Acknowledgements
History speaks in silence. His name and as the ‘Prisoner of Europe' his tragic end on St. Helena, a small island in the Atlantic Ocean. He is Napoleon Buonaparte, an incomparable soldier, politician, lover, first modern European and one of the most illuminating figures in the lap of modern history.
Some of his words touched me deeply and I began to think more about him.
They are like –
“The life of a happy man is a picture
Showing black stars on a silver background.
The life of an unhappy man is a picture
Showing silver stars on a black background.”
“One must curb one's imagination,
Otherwise one is liable to go mad.”
“Wickedness is always individual,
Never collective.”
“Glory is a connecting link
Between past and future.”
“Genius is a flame, which comes from heaven,
But seldom finds a head ready to receive it.”
“Misfortune has its good side;
It teaches us truth.”
“Believe me, there is a providence which guides all. I am merely its instrument.”
“If we can not actually see God with our own eyes, this is because He did not wish our understanding to reach so far.”
“War is anachronism. Some day, victories will be won without cannon and without bayonets.”
A versatile genius as he was, his love for literature was almost passionate. He in his early days drafted a novel on Corsica and also some short stories though which were never finished. In his ending days his love for poetry was amazing. He looked for poets and relished the lines which had bearing on his own case. Once he said – “I wish I could be my own posterity and read what such a poet as Corneille would make me feel, do, and say.”
For a long time I have thought deeply and objectively and put my heart into the sighs of Napoleon during his ending days and turned them into poetry which owes their inspiration to universal love and peace. Critics will say how for I have succeeded.
I should like to make due acknowledgments to Mr Khirod Malik, a poet and lecturer in English literature, for translating the poems from Original Oriya. My heartfelt gratitude is also due to Mr. Dayanidhi Rout, Lecturer in English, for his encouragement.
Lastly, many many thanks to my eternal friend ‘MISFORTUNE' who gave me much inspiration to write such a type of book.
Bidhu Bhusana Nanda
Poems 1 to 9
(1)
Stealthily comes the evening,
like the maid of a princess
and playfully shutting her eyes
stands behind
asking her in the darkness
who she could be.
like disciplined soldiers,
on their way back to their barracks,
rejoicing in their emperor's victory,
birds return to their nests
under the setting sun.
the tireless waves on the ocean
dash against the shore of st. helena, as though determined
to break it into pieces:
but tired i am,
sitting quiet under the tree,
it is faint too
like me,
its leaves slowly closing
at the soft touch of twilight.
(2)
I watched the fight
between a snake and a mongoose
and thought the snake would die,
but all of a sudden
it overpowered and killed the mongoose
by its repeated bites.
I lifted a block of stone
and aimed it at the snake
planning to end its life,
but i wavered and failed.
(3)
Scented with the smell of the body
my bed will be awaiting me:
It feels the pangs of my life
and hears the piercing cries of pain.
At times it whispers in my ears
fame is a vigilant sentinel
that keeps standing
at the crossroads of life,
death, the past and the future.
At midnight,
when it burns with anger
my sleep breaks
and suddenly I begin to think
What I was *
and what I have become. *
If today it turned
into a throne of gold
I should break it
with my own hands.
*The words of Napoleon*
(4)
I wanted to make *
a united national whole…
I should have gone to India
and should have established
new institutions everywhere.
I failed to change
the face of the world… *
My self-confidence burns
in the fire that wavers
and hesitates to swallow it.
My dew-drenched dreams
are all scattered
like withered flowers.
Today I wonder
why I hold some of them
in the palm of my hand.
* The words of Napoleon *
(5)
I, who have had so unusual a career, *
have never committed a crime, and never has the thought
of committing a murder
entered my mind. *
But like an emaciated leper,
my fate stands before me
racked by hunger.
A begging bowl in hand,
he gropes for me in agony.
‘Alms, alms'-he shouts,
but what have I got
to give him?
* The words of Napoleon *
(6)
Today the full moon feels different:
rainclouds scud past her,
like my soldiers fleeing Russia.
I thought it would rain,
but it didn't.
Everywhere it is silent and still,
without a breath of wind.
Tired and sulking, the trees
appear to break the silence,
but refrain from speaking.
In the glass of the floating cloud
I gaze at the images
of hundreds of my cavalrymen
dying from hunger and with cold.
My eyes are wet with warm tears,
as they had been once
when the widowed women of the soldiers
broke down and wept bitterly.
(7)
St. Helena tortures me
as if I were her stepchild,
but how dearly I love her!
Yesterday, when the sun called on me
through the window
I woke up and stirred in her lap:
the thirsty sea was gazing at the sun
with tearful eyes.
I did not know how long
the cruel sun had been over my head
and the sea weeping there.
My rebellious mind would not
listen to the voice of reason.
Here all are heartless, cruel and selfish,
so I went back and began
dictating a letter.
Monsieur Le gouverneur*!
Emperor Napoleon died on the ——-,
after a long and painful illness.
I have the honour to inform you the fact…
Please let me know what arrangements
your government has made for the conveyance
of his body to Europe,
and also in respect of the members of his suit. *
Suddenly I saw the sun
hiding behind the black clouds.
It started raining
and the cry of the sea
was heard no more.
* The words of Napoleon *
(8)
It seems the lamp of life
is burning in the oil of love.
But whose love it it
that feeds the fire of my life?
Who have I been exiled here for?
No, St. Helena doesn't love me.
She is merely on the watch
for Death's arrival,
Perhaps waiting to prevent him
from opening the gate of my life
too soon.
With the garland of my pains
worn around her neck,
she keeps smiling
like a minister on a dais.
Here the wind only loves me,
its whispers stir my quiet heart.
(9)
My present, a foggy dawn.
Like a traveller by night
walking along a serpentine street
looking for his friend's place,
I, too, am unable to spot mine.
Here stands the tree
of my future,
all sere and bare.
The tides on the heart's sea,
ebbing away.
My past calls me,
like a lighthouse
calling the pathlost mariner.
Poems 10 to 19
(10)
Josephine! when I first saw you,
you had come
to thank me
for the return
of the dead soldier's sword
who still sat on your heart's throne.
Your eyes, tremulous with love,
spoke of pain in silence.
Your red lips, already pale and dry
from which the wind of misfortune
had blown the flowers of kisses.
The moon of your love was marred
by the black marks of widowhood.
Soon after I saw you
I painted my mind with new dreams.
And from this time
I will go on collecting
the withered flowers of kisses
to adorn the altar of your love.
I will remove the black smudge
of widowhood, and build
with my own hands
the edifice of your fate.
(11)
Today I remember the feelings
what my hands painted for you.
I am waiting for you; *
I am wholly filled with you;
Your picture and the intoxicating evening
leave my senses no peace.
Sweet, incomparable Josephine,
What have you done to my heart?
Are you angry with me?
Do you look sad?
Are you ill at ease?
But I find calm when I give myself
up to my passion,
that on your lips, at your heart,
I may fan the flames which burn me.
How plain it was to me last night
that your picture can never replace
the real you.
At noon you will start;
in three hours I shall see you;
till then, mio dolce amor,
a thousand kisses!
But you must not give me kisses,
for they burn my blood! *
Since I left you, *
I have been sad,
I can only be happy when I am near you.
I spend my whole time thinking of your kisses,
your tears, your bewitching jealousy.
The charm of the incomparable Josephine is perpetually
rekindling the flames of my heart and my senses.
When shall I be free, at length,
free from cares and duties,
free to devote all my time to you,
with nothing in the world but to you…
Since I have known you,
I have come to respect you
more day by day,
which shows how wrong La Bruyere
was when he said
that loves come suddenly.
Everything in nature
runs its course,
and increases by degrees…
Be less beautiful,
less tender,
and above all less jealous.
Your tears inflame my blood…
Join me quickly,
so that, before we die,
we may be able to say:
We have had so many happy days!
A million kisses,
even for your horrid fortune. *
* The words of Napoleon *
(12)
I wandered in the breeze of your love
listening to you
who sang like a cuckoo
among the mango blossom of my life.
For fifteen years
I remained lsot
in the enchantment of that song,
but alas! it stopped at once
and the breeze ceased to blow.
The day I deserted you
I remember you
looking at my face
like a helpless child.
I know you fainted
many a time in mental pain.
Suddenly at the dead of night
you came and stood near my bed
like the last wish of a man
going to be hanged.
But no words escaped
from my lips.
(13)
Something broke within.
As my hands got wet
with the blood of love,
the rainbow disappeared from the sky.
In forlorn hope the dancing peacock
stopped spreading out
its tail feathers
and left for the forest.
I left the palace for Trianon
and there I sat for three days
all alone.
Not a word did I write
to anyone.
In my loneliness
I saw the opulence
of your love everywhere.
(14)
I thought
you would be pleased
to see me
and having learnt
the language of my eyes,
you would come near.
But you would sit mutely.
I could not break the silence
So I wrote to you
what I felt ——-
I found you to-day *
in a worse condition of mind
than I had hoped, mon amie…
You should not give yourself
upto so profound melancholy.
Take good care of your health,
which is so dear to me.
If you love me, then show me
how strong and happy you can be.
You cannot doubt my fondness,
or all the tenderness I feel for you.
You cannot believe that
I shall ever be happy
if you are unhappy.
I was very sad
when I got back to the Tuileries;
the great palace seemed so empty;
I felt so lonely…
Farewell, Chere amie;
sleep soundly
and remember that
I wish it thus. *
* The words of Napoleon *
(15)
On a silvery day
the golden rain fell and disappeared,
sending the winds
to sway the leaves and sing.
I kept looking at the garden.
The full blown roses
murmured something
and nodded their heads.
Drops of tear fell from their eyes.
How can I reveal my heart?
What my hands painted for you
is still green in my memory.
The page who saw you this morning, *
tells me you are weeping…
I shall take my meals all by myself…
Have you really lost courage
since going of Malmaison?
And yet that house
has been the witness of our happiness,
and our feelings for one another.
These feelings must never change;
nor can they, at least
as far as I am concerned.
I should so much like to pay a visit;
but first I must know
if you are a valiant woman
or a weakling.
I am rather weak myself,
and I am suffering greatly.
Farewell, Josephine.
Good night. *
* The words of Napoleon *
(16)
I did not think
your tears would scald me.
I did not know
it would take ages
to clear the debt of your love.
I dreamt you would
spend your life in plenty
that I brought for you.
I remember what you wrote —–
I am always the same;*
My feelings do not change…
I shall say no more
until you have compared
this letter with yours.
Then you can judge for yourself
which of us two
is more friendly —–
You or I. *
I closed my eyes this evening
and saw you,
and you looked like a fairy,
stretching your hands towards me
and inviting me to Paris.
* The words of Josephine *
(17)
You loved me as much
as I loved France:
at first sight, you conquered
the territory of my heart.
I drove you away
from my heart,
and today I am
a long way away from France.
Even since the moon of your face
went behind the black clouds
of your mind,
the wind of misfortune
started levelling the sandcastles
I had built on the beach of life.
You became one with the earth,
the mother of patience and calm;
but the cry of your pure sould
reverberates through the caves
of my ears and heart.
(18)
I see my life in flames
the way I saw Moscow burning,
clouds of smoke going up
with question marks
against their own existence.
The smoke of my life
is unwillingly fading
with a prayer
to visit all cruel hearts
before the morning.
But I am silent as ever.
For I know
the smoke will melt
in millions of loving eyes
to get me wet.
Though, quite understands
the meaning of my silence,
still, smoke keeps on asking
‘Why hold on to life?'
(19)
Had you got to commit suicide
when I lost the battle of Waterloo?
No, you hadn't; for the tears
running from the eyes of the ghost
take wings,
and in the shape of suicide
look for nests in the troubled mind.
I know this body is mine,
but I have not built it.
I see a shape of pain
which turns my stomach.
I have begun to be friends with sorrow,
who seems love my company.
I have become a prisoner
of my own fate
that has bound my hands
with the chain of time.
Let fate imprison my life,
but I myself wouldn't take
a day out of it.
Poems 20 to 29
(20)
Time has stopped here
to frighten me
with his red-eyed stare.
Born of my mind,
millions of soldiers
keep watch in the empty sky
not to let time
come up to me.
Afraid of none,
he advances towards me
to elicit informations from me
as though I were someone
standing in the witness box.
(21)
I have swum the river of blood
I am ready to leave the shore,
yet unable to do so.
I am worn and worried,
my body soaked in blood;
I have ears and I hear not,
I have eyes and I see not.
Closing my eyes I see
Josephine sitting alone,
her face wrinkled and her body,
mere skin and bone.
But her eyes seem to burn
and from her dishevelled hair
blood rushes towards me
as though a river of blood
were going to again wash me away.
(22)
Their laughter now falls
on my ears,
the laughter that rose
from the death of Jesus.
I am dancing to the tune
of my own sighs
as a dancer does being whipped
before a king drowsy
under the influence of drugs.
My parched heart
is in search of an oasis
crying for a drop of water.
(23)
What a wonderful creation is woman!
How high is her love!
The earth plays the role of woman,
and the sky, that of man:
she clasps him to her dark bosom.
Waves of emotion waken
the dormant desire for creation
and life springs in varied hues.
She feeds them all as a mother
feeds her children on her milk.
She bears the heat of the midday sun,
storms and cyclones,
but never banishes from her mind
the memories of the sky.
If today I fashioned an image
with what I have been left with –
love, kindness and patience
it would be a woman,
motherly tears streaming down
her cheeks
and cloud of grief
floating about a girl's looks.
(24)
If somebody sat singing beautifully
in the desolate corner
of a palace in ruins,
I would feel like asking them
who did they sang for,
sending the waves of love.
If he said “It's for you, only for you”
what should I ask him?
In the noisy battleground
rise the piercing cries of pain,
Life and death balancing each other.
When the battle is over
silence reigns.
And then I feel
like sitting there alone.
But if a child came there
looking for his father
and said “Have you seen my father?”
What should I tell him?
(25)
‘Who are you
sad and ugly faces?'
‘We are soldiers from many countries
and for you
we have laid down our lives'
‘Now what do you ask me?'
‘then tell us what you have got
and how you are, oh kind-hearted one'
‘How dare you hate my misfortune?
I conquered half the world
and then lost it.
History will tell who I am
and what has become of me.
Kind-hearted one
is not the epithet for me.
It makes me an object of ridicule.
Nobody has dared to speak
to my face
like you have done.
But come now,
cut me up
with your sharp weapons.
I'm not going to say anything.
My love for you has never diminished.
I forgive you
like Jesus did, similarly.'
I remember
setting foot on this ground
immersed in thought,
the first night
and its first dream.
(26)
I have fought in sixty fights *
and I can assure you that
I have learned nothing
from any of them. *
War is a fire,
whose flame leaps
in the darkness of ignorance.
The wind of pride and violence
drives us into it,
and we are reduced to ashes.
War is a poisonous flower
in a dense forest.
It attracts the travellers
only to kill them.
War is a mirage
we keep chasing
for the waters of peace.
We are like deer
thirsty in the sun.
Peace is nowhere.
The earth is strewn *
with dead and bleeding men. *
*The words of Napoleon*
(27)
The child cries to be cradled.
The anxious mother
looks around to take him
up in her arms.
Between them, the wall,
in which rises the stream
of warm blood.
The bird of peace
circles in the morning sky.
The total solar eclipse
drove it to its nest.
Peace trembles
on the lotus leaf of life,
unable to toss itself
in the endless waters of love.
(28)
I had never listened
for the beating of my heart.
It is today
I hear its silent cries:
Now I feel the soul's
crying need for peace.
It is for peace
the soul takes a body
and comes to this beautiful earth
time and again.
Today I know
some day victories *
will be won
without canon
and without bayonets. *
*The words of Napoleon*
(29)
In the garden of life
‘work' is a gardener,
taking care to make it beautiful.
If flowers do not bloom
filling the garden with their perfume,
will the black bee of peace
ever visit it?
The gardener feels bloated with pride
at the sight of tall trees
in the garden.
But no flowers do ever bloom.
Days roll away,
and the gardener looks on.
Poems 30 to 39
(30)
The tales of destiny
twinkle like stars
in the night of many a mouth.
The lotus of my fate
has bloomed in the pond
whose banks are birth and death.
Often have I seen it in bloom
at the dawn of life.
I have observed this flower
in the gloom of my life
keeping quiet after closing its petals.
Today I cannot say
fortune is a strumpet,
though I have said so
a number of times before.
Who is the lover?
For whose love
has the lotus of fate bloomed?
For whose love did it smile then
and for whose love
does it cry now
with close petals?
(31)
A slumber sealed me
in my mother's womb.
As I woke, waves of illusion
surrounded me
and I started to swim.
Now sleep is outside
the circle of my consciousness.
And where is the dream?
It seems true inside consciousness.
The dream lives in the
love of sleep
and sleep awaits me
in the love of the dream.
But in whose love
can I discover myself?
(32)
Darkness wanders around
in fear of light,
planning to drown consciousness
in sleep.
So many creatures keep his company,
who look drugged up to the eyeballs.
Oh! darkness calls me now,
holding my son in his arms.
Ah! my son!
How is it
you are in the lap of darkness?
The bird of my life
seeks shelter in the nest
of your love.
Let me go
and wrench my son
free from the grasp of darkness.
Oh! there is light again!
where is darkness?
(33)
What is love?
Why does man love someone?
It is clear that I have to live here
by myself, and still,
I cannot forget France.
I know
I cannot get back to France
and cannot see anyone there.
But why do they steal into
my yard?
How vast is the sky!
Who knows where it ends?
who knows how the sun,
the moon and stars
had their presence there?
How wonderful is the earth!
And how the birds, animals
and trees came here?
who created them,
and with what love?
(34)
The corpses that had vanished
without a trace
now gather together
at the entrance to my heart.
Love is a passion *
which should only be
the main theme of a tragedy,
and never a subsidiary motif.
Believe me
love is a foolish blindness.
I love no one
Joseph a little
from the force of habit
and because he is the elder.
I have an iron heart
I never really loved;
perhaps Josephine, a little. *
*The words of Napoleon*
(34)
But today
My eyes do not know
why they get wet.
My tears do not know
why they roll.
In this lonely rock
the echo of my cry
brings me a new message —–
“I find no way
to lose myself in the void,
Who is he —–
that made these woods
and rocks —–
Waylay me
with a loving embrace?
Love him, love him” it says.
(35)
My kingdom's eyes are open
but dry.
The picture of the tear-sodden earth
is clear before them.
The kingdom is all deserted.
The wind sighs through the window.
Someone strolls outside
like a mad beggar
striking the ground with a stick.
The nerves are all in gaol
like defeated soldiers.
The crown hangs in the void
out of the king's reach.
The nerves stretch their hands
to get hold of it,
But the crown goes up and up.
It is not to be had again.
The tired horses from the battlefield
are tied to my legs.
I cannot join the fragmented map
of my kingdom drawn on my palms.
My eyelids close
as the evening candles burn
themselves out.
(36)
Silence everywhere-
on earth, in the sky
and in the secret corner of my heart.
when and where was it
that I fell in love with you?
The answer lies in the bosom of the sea.
Waves of dream roll
on to the beach of my mind
and retreat.
Whose foot-prints are these
that have been left
on the uneven sands?
The waves come as it were
to see them and leave
in a ritual of parting.
(37)
All images
that danced in the splintered mirror
of my mind
are disappearing now.
It seems this body
is not mine.
My mind is the sky now
my body the earth:
the sun takes farewell
to come back to me again.
I gaze at my image
in the mirror of love.
The image tells me
it will remain
while I am gone.
(38)
I was swimming
in the sea of sorrow.
Someone arrived and soon departed,
saying everything is but a lie:
Still, there is one
that goes on forever.
And it is one
that commands
the sun, the moon
and the countless stars.
Tired as I am,
I dare not swim any longer.
But sill, I don't like to rest.
Let me swim again
for I am not an insect of untruth
unsteady and a frail
lured by the flame of ignorance.
My eyes are real
my ears as well
and my hands too.
Let me go on
till I see the shore of the truth
touch, feel and hear
only of the truth.
(39)
Suddenly I have the vision
of the crucifixion,
and Jesus smiling at me.
I go up to him
to pull out the nails.
Oh! millions of people
rush at me in anger.
Jesus is all smiles.
Soon he turns into a swan
and flies away with me
on his back.
I see Napoleon calling me
A pale face, two death – loving eyes;
Indeed, they deserve the mercy.
Oh! what piteous cries!
As open my eyes
I find the stars gazing at me.
Perhaps it is morning.
No, it is getting on for midnight.
It will be long till I return.
Today I have own *
a real victory. *
*The words of Napoleon*
Poems 40 to 48
(40)
I ask myself
what is mine?
The thoughts make me laugh.
The mirror of relationship
reflects my violence and anger
born of my thwarted desires.
Now
this sky over head
the sprawling earth with mountains
river, trees and seas
endear me as a child.
They are all the wealth I need.
The wind
fills my breath
with love
and here
I create my own heaven.
(41)
Someone wants to leave me behind,
reducing all experiences of life
into earth, perhaps
to plant a beautiful garden in heaven,
and turn my sorrow, pain and repentance into flowers
taking the seven colours
out of my life.
Perhaps he will then scatter the earth
with those flowers
whose fragrance will spread
far and wide.
But if he offered me
that aroma of other's suffering,
I would enjoy the bliss
of endless love.
(42)
Getting lost in the self
with the hope of discovering it
is an experience.
That and that alone
is my eternal friend.
The voice of misfortune
sounds too enchanting
for the timeless truth
to stay in hiding.
The purpose of my birth and death
will spread in the void
and remain floating
on the waters of time
lapping against
the share of my consciousness.
Love wells up in the eyes of the stars
peering down from their heavenly abode.
They don't like to revolt,
lest their rebellion
should set the universe on fire
and force space
to surrender its identity.
But what is it
that they ask me now?
Is it their father's address?
(43)
After covering some ground
through the crowd of their pranks
I see my wish
melting into the judgement of God.
This royal court – an assemblage
of flesh, bone and blood –
is not mine.
I am a vigilant sentinel
observing things going on
within and outside of me.
Standing
on the last stair of consciousness
I look for sorrow
that sleeps somewhere
in the bed of pain,
despair that hides
in the den of life,
and repentance
that weeps in the guise
of one gone insane.
Now
nothing remains
of their shape and colour:
they have accepted their defeat.
(44)
I thought
God lives in a dilapidated cottage
in the village of the mind.
When the villagers are tired
or ill
God comes out of His cottage
and strolls in the courtyard.
I can now recognise
the One that lives in me
and loves me deeply.
He loves my tears
as much as He loves my smiles.
He loves my fortunes
and misfortunes as well.
It is He who has brought me here.
It is here He will reveal
Himself to me.
(45)
What is soul?
What mystery
surrounds its origin?
Now I realize
the soul is an artist
that plays various roles
on the stage of nature.
Sometimes it cries
being a newborn baby,
sometimes it wonders
like a mad man.
There are occasions
when it sleep on the death bed.
It plays its role
without remembering the hints
of the director.
The director who has decorated
the stage
is sending the artists
on to it.
(46)
Death is in love with life,
So it comes with the new-born.
In the first cry of the baby
it leaves the message-
‘I have come,
floods of delight
flourishes on every face,
but no-one recognises me.
All of you would be crying
after my departure.
I come to the earth
for love of the living nature.
Love me in the same way
singing the song of non-violence'.
(47)
Tired from its dance
the wind sits silent beside me
intending to take me away
with a kiss.
The clouds descend from the skies.
The seas have gone silent.
With slow steps he comes towards me
to lift me onto his lap.
The sun has closed his eyes
after burning with anger,
but in his dreams
he is seeking to make me one
with his body.
The earth has lost her patience.
She calls me to lie down
on her lap and hold her in
eternal love.
The endless space is dotted
with star's pain;
which it reveals to the night.
It is now calling me in silence,
for it has seen
all the black marks on my heart.
(48)
My sleep broke
at the later part of the night…
I know who woke me up.
The dreams of the past
have lost their courage
to wrangle with each other
over something or the other.
Now I am out of their net.
Dawn mantles the eastern sky.
I stand tip-toe with expectation.
Soon I shall be getting lost
in the world of my laughter.
From the publishers
St. Helena, a small island in the Atlantic Ocean where Napoleon Buonaparte met his end as the ‘Prisoner of Europe'.
Napoleon, in his early days drafter a novel on Corsica and also some short stories through which were never finished. In his ending days he searched the poets, and especially relished those passages from the poets which applied to his own case.
Some of his words were like – “I wish I could be my own posterity and read what such a poet as Corneille would make me feel, do and say”.
“Every future historian will have to allow me my share. Facts speak for themselves.”
In this book, the poet Bidhu Bhushana Nanda has thought deeply and objectively and has put his heart into the sighs of Napoleon during his ending days and turn them into poetry.