Poem Review: Light Poems
As I had announced earlier, we will follow the introduction of one classic poem as Poem 1 of our review, while the others will be contemporary poems.
The random search for classic poetry started with Gitanjali, the Nobel-winning piece of literature by my Gurudev (teacher) Rabindranath Tagore. Finding the other pieces that get on the pedestal of Ponder 2024 was easy.
Of course, we can’t take ‘Light’ lightly after writing about light.
“There is a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”
― Leonard Cohen, Selected Poems, 1956–1968
In this review, we select poems that offer to show light in a different light, each special in itself.
a) ‘Light, my Light’ by Rabindranath Tagore, this 57th poem of Gitanjali, his Nobel Prize-winning magnum opus bringing out the life of light;
b) ‘If I Was a Lighthouse’ by Michelle Morris, describes how a lighthouse will reflect one’s love;
c) ‘Fractured Light’, by Alessandra Graziella Di’Stefano, refracts bittersweet kaleidoscopic moments;
d) ‘Let There BeLight’ by Chloe Douglas lets the sunshine on the sand, field, and road on a frosty morning;
e) ‘Light’ by David Shapiro-Zysk presents the light in contrast to the domestic darkness.
Let the poems show the light in our paths. Before that a small Tribute to Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore.
Rabindranath Tagore FRAS (/rəˈbɪndrənɑːt tæˈɡɔːr/ ⓘ; pronounced [roˈbindɾonatʰ ˈʈʰakuɾ];7 May 1861 — 7 August 1941) was a Bengali poet, writer, playwright, composer, philosopher, social reformer, and painter of the Bengal Renaissance. He reshaped Bengali literature and music as well as Indian art with Contextual Modernism in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Author of the “profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful” poetry of Gitanjali, in 1913 Tagore became the first non-European and the first lyricist to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Tagore’s poetic songs were viewed as spiritual and mercurial; whereas his elegant prose and magical poetry were widely popular in the Indian subcontinent. He was a fellow of the Royal Asiatic Society. Referred to as “the Bard of Bengal”, Tagore was known by the sobriquets Gurudeb, Kobiguru, and Biswokobi.
Poem 1: Light, my Light
Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.
The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure.
The heaven’s river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.~Gitanjali 57, Rabindranath Tagore
Commentary on Poem 1:
If I do not meet your expectations, please be patient with me. This is my first attempt. It's like an ant trying to climb Mount Everest.
Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life;
This poem features three characters: the poet, the light, and his beloved. Light is the core of this poem. The beloved indicates intimacy. The light is his light — a sense of possessiveness, while the light is ubiquitous and universal. That way, light is divine.
If the light is also romantic. It kisses the poet and his darling’s eyes and sweetens their hearts. The heart, that four-chambered fist-sized muscle is the home of love. When lit, it illuminates the center of the poet’s life.
the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.
The light shines both inside and outside. As the heart brightens, warmth tugs at its strings, creating a melody of love and happiness. Outside, the light welcomes spring. The sky smiles in shades of blue, opening its vastness to the earth, while the warm wind runs wild throughout the day. Spring brings life, and with life comes laughter.
The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.
When spring arrives, butterflies and blossoms soon follow. The poet’s imagination of light filling the earth is like a vast sea. Picture boats and buoys: boats sail while buoys float. Similarly, butterflies sail through the air, and blossoms drift gracefully. As the wind sweeps across this sea of light, the butterflies spread their wings, much like boats setting out to sea. Lilies and jasmine, the fragrant white flowers, bloom and ride the crests of the radiant waves of light.
The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion.
The mild yellow of the sunlight suffers refraction from every cloud it passes through. The word shatter magnifies the impact and the outcome — the suddenness of the light scattering into pieces of gold, illuminating the particles in the cloud. The effect is like the scattering of gems, the symbolic riches the day has in store for us.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure.
Spring leaves, young and in light green, flit and flap in unbridled mirth, giggles, and chatters spreading joy and gladness without measure.
“A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.”
― Emily Dickinson
That madness, that mirth, the boundless gladness — the joy that light brings in the spring.
The heaven’s river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.
Oh, the sea of light transforms into a cup of joy, brimming over. The mirth and gladness flow from bank to bank, even breaching them and spilling over across the world. Such is the joy that light brings, my darling.
The evocative poetry is happy and intimate. The poet feels young and reborn and shares his joy with his beloved.
While light manifests in various ways, love is a guiding light, and the person who loves becomes the lighthouse. Let us explore more in the next poem.
Poem 2: If I was a lighthouse
If I was a lighthouse
I’d shine like a beautiful star
My light would echo onwards
Shining brightly and oh, so farAll I’d ever have to do
is think loving thoughts of you
It would shine from inside my soul
Deep and pure and true© Michelle Morris, 2023
Commentary on Poem 2:
The poem is a wish that makes a person serve as a beacon, a guiding light—a wish much needed for this lovelorn world.
If I was a lighthouse
I’d shine like a beautiful star
My light would echo onwards
Shining brightly and oh, so far
The poet wishes to be the lighthouse. A lighthouse stands firmly attached to the ground, yet rises taller than the others, shining its light to the distant ships.
“The lighthouse lantern had been burning a lifetime, a beacon for love’s safe return. For a man who had, in fact, made it back home, just not alive.”
― Kelly Covic, Insomnia
The lighthouse is not a mere transmitter of light, it is a beacon that beckons, saying come home or come to port. Its light gives the moth its sanctuary to safety not to extinguish its life.
In the olden days, before the lighthouse, or in deep seas, travelers and shipmen looked for the stars for guidance for both direction and destination. The poet wishes to be both the lighthouse and the beautiful shining star, beckoning the lover to come to her, for he would be home and safe beside her.
Such an outreach, from a height, and to a distance, will shine afar, for the love that is lost and wishes to be found and home.
All I’d ever have to do
Is think loving thoughts of you
It would shine from inside my soul
Deep and pure and true
The poet says the lighthouse leads the lover to her universe, filled with loving thoughts. The poet’s soul is lit with these loving thoughts, deep, pure, and true — love is the guiding light of the poet’s paradise.
“Your heart is where your inner light resides. It is part of every sacred journey to reconnect with your inner light, step into your divinity, spread the light of love before you, return to the essence of love, and inspire others to do the same.”
― Molly Friedenfeld
A lighthouse is the beacon of guidance for direction and destination — a place for uniting, comfort, and love, which we call a port or home.
If the lighthouse showed the direction toward love, can’t light show the direction toward the past?
Poem 3: Fractured Light
In the kaleidoscope of memories, a fragment remains
A shard of glass, refracting joy and pain
A moment frozen, like a drop of amber time
A snapshot of laughter, forever intertwinedWith whispers of what could’ve been, a bittersweet refrain
Echoes of love and loss, in the fractured light of memory’s stain
A tapestry of moments, woven from threads of gold
A narrative of nostalgia, forever to be toldIn the attic of my mind, a trunk of memories stays
A treasure trove of moments, in disarray
Forgotten scents and sounds, like dust motes in the air
A whispered promise of remembrance, beyond repairThe light of memory, a prism of shattered dreams
Refracting the beauty, of what we’ve lived and seen
A kaleidoscope of moments, forever turning round
A dance of fractured light, on the walls of memory’s ground~Alessandra Graziella Di’Stefano
Commentary on Poem 3:
The sun’s light takes 8 minutes to reach us, so we see its past. As we move forward, we leave memories that future generations can observe. When we look back, we see our footprints in the past, which have shaped our present. For them, it is the future. Light carries these memories to our consciousness, transporting the events and people etched into our memory.
The light from the past, which we call memories isn’t plain white. They display a variety of colors and shades.
In the kaleidoscope of memories, a fragment remains
A shard of glass, refracting joy and pain
A shard of glass is a broken piece. It was once a part of a larger piece of glass, a wholesome one. Glass is functional — it protects things that are to be seen, yet not to be touched. Windows of homes, pictures in frames, and windscreens of automobiles and planes. Then there are glass objects — glasses and vases, cups and saucers. Beyond this and more. Each of them is aesthetic and functional. When broken, each piece is glass still, but they may lose their beauty and use.
Whether broken or whole, glass is an object of light. It allows light to enter and pass through while reflecting, refracting, and distorting as needed. A shard of glass can reflect a little ray of light in sharpness and splendor. A fragment of glass reminds us of part of something bigger and more functional, probably part of a more complete, functioning life. The broken piece, a shard, reflects lights in all its colors, but also reminds us of those kaleidoscopic memories of both bright and dim colors — memories that we want to keep and those, we want to forget, reflecting the joy and pain from our past.
A moment frozen, like a drop of amber time
A snapshot of laughter, forever intertwined
The memories come as fragments, like the shards of glass, but some lie frozen in sepia, like an old photograph when some of us looked much younger and more innocent. If time were a liquid clock, such a memory would be frozen in a vintage amber color.
If the visual memories can dip into amber vintage, somewhere in the deep recesses of our memories, we can hear the laughter faintly, yet distinctly along with the photo snapshot. The audio-visual recollection of memories walks us back into the past like the kaleidoscopic light reflected on the shards of glass.
With whispers of what could’ve been, a bittersweet refrain
Echoes of love and loss, in the fractured light of memory’s stain
In the first stanza—the shard of glass, the vintage amber time drop, the aural snapshot—everything is about what was. There is a subtle murmur in the background, reflecting feelings of regret or guilt, remnants of memories about what could have been. These remnants are bittersweet; sometimes we are grateful that certain possibilities never came to fruition, while at other times, we lament missed opportunities.
The regrets or gratitude that shape our past reflect our love and the loss of those who were significant in our lives but are no longer with us. The remnants are called the ‘memory’s stains’ and reflect in fractured, broken light.
In the attic of my mind, a trunk of memories stays
A treasure trove of moments, in disarray
Where can we find the vintage visuals of the past? In the attic. All remnants of the past—photographs, memories, regrets, sighs, loves, and losses—are stored in a trunk tucked away in the attic.
“Perhaps the sorrow was not, after all, emanating from the attic, but from her.”
― Christina Dodd, Tongue In Chic
Will the trunk be like Pandora's box? The poet offers a straightforward answer: it is a "treasure trove of moments," though they are jumbled. The thoughts that arise from these memories are unsorted and come across as random snippets that are "bittersweet."
A tapestry of moments, woven from threads of gold
A narrative of nostalgia, forever to be told
Imagine this. What was and what could have been, now discovered inside the trunk in the attic, triggers a series of visual recollections that feel random, like an unedited movie. Gradually, the mind clears, filling in the essential details that connect the story of the past — a story of love and loss, ‘woven from threads of gold’. The importance of the connecting threads can’t be missed. The poet gives a lot of weight to the memories that define the past.
If the tapestry of memories, now held together by golden strands, has deep roots of love and loss, it evokes strong nostalgia.
Forgotten scents and sounds, like dust motes in the air
A whispered promise of remembrance, beyond repair
The nostalgic memories that are woven together highlight the small details — the forgotten scents, scenes, and sounds. These elements create an aural, olfactory, and visual experience akin to a silent film. The light filters in through the glass roof above the attic, making the dust particles float in the air. These floating motes, illuminated by sunlight, evoke the microscopic life found along a well-lit highway. I can't help but appreciate the small details that the poet has used to evoke such a powerful memory.
“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.”
― Marcel Proust
How true is this? The past that we remember is what we make of, like the photographs, memories, regrets, sighs, loves, and losses, woven by golden threads, adding the little pieces of sensory effects — in a sense, the past is a picture made by us.
The light of memory, a prism of shattered dreams
Refracting the beauty, of what we’ve lived and seen
Movies are stories made of light. The movie is made through the beholder’s prism. The prism,( like the glass we saw) with its infirmities (shattered dreams), adds colors of shattered light (aka the golden thread and the sensory details), showing the beauty of our past life and experiences.
A kaleidoscope of moments, forever turning round
A dance of fractured light, on the walls of memory’s ground
The movie is ready. It will be shown on a screen that is the ‘wall of memory’s ground’—the screen is within the beholder. The movie will be seen through the mind’s eye.
“Life is like arriving late for a movie, having to figure out what was going on without bothering everybody with a lot of questions, and then being unexpectedly called away before you find out how it ends.”
― Joseph Campbell, Creative Mythology
The past life is our movie, yet we know that the end has not come. The shadows and fractured light of our past form images in our mind, colorful and kaleidoscopic. As the present passes, we see a little more of the same movie…but we don’t get to see the end.
As the fractured light of the past weaves a tapestry of kaleidoscopic memories, we shall look forward to the future — the newly broken dawn that leads us into a vibrant and illuminated day.
Poem 4: Let there be light!
And the day began
The sun rose
Over the hill
Slowly
The sky bathed in pink
The frosty air
Sparkled
Today we shall remember
To light candles
To celebrate
Ancient hills
Mother sky
The hard ground
The soft light
Frozen tears
Covering everywhere
Will melt
Make their way
To the streams
Into the valleys
Flooding
Sand, field, and road
Until
We see the light.
©️Chloe Douglas, 07–12–23.
Commentary on Poem 4:
This is a beautiful poem about light in the early morning.
And the day began
The sun rose
Over the hill
Slowly
The sky bathed in pink
The frosty air
Sparkled
The earth tilted slightly to the left, and there it was—the sun rising on the eastern edge of the sky, just above the distant hill. Like everyone on a winter morning who prefers to snuggle and sleep under the warmth of a cozy quilt, the sun rose slowly from its early morning slumber.
The sun has a sleepy blush on its chin, which spreads a rosy hue across the sky. The air, the only thing awake, moves about freely in the frosty dawn, shivering without any cover. The soft pink light sparkles as it reflects off the dew and snow.
Today we shall remember
To light candles
To celebrate
Ancient hills
Mother sky
The hard ground
The soft light
This day is special. It is time to celebrate our primordial ancestors in various forms of Nature. ‘Ancient Hills’ that stand guard against the weather, and that bring rain. Mother Sky, with her vast benevolence and deep womb, graces us with shine and the rains, the hard ground that holds us in place, and the soft light that wakes the diurnals to move forward in their lives.
“I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.”
― Frank Lloyd Wright, Truth Against the World: Frank Lloyd Wright Speaks for an Organic Architecture
The presence of nature in our lives is as divine as the air we breathe. Invisible, omnipresent, within and without. Humans worship nature as their silent benefactors.
Frozen tears
Covering everywhere
Will melt
Make their way
To the streams
Into the valleys
Flooding
Sand, field, and road
Until
We see the light.
There is a sense of stagnant sorrow in those words ‘Frozen tears’. Tears flow, but when frozen they become still. Such a somber mood is spread across the wilderness like a blanket of snow. The pink warmth of the morning light slowly melts the frozen tears which now flow in abundance, brimming and overflowing into the streams and valleys.
“Listen to God with a broken heart. He is not only the doctor who mends it, but also the father who wipes away the tears.”
― Criss Jami
Slowly, the melted tears flow across the sand of the desert, and the fertile fields and the roads traveled through life… until we see the light — the divine light of heartful hope.
From the bright poem that longs for light, we turn to our final poem, which examines the other side where light fades away.
Poem 5:Light
the sundown
the sky as black
as I feel inside
I hear a couple fight
bitterly
through an open window
I see their silhouettes
quaking in the front room
I stand frozen
listen and watch
because I need to know
this will end well
in the darkest hours~David Shapiro Zysk
Commentary on Poem 5:
We have celebrated poems about the arrival of light from afar. Shouldn't we also explore what happens when light leaves? The transition between the day’s light and the night’s darkness is a powerful demonstration of presence through absence. Light after all is the fundamental entity for our vision.
the sundown
the sky as black
as I feel inside
The twilight is gone, the vestiges of the day’s light swept beyond the horizon. It is as if somebody has swept away the light particles on the black floor — the sky. If there was little hope within, it was swept away too — the poet feels darkness inside. The darkness of the night mirrors the struggles during the day or even the vicissitudes of the larger life.
I hear a couple fight
bitterly
through an open window
I see their silhouettes
quaking in the front room
A couple fights bitterly — a routine, perhaps, but this time ‘bitterly’ — an incomplete, dissatisfied state of the relationship, that flows out like foam from a polluted lake, then bubbling visually with acerbic words, thrown at each other — the vituperative sounds filling the ears of the poet. The light of love has vanished from their hearts, which once radiated warmth on the day that has just passed, taking that light with it. Seeing their trembling silhouettes means their shadows—representatives of darkness—are being cast on a wall or curtain. The tumult of the confrontation between the couple effuses into the poet’s mind in the form of darkness.
I stand frozen
listen and watch
because I need to know
this will end well
in the darkest hours
The shadows of the quarrel fall on the poet’s mind. They are so dark that they suck in the darkness of the poet’s mind. The poet’s faculties come to a standstill, his problems now dwarfed by the couple’s bickering. But, there is something unusual — the poet has a compulsive curiosity about the outcome of the bickering.
“I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems
This benign, but compulsive curiosity angle hit me. What does the darkness symbolize now? Is the the time of the night, when even shadows go to sleep? Or, is it the darkness of their hatred that flows and fills the time that goes by, as the shadows of their bickerings grow larger and longer? Or is the darkness of morbid (which used to be benign) curiosity that occupies the poet’s mind?
Well, the darkest hours will lead to dawn. By then, the couples will be tired, the night will be gone and the poet’s curiosity, we hope, will tide away.
On a Lighter Note:
From the ever-present source of joy and happiness to the guiding light of love; from fragmented memories of the past to the new hope of dawn, and finally, the infusion of presence through absence, ‘light’ exists not only on a physical level but also on metaphorical and philosophical levels.
As I wrote the review, I came across many poems that deserve to be included. However, I’ll explore a different perspective for now due to limited time and space. The essence of the poems we just discussed sheds light on the various aspects of ‘light.’
“It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but that you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it.”
― Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Ponder is a reflective mirror of the brilliant lights the poets shine. We will continue to be the moon to the darkness that befalls the earth at night.
~Ashok Subramanian © 2024
