Puran Singh’s poetry, like that of Walt Whitman fertilizes the mind, and provokes man into song time and time again. It is fundamentally and finally the poetry of man’s soul.
Prof. Puran Singh’s (1881-1931) love for the Tenth Master…
“They ask me to say something about Guru Gobind Singh;
they ask what is He to me?
I tremble when they ask me, what is He to me?
Unable to say anything in reply,
I burst forth into childlike cries of both joy and pain,
and I faint away,
knowing not what is He to me!
Only I say Guru Glorious! Guru Glorious and I am consoled,
I slumber in His Lap,
soothed by the lullabies of my own sound,
knowing not what is He to me!
Do not ask me to define Him,
Do not ask me to praise Him,
Do not ask me name Him,
Do not ask me to preach Him,
And ask me not to conceal Him,
One who has freed me,-
Me, the self-poisoned,
the downtrodden slave in the fragrance of Himself.
Whatever He may be to anyone else,
To me, He is the Creator,
who has cast Himself in the shape of His Song.
And sitting nowhere,
He showers from his eyes a rain of stars in the sky!
Let the Great Ones name Him,
Let the scholars search Him
Let the learned discourse on Him,
Let the martyrs sing Him,
Let the lovers call Him,
Let the maiden’s garland Him,
and sing Him a welcome!
Let the saints worship Him,
let the devotees kiss the Hem of His Garment,
and anoint their foreheads with the dust under His feet,
Let the children gather round Him,
Whatever He may be to anyone else,
To me He is my sacred friend,
who comes unseen to me in my dark despair,
to wipe a silent tear with the edge of His Kingly Skirt.
And to say to me when I cannot listen even to Him,
choked with my own tears,-
“I am here by your side, the whole of myself when no one is nigh,
I am for you, O sad sinner!
I am exclusively for you and no one else!!”
Let the women say to Him, “I love you,”
let the singer say to Him, “I sing for you,”
Let the dancer say to Him, “I dance for you,”
Let the yogi say to Him, “I lie wrapped up in thought of you,”
Let the pious tell Him, “we obey your law,”
Whatever He may be to anyone else and anybody else to Him,
What can I be?-
I, devoid of all virtue, merit, or light;
I, devoid of the sacred vows of piety, silence or poverty;
I, a sweeper of the street of the Pleasure of Sense;
I, an aimless chaser of quivering Illusions that fly the trembling colors of the wings of the butterflies that flutter around the Maya of life in full flowers:
What can I, I say to Him?-
I, the old joy-sipper with the everlasting burden of Illusion on my back:
I, only cast my head down in shame,
I, stand abashed, away from all,
in the corner of my naked body with all its scars and stains;
But behold: He cometh even to me, as the sun goes down,
and the saints leave Him alone.
And as He cometh, I burst forth crying.
And He consoleth me saying: ‘Have I been really too long away from thee?’”