Gypsy Songs

I always carry  with me a note book. Whatever interests me, a line of a poem or something interesting I have read from a book or an event I come across I note down. But I am not a well organised person. Many of my note books have been lost or misplaced. When I take note I hope I would read it later, but that  rarely happens. Recently I came across one such note book I had maintained in 1993-94 and started reading. During that period I had read two books on Gypsies and had noted down some facts about Gypsy life. One, Gypsies: Indians in Exile by D. P. Singhal and the other, Raggle-Taggle by Walter Starkie. What interest me about gypsies are their life style and their songs. One of the traits of gypsies is their love for music and love songs. It is also said that Beethoven was influenced by Gypsy music. There is a proverb that says you can make a peasant drunk on a glass of water and a Gypsy fiddler. Here are some stanzas of Gypsy songs:

(1)

“Why dost thou wander?” they ask

That I myself do not know

Let wandering birds answer that

Let roaming stars tell that

(2)

The moon soft moving over the heaven

My darling, seems like thee

And other folks are but clouds

Those hide thy face from me

(3)

In jails they could not hold me

With chains or bolted door

But now I am bound for ever

To her to whom I adore

(4)

No matter what may be our plight

We will never be apart

For fate may take you from my sight

But never from my heart

(5)

Like a ghoulish moth that flies

Towards the flame, for you I yearn

In the fire that lights your eyes

There is something I discern

It is death! The strange surprise!

Yet the fires that light your eyes

Gladly would I burn!

(6)

If only I had loved the Lord

With love as deep and pure

With love as true as I loved you

I’d go to heaven sure

(7)

Enjoy your youth, my darling

And do not play with fate

Old age is coming sometime

Then death…. It will be too late

****

Pages From A Note Book

I am not a poet.Sometimes, an event I come across or something I read from newspapers or hear from a friend agitate  or provoke me. I scribble my reactions in my note book. I have never sent those for publication. But I preserve those in my note book.

In 1994, I was working at Styabadi of district Puri in the Treasury. I had throat infection and had loss of speech. I could not speak. I had inflamation in the throat and I even could not swallow food. I had to live on liquid diet. I took medices, higher antibiotics. But it did not have any effect. After almost a month, the doctors advised me to consult a cancer specialist. For a few days I thought I had cancer. During these few days I had scribbled in my note book a few lines, which may not be treated poems. But when I read it brings back those memories. Here I produce one of the two poems(?):

Waiting for her
(1)

You are coming

I have the news

Today or in the next month

Tomorrow or in the next year

You have not fixed the date and time

But I am sure

You are coming



Today she came

To the office on official work

I had been waiting for this day

Since long ago

She had been always in my mind



She is today as she was

When I first met her years ago

She wore a smile on her face

Her eyes gave off a feeling

of many untold stories

I found her the way

I expected to find her



I have many things to tell

Things inside me competed with each other

To come out

But words failed

I could not tell

Felt pain in my chest



How could I tell in the office?

Amidst the known and unknown faces

My voice would have been drowned

In the jungle of the words

like ‘yes sir’, ‘thank you’


She looked at me

Her look pierced into my eyes

And from my eyes into my heart



She told at the time of parting

She would come again

This time

Not to the office on official work



I am afraid

You may visit me

Before she comes again