WALT WHITMAN(3) – મકરંદ દવે




A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?…..I do not know
what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners,
that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child….the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

………..………………………………………          ……………………….       ………………..

ઘાસ  – મકરંદ દવે

ઘાસની જિન્દગી લીલવરણી અને
ઘાસનું મૃત્યુ તો સોનવરણું.

આવ, આ ઝૂલતા ઘાસની મેડીએ,
સર્વ દીવા બુઝાયા, છતાં તેડીએ
કોઈ લીલી સળી, કેડીએ કેડીએ
વાળ સોનેરી વિખરાઈ ચોગમ પડ્યા
ક્યાંક મુખ ઢાંકી લાજાળ, નમણું-

ત્યાં, પણે, ટેકરીને મથાળે ચડી
જોઈએ, વાય હેમંતી વાયુ, અડી
જાય આ બીડની ક્યાંક સોનાછડી,
હરણના જૂથમાં આજ આ ઘાસ પણ
સાથ ચરતું બની જાય હરણું-

ખડ તણો ખાલી વિસ્તાર, કેવો ઝગે!
ઊતરી આમ ઢોળાવ, ઘરમારગે
ચાલતાં ચાલતાં પ્રિય, કદી ડગમગે
આપણા પાય, ત્યાં અંધકારે બને
દીપ, જો દીપ, એકેક તરણું-
– મકરંદ દવે
અમલપિયાલી સંપાદન અને પ્રસ્તાવના સુરેશ દલાલ



I exist as I am,that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.

One world is aware, and by far the largest to me, and
that is myself,
And whether I come to my own today or in ten
thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal
cheerfulness I can wait.

My foothold is tenoned and mortised in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.

I am the poet of the body,
And I am the poet of the soul,

The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains
of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself…..the
later I translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is great to be a woman as to be a
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother
of men.
Edited by Stephen Mitchell

SONG OF MYSELF – Walt Whitman (1)

Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have
you reckoned the earth much?

Have you practiced so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall
possess the origin of all poems,
You shall posses the good of the earth and sun
…..there are millions of suns left,
You shall no longer take things at second or third
hand….nor look through the eyes of the dead
…. nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take
things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from

I have heard what the talkers were talking …..the
talk of the beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is
Not any more heaven or hell than there is now.
-Edited by Stephen Mitchell