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Title	:	Gitanjali
Author	:	Rabindranath Tagore
Book Format	:	Paperback
Book Edition	:	Anniversary Edition
Pages	:	Pages: 80 pages
Published	:	January 1st 2005 by Digireads.com (first published 1910)
Categories	:	Poetry. Classics. Cultural. India. Fiction. Asian Literature. Indian Literature. Philosophy

Gitanjali

Rabindranath Tagore

Paperback | Pages: 80 pages

Rating: 4.32 | 8418 Users | 550 Reviews

Interpretation During Books Gitanjali

Warning : I am letting my heart pour out over this review. Might be long. Read it if you want to or if have some time to spare.

I always wanted to write a review on Geetanjali, as it has been very close to my heart and always will be, but something stopped me every time I made an attempt. Maybe it was the memory of all the overflowing emotions which I had experienced while reading these poems or it was my immense love and respect for its writer that made me feel unworthy to make any sort of comment on his work, I cannot point out. But today, after my small discussion with Steven on Geetanjali, I walked to my desk, picked my copy of this book, held it tight in my hands as if I might lose myself in my beloved solitude if I don’t hold onto these pages. Geetajali is now sitting next to me; Tagore’s beautiful gleaming eyes are looking lovingly at me, telling me to write this review. He says it is all right, and hence I am writing this review. I am writing this review, because I think I might die if I do not do so and do not ask me why.

It was my mother who introduced me to the beautiful world of literature. When I was kid, all I could hear from her were stories she read as a child or stories which she read just for me. As I grew older, she started talking to me about her favorite authors and why they mattered so much. One day, when I was 12, she showed me her copy of Geetanjali which she had read when she was 14(it was a translation in Telugu, our native language). She held it with lot of care as it was an old copy and was in a bad shape, as it was subjected to a of lot of re-readings. She sat next to me and read a few poems aloud, from her favorite passages she had marked as a child. I saw she had tears in her eyes when she was reading and I didn’t understand why. Poetry intimidated me then and I never tried to take it seriously. She smiled at me and said nothing. I looked at her in awe; she looked immensely happy, almost in bliss. And I said nothing.

On my 13th birthday, my mother gifted me a beautiful brand-new-hardcover edition of Geetanjali, which was filled with poems in Tagore’s handwriting along with their English translations and beautiful pictures of Bengal. I don’t like celebrating my birthday in the way birthdays are generally celebrated; I turn sociophobic and I just sit at some corner and read during that day of the year. I believe people should be allowed to celebrate their birthday doing what they love the most; hence I read. So like always, I selected my favorite corner of our house, sat down and started reading my new gift. Let me remind you, this was my first serious venture into reading poetry, I didn’t know what to expect but because my mother appreciated it so much I had a lot of expectations from these poems.

This is how the book started:

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure.
This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again,
and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands
my little heart loses its limits in joy
and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me
only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest,
and still there is room to fill.

I re-read it. I re-read it again. And this went on for next five hours, until I finished reading and re-reading all the 103 poems. After those five hours, once I felt that my heart was content, I ran to hug my mother and thanked her. I was in love. I never knew what it felt like to be in love, but it had to be something like what I was feeling at that moment because it felt so wonderful; almost as if my heart would burst out with happiness. The rest of the day I was gleaming with joy, I was just going on and on about these poems and my mother, my sweet mother, listened to me with all her patience and a smile on her face.

Since that day, Geetanjali has always been with me; like a true friend. During those days, I used to fall asleep reading it, carry it to my school, read it whenever I was overjoyed,read it whenever any kind of sadness overtook me; the result was the same: I experienced spiritual bliss every single time. There was a time when I stopped reading all other books, it was just Geetanjali for me. I was having a serious love affair with my new-found favorite book.

I am still addicted to this book. I read it everyday, aloud, to let those words sink into my heart with their weight of beauty. It is almost a habit now. Even today I find my eyes filled with tears as I read these poems. But why? I do not have an exact answer for you if you would ask me that. Maybe some books are written for some people. Though he wrote these poems out of spiritual love or maybe for other million reasons, I believed that out of those million reasons, one would have been to support my existence in this world. Words fail me when I try to explain why I am so devoted to this book. Maybe because I have similar spiritual quest going on inside me, or maybe I feel the similar kind of love, if not as great as Tagore's, for the Unknown.

Now something about this book, excluding my dramatic emotions related to it.

Tagore loved God; loved him in love's literal and truest sense. He was a spiritual man, and his poems depict that love. Only love and nothing else; in its purest and pious form. He sees God in nature, in his friends, in his lover, in children, and in God Himself. Each poem is filled with tenderness of an infant's smile, longing of a lovelorn young woman, sincerity of worshiper, pride of a father and love of a mother.

These are few of the poems I personally love:

Poem 26
He came and sat by my side but I woke not.
What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me!
He came when the night was still;
he had his harp in his hands,
and my dreams became resonant with its melodies.
Alas, why are my nights all thus lost?
Ah, why do I ever miss his sight
whose breath touches my sleep?

Poem 32
By all means they try to hold me secure
who love me in this world.
But it is otherwise with thy love
which is greater than theirs,
and thou keepest me free.

Lest I forget them
they never venture to leave me alone.
But day passes by after day
and thou art not seen.

If I call not thee in my prayers,
if I keep not thee in my heart,
thy love for me still waits for my love.

Passing Breeze

Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love,
O beloved of my heart---this golden light that dances upon the leaves,
these idle clouds sailing across the sky,
this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead.
The morning light has flooded my eyes---this is thy message to my heart.
Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes,
and my heart has touched thy feet.


Another one which depicts his longing for His love:

She
She who ever had remained in the depth of my being,
in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses;
she who never opened her veils in the morning light,
will be my last gift to thee,
my God, folded in my final song.

Words have wooed yet failed to win her;
persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain.

I have roamed from country to country
keeping her in the core of my heart,
and around her have risen and fallen
the growth and decay of my life.

Over my thoughts and actions,
my slumbers and dreams,
she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart.

Many a man knocked at my door and
asked for her and turned away in despair.
There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face,
and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.

For Tagore, death was reliever. He always looked at death as his friend who would finally take him and make him stand face to face with God.

O thou the last fulfilment of life,
Death, my death, come and whisper to me!

Day after day I have kept watch for thee;
for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life.

All that I am, that I have,
that I hope and all my love
have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy.
One final glance from thine eyes
and my life will be ever thine own.

The flowers have been woven
and the garland is ready for the bridegroom.
After the wedding the bride shall leave her home
and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.

The poems are not in any particular order, they show his freedom of emotions. In one poem he is a beggar asking alms from a king, in one poem he is a king himself. He takes roles of a child, a lover, a farmer, a poet, a prisoner, a musician, to explain his love in various forms but equally great.I wish I could quote every single line from every single poem and show you how lyrical and scintillating his writing is. How his words dance and pour out love! They are simple but yet so profound. Their sincerity and awe-inspiring style is what makes them so beautiful.

You should read them and experience that joy of reading a mystic yourself, that is all I can say. You will not be disappointed.

P.S: Pardon me if the length was irritating or if my writing made you yawn. I tried to write what came out of my heart at this very moment. Don't let my writing decide if you should read this book or not, read it nevertheless. Like I mentioned before, I wrote this review because I felt that I would die if I do not do so. Hence, this review.

A small meager tribute to my beloved Tagore, from that place in my heart where he is residing and will eternally reside.

Present Books Conducive To Gitanjali

Original Title:	গীতাঞ্জলি
ISBN:	1420926306 (ISBN13: 9781420926309)
Edition Language:	English

Rating Out Of Books Gitanjali

Ratings: 4.32 From 8418 Users | 550 Reviews

Judge Out Of Books Gitanjali

Book Review: Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore: A Journey To Infinity To Discover Yourselfhttp://pebbleinthestillwaters.blogspo...You need to have a big appetite to digest each and every word of Gitanjali written by Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941). The work was originally written in Bengali published over different Bengali books on poetry from where 103 poems have been picked, compiled and consolidated in this book. The translation has been done from Bengali to English by

Good poems and songs. Enjoyed while reading.

A beautiful combination of Indian religion/philosophy and poetry. God has never been compared to the earth in a more enthralling way. This collection of poems made me feel the connection others might have to god,death,pain and being a human.

I have often seen my uncle with his tattered and time worn copy of Gitanjali. He had read it so many times that the missing words do not bother him anymore. At an impulse I also bought a very colorful English edition in my 6th standard and it has remained in my book shelves obscured by heftier novels gathering dust and looking tattered for entirely different reasons. College curriculum is arguably a bad way of rediscovering a book which holds so much sentimental value for my loved ones. A

Gitanjali is a star shining in the darkness.

Poetic falls short of describing Gitanjali. I'll have more to say when I'm finished.April 24, 2011Finished. Wonderful, poetic, imaginative are just a few words to describe Tagore's work. I don't know of any other way to describe it, so I'll just let Tagore speak for Tagore's self,On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet with shouts and dancesThey build their

Gitanjali is the most well-known work of the Bengali polymath Rabindranath Tagore. Tagore was the first non-European winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature (1913.) While Gitanjali is a work of poetry, Tagore didn't restrict himself to this form, but also wrote stories, novels, plays, and music.Gitanjali translates to "Song Offerings" and while the English version is a translation, it was translated by Tagore himself. Thus, there is no need to wonder whether the translator got it right or