Poems And Poets
7. What do the Poets Do?
The ancient conception of poetry was that it had to more than entertain- it had to inform. educate and enlighten. This had to be done in a pleasing manner; hence poetry was sung, or recited in a special manner, and danced,too.
This naturally meant that the poet had to have some authority or force behind his words. This was not derived from some external or temporal source, but from inner state or accomplishment. We in India call this a state of tapas or enlightenment or insight or inner vision. " Where words come out from the depth of truth", as Gurudev Tagore tells us. We always associate poets with true sight, ie Wisdom, ie Jnana. This is the reason why even simple words coming from some sources carry such power and weight. And we can even say, they force themselves on our consciousness,not merely appeal to our mind or heart. That is why poets were venerated.
This is why all poetry was considered holy uttering. The subject of such poetry was also religious, or at least lofty themes. We in India have perhaps the largest collection of such poetry still preserved. The Mantras represent a special class of extraordinarily intuitive poetry. May be, we will talk about it later.
Till we were over run by Macaulay, our old poetry of all types was studied.
In a way, it was the Time Spirit operating. The English education that Macaulay introduced forced our eyes and minds open to foreign ideas and themes, though it also led us to abandon our own. Funnily, even ancient Indian poets or authorities were spoken of as if they were Indian versions of foreign ones eg Chanakya is called Indian Machiavelli. This is the way perhaps the gods took revenge on us for having considered them mlechchas for so long!
Any way, with our knowledge of English, we can now appreciate that there have been sages and saints , noble souls and lofty minds everywhere. As Dr.S.Radhakrishnan once remarked, God has not left himself without a witness among any people! And we realise also that all sages think alike every where! I am of course referring to real sages, not just pious saints, from different traditions.
So, we are not surprised when we come across William Blake telling us the source of the poet's strength!
William Blake
The voice of the Ancient Bard
Youth of delight, come hither
And see the opening morn,
Image of truth new-born.
Doubt is fled & clouds or reason
Dark disputes & artful teazing.
Folly is an endless maze.
Tangled roots perplex her ways.
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over the bones of the dead:
And feel they know not what but care;
And wish to lead others when they should be led.
We have here an indication of the role of the bard- to show the way to the youth who tend to the ways of folly. It is because the bard knows. He makes it even more explicit.
Songs of Experience: Introduction
Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who present, past, & future sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walked among the ancient trees,
Calling the lapsed Soul
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might controll
The starry pole;
And fallen fallen light renew!
O Earth O Earth return
Arise from out the dewy grass;
Night is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumberous mass.
'Turn away no more:
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor,
The watry shore
Is given thee till the break of day'.
Now, being a believer in the Bible and Christ ( though he did not like organized Christianity), Blake employs their images and terminology. But this need not put us off. What we have to take here is the fact that the bard has access to the very Source of knowledge which saves ( the Holy Word). Because of this, he can see the past, present and future. He is therefore in a position to guide us. This is what we too believe- the Jnani has transcended the time sense; he sees past, present and future at once. And we believe that Gita too does give us the knowledge which saves- " dharmyam amrutam". So, it is the Jnani who is the real poet.
We now come to Keats. He believed in the ancient mythology which held Apollo as the god of poetry. He believed in 'the splendour of vision'. Here is his word on poets.
John Keats : The Poet
Where is the Poet? show him! show him,
Muses nine! that I may know him!
It is the man who with a man
Is an equal, be he king,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
Or any other wondrous thing
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato;
It is the man who with a bird,
Wren or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The lion's roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the tiger's yell
Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother-tongue.......
Please read this again carefully. It is remarkable for several things.
- He is asking the nine muses to help him. In the ancient mythology, the muses controlled different areas of knowledge.
- The poet feels equality with all men, but also all beings. He sees sameness. Let us recall that the Gita holds this sameness or equality as Yoga: "samatvam yoga uchyate". Can we then say only a yogi can be a real or genuine poet?
- That he understands the birds and beasts, their instincts and language. The way he says it makes us think of it as knowledge gained by identity which in Indian philosophy is the true way of gaining knowledge or way of gaining true knowledge! He feels one with nature and so nature holds no secrets from him!
- Let us recall here verse 5.18 of Bhagavad Gita : Knowers of the Self look with an equal eye on a Brahmana wndowed with learning and humility,a cow, an elephant, a dog and the one who cooks and eats the dog.
Keats is clear that our own understanding is limited. We need help from the Muses for correct knowledge. So he calls upon the Muse.
Read Me a Lesson, Muse
Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it aloud
Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!
I look into the chasms, and a shroud
Vapourous doth hide them,- just so much I wist
Mankind do know of hell; I look o'erhead,
And there is sullen mist,- even so much
Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread
Before the earth, beneath me,- even such
Even so vague is man's sight of himself!
Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,-
Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf
I tread on them; that all my eye doth meet
Is mist and crag, not only on this height,
But in the world of thought and mental might!
Here is what Longfellow has to say!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Poet and His Songs
As the birds come in Spring,
We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
From depths of the air;
As the rain comes from the cloud,
And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
Out of silence a sound;
As the grape comes to the vine,
The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
And the tide to the sea;
As come the while sails of ships,
O'er the ocean's verge;
As comes the smile to the lips
The foam to the surge;
So come to the Poet his songs,
All hitherward blown;
From the misty realm that belongs
To the vast unknown.
His, and his, are the lays
He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
And the pride of a name.
For voices pursue him by day
And haunt him by night,
And he listens and needs must obey
When the Angel says, "Write!"
So poetry springs from inspiration!
Here is what Longfellow has to say!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Poet and His Songs
As the birds come in Spring,
We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
From depths of the air;
As the rain comes from the cloud,
And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
Out of silence a sound;
As the grape comes to the vine,
The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
And the tide to the sea;
As come the while sails of ships,
O'er the ocean's verge;
As comes the smile to the lips
The foam to the surge;
So come to the Poet his songs,
All hitherward blown;
From the misty realm that belongs
To the vast unknown.
His, and his, are the lays
He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
And the pride of a name.
For voices pursue him by day
And haunt him by night,
And he listens and needs must obey
When the Angel says, "Write!"
So poetry springs from inspiration!
In the Indian tradition, all literary works begin formally with an invocation to Ganapati, remover of obstacles; Saraswati, the Goddess of learning; one's Ishta Devata, the chosen Deity for personal devotion, and Guru. We see how universal was this habit of calling on the Muses, before modern civilisation changed it and made knowledge purely secular. No wonder, mankind is searching for wisdom despite all the knowledge and information it has accumulated, as said by T.S.Eliot!
But something like this was indicated by Wordsworth earlier.
Wordsworth
Preface to Lyrical Ballads, 2nd Edition
The Man of science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude: the Poet singing a song in which all human beings join with him,rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion.
Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science. Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man," that he looks before and after". He is the rock of defence for human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying everywhere with him relationship and love.
In spite of difference of soil and climate,of language and manners,of laws and customs; in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed; the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the Poet's thought are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow wherever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings.
Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
With this disposition, what does Wordsworth himself sing of poets?
A Poet's Epitaph
Art thou a Statesman, in the van
Of public business trained and bred,
- First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think of the dead.
A lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh;
Go, carry to some other place
The hardness of thy coward eye,
The falsehood of thy sallow face.
Art thou a man of purple cheer?
A rosy man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet Doctor, not too near;
This grave no cushion is for thee.
Art thou a man of gallant pride,
A soldier, and no man of chaff?
Welcome!- but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a Peasant's staff.
Physician art thou? one, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave?
Wrapped closely in thy sensual fleece
O turn aside, and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy pin-point of a soul away.
--A Moralist perchance appears;
Led, heaven knows how! to this poor sod;
And he has neither eyes nor ears;
Himself his world, and his own God;
One to whose smooth-rubbed skin can cling
Nor form nor feeling great nor small,
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual All in All!
Shut close the door! press down the latch:
Sleep in thy intellectual crust,
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch,
Near this unprofitable dust.
But who is He with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than his own.
He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noonday grove;
And you must love him ,ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shews of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
But he is weak, both man and boy,
Hath been an idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.
--Come hither in thy hour of strength,
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
Here stretch thy body at full length;
Or build thy house upon this grave.-
So, we come to a view of the poet vis a vis some other vocations considered honourable! Doctor here is clergyman;Philosopher is scientist; Moralist is a moral philosopher.None of them stands a chance against the poet, despite his 'modest looks' and homely dress. For he has received in solitude "impulses of deeper birth". He knows a truth to which others have no access, despite their 'learning'.
We cannot fail to notice how satirical the first few stanzas are. In his own day, Charles Lamb complained about the crudeness of the satire. But Wordsworth has made his position clear. In the preface to the Lyrical Ballads he says:
Aristotle,I have been told, hath said that Poetry is the most philosophic of all writing: it is so;its object is truth, not individual and local, but general, and operative; not standing upon external testimony, but carried alive into the heart by passion; truth which is its own testimony, which gives strength and divinity to the tribunal to which it appeals, and receives them from the same tribunal. Poetry is the image of man and nature.....The poet writes under one restriction only...that of the necessity of giving immediate pleasure to a human Being possessed of that information which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer,a physician,a mariner, an astronomer, or a natural philosopher, but as a Man.
So, there we are. Wordsworth is not alone in holding such views on say lawyers. Our friend Browning also has something to say.
Robert Browning
ASOLANDO- Ponte dell' Angelo
For, once on a time, this house belonged
To a lawyer of note, with law and to spare,
But also with over much lust of gain:
In the matter of law you were no wise wronged
But alas for the lucre! he picked you bare
To the bone. Did folk complain?
'I exact' growled he 'work's rightful due;
It is folks seek me , not I seek them
Advice at its price! They succeed or fail
Get law in each case- and a lesson too:
Keep clear of the courts- is advice ad rem:
They will remember, I'll be bail'.
So, he pocketed fee without qualm.
So, win or lose, people got "law" and the lawyer got his fees. Browning goes on to say how this " extortionate rascal" ate and drank and made merry with song and psalm, punctually attended the Church without qualm , with all his gold glittering below the alloyed brass,and its yoke sat light on him! And never did he go to bed without uttering a prayer to Our Lady!
Look around, this is pretty much as our lawyers do to this day! Mahatma Gandhi wrote even more strongly on doctors and lawyers in his 'Hind Swaraj' (1908). And just today (24-7-14) we have news that the Supreme Court finds it difficult to find 'clean' lawyers to be posted as Judges!
Sorry for this diversion. I could not resist the temptation. Now, is it that all such poets with vision were only in the past? Is there no one who writes with such vision now? Yes, there is one that I know of.
Thich Nhat Hanh
Call Me By My True Names
Call Me by My True Names
Do not say that I will depart tomorrow
because even today I still arrive.
Look deeply. I arrive in every second
to be a bud on a spring branch,
to be a tiny bird,with wings still fragile,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.
I still arrive in order to laugh and to cry,
in order to fear and to hope.
The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death
of all that are alive.
I am the mayfly metamorphosing
on the surface of the river,
and I am the bird which, when spring comes,
arrives in time to eat the mayfly.
I am the frog swimming happily in the clear pond,
and I am also the grass snake who, approaching in silence,
feeds itself on the frog.
I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks,
and I am the arms merchant, selling
deadly weapons to Uganda.
I am the twelve-year-old girl,
refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean
after being raped by a sea pirate,
and I am the pirate,my heart not yet capable of
of seeing and loving.
I am a member of the politburo,
with plenty of power in my hands,
and I am the man who has to pay
his "debt of blood" to my people,
dying slowly in a forced labour camp.
My joy is like spring,so warm
it makes flowers bloom in all walks of life.
My pain is like a river of tears,so full
it fills the four oceans.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once,
so I can see my joys and pain are one.
Please call me by my proper names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart can be left open,
the door of compassion.
It is difficult to think of a more intense attitude of universal identity in modern times. What if Thich Nhat Hanh is not a 'regular' poet? If we know even a little of his background, we will realise how tremendous these lines are, and how remarkable his insight is. This kind of feeling of sameness is the chief characteristic of a Jnani. He deserves our salute.
Writing about Spinoza, Richard H.Popkin says:
Most figures who are studied in the history of philosophy are known for their ideas rather than their personal contribution. What one knows about people like John Locke, Immanuel Kant, and others would not inspire any admiration..........What we know of figures like Descartes, Hume, Hegel, and Russell is not always commendable.
Even so is the case with literary figures, as I suppose in most fields. So, when we come across one whose conduct matches his teaching, we bow. It is as if a golden flower has acquired fragrance.
