघलेगा, वो

क्या मरहम का काम करेगा ?

या बूढ़े दुख को बूढ़े दिल

तब तक अपना मान चुकेंगे ?

एक प्रेम ने मर कर दुख जन्मा था

क्या तब ये दुख को प्रेम करेंगे ?

या सोचेंगे मर कर दर्द से

निजात मिलेगी, चैन मिलेगा

पर दर्द तो अन्दर सीप गया है -

ये दर्द ना मौत के साथ मरेगा ।

एक प्रेम में पाया होता है

एक मोल लिया दुख होता है

बस मुठ्ठी में आने को हो जग

और हाथ कटे दुख होता है

इतना दुख को पढ़ता हूँ पर

जाने मेरा दुख कैसा दिखता है

बस समझो मेरे गलगोथा में

कुछ अकेलापन कम लगता है

जब इतने सलीब बंधे हुए हैं

औरों ने कंधो पर ढोए भी हैं -

दुख - लम्बे नाटे, भारी हल्के

शायद कुछ मेरे जैसे भी हैं ।

[गलगोथा* Golgotha is the place where Jesus was crucified.]

Above is an attempted Hindi translation of the infinitely superior original poem, I measure every grief I meet, by Emily Dickinson. I am surprised that we had none of her poems in our school curriculum. She is a great poetess and invariably touches the heart. In my list of favorite poems, her authored-by count will at least be thrice the second place candidates [Robert Frost and Rudyard Kipling]. And for someone who touches your heart with words like she does, her form is superb too. For example, during this translation, I just could not maintain the flow of thoughts as she had in her original. It's just ... too perfect.

I want to paste the original here, but versions on the web do not agree about the real text [yes, including the authoritative ones]. It is really surprising because the nuances are quite different based on which version you read. For example, this whole stanza is missing from most of on-line citations including Bartleby.

I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –

Also, look at these differences in words:

Bartleby's version:
.. To note the fashions of the cross,
Of those that stand alone, ..
Poets.org version:
.. To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they're mostly worn – ..

Bartleby's version:
.. Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above, ..
Poets.org version:
.. Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve – ..

Bartleby's version:
.. And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die ..
Poets.org version:
.. And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die – ..

And there are more. It seems blasphemous, yet both are authoritative sources. For my translation, I used poets.org version, as it had the extra stanza which I wanted to include in my translation.

Don't you Quit

The poem was pasted in my school's second floor corridor while I studied there. It was printed in bold text, without any graphics, on a shining white paper and framed in a simple wooden frame.

During those days, I used the little authority I had as the Literary Secretary / Astt Literary Secretary, and chose to oversee students climbing the second floor corridor so that I could read this poem. So that I could read it ten times and draw strength to go through another day. So that, I could read it a hundred times if that was not enough. It always worked. And it taught me, time and again, that sometimes, all you need is the courage it takes to walk one more mile, to work one more day, to hang on ... for one more minute.

It was years later when that I learnt that this poem is quite famous and is just two clicks away from the main page of any quotation's site.

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns
As every one of us sometimes learns
And many a fellow turns about
When he might have won, had he stuck it out.
Don't give up though the pace seems slow
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man;
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor's cup;
And he learned too late when the night came down
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt
And you never can tell how close you are
It may be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit
It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit.

Two years back, I visited my school again. This poem is still pasted on the same spot, on the same paper, in the same frame. Columns of girls still pass it everday in the same second floor corridor and in my heart, I know, there is at least one girl, who reads it ten times aloud and finds the strength to get through one more day. I wish her a future at least as bright as mine, and I leave her a message ...

Hey Girl!
Stick to the fight.
It's worth it.
What you are looking for, is just one turn away.
I can vouch...

IF

By Rudyard Kipling

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Across the fields of yesterday

I remember a poem, that has always touched my heart. It's by Thomas Jones Jr.

Sometimes

Across the fields of yesterday
He sometimes comes to me,
A little lad just back from play -
The lad I used to be.

And yet he smiles to wistfully
Once he has crept within,
I wonder if he hopes to see
The man I might have been.