The Spirit of Oriental Poetry

Puran Singh

• Publisher: Taylor & Francis
• Year: 2013
• eBook ISBN: 9781136386725
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Ethnic Studies
• Index: Social Sciences

First Published in 2000. This is Volume IX of fourteen of a series on India- its language and literature. Written in 1926, The Spirit of Oriental Poetry includes the author's account of his journeys in search of 'His Footprints'.

III
AS BHAKTAS SEE THINGS

(i) Poets of the West

Whosoever is full of the spirit of the “Logos,” the Word of God, values all things of art according to the invisible effect they produce on the soul within him. What serves for the moment to make the flame of life glow brighter he calls “light,” all else is “heavy.” When he truly admires an object, a poem or a thought, it means that he has seen God in it. A “critic of gems” of this type said to me once, “Look! They admire Delhi, with her tombs of saints, emperors and kings, but it is not half so ‘light’ as the lonely tomb of Jehangir, on the river Ravi, where he sleeps side by side with his beloved and faithful Nur Jahan!”

The singers of the Psalms and the Disciples of the Bible, who lived and died in love of Jesus, have served to create that live mind which enables one truly to admire and appreciate the poetry of the Master. Centuries of Christian life in Europe have brought about the success of the English translation of the Bible, which, they say, is even better than the Hebrew original. How “light,” how refreshing, how life-giving, as Carlyle has pointed out, are the words: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow, they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or What shall we drink? or Wherewhital shall we be clothed? But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” “Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.” “He that believeth on me hath everlasting life.” There is nothing like the Bible in the whole West. It makes a dead world alive as nothing else can. Beside it, all else is the babble of children.

Whatsoever be the gifts to us of a beautiful Keats or a musical Swinburne, nothing can approach the Divine Word in its calm Power of giving life and cutting the fetters of our bondage. Herbs may be fragrant but the water of Zemzem that creates life, is all that really matters. There is none equal to Christ or Buddha or Guru Nanak who by his mere word fills us with life, enriches our soul rendered so poor by fears of death and hunger, and cures by one Glance of Grace the distress of this hopeless life.

For the twinkling of an eyelid, once in a while, every man is poetic. But all mere earthly poets, like so many other manifestations of beauty in man and nature, stimulate our sense of joy and knowledge only when we are “alive.” The creations of God, however fascinating, are not life-giving; God alone can impart life. None but the Messiah can raise the dead. Others are helpless, with all the skill in critical inter pretation of the created worlds.

When Shams Tabrez prayed for the resurrection of a dead prince of Persia, and thrice failed to bring to life the dead man, his cheeks glowed, his eyes flashed, and his forehead sparkled as it had never shone before, and he said with authority, “Arise, my son! Not in the name of Allah, but in my name, I bid thee rise.” It was no more Shams Tabrez who spoke, it was God Himself. Such are our Heaven-souled poets, while others, mere poetasters are but word-painters, artists, singers or dancers. They may have touched the water of life and drunk of the Fountain, but they are not themselves fountains. To us, the saving, the life-giving Word of God, the “Logos” itself, is poetry. Give me but the Bible, I have no need of yonder trash.

There is a gorgeous palace of men and women, almost a universe in itself, created by the dream of Shakespeare. Juliet, the superb lover; mad Ophelia; poor, smothered Desdemona; wise Portia; innocent, divine Miranda; imperial Cæsar: matchless Cleo-patra; the two ambitious Macbeths; even the superhuman Prospero, what a flood of music, of word, sound and sense flows through all these wondrous creations.

I suffocate in this literature. Where, in this assembly, is the Beloved, the Highest One, whose feet we may touch as Mary Magdalene touched the feet of Jesus? How can the picture of life be complete without Him in person standing in the centre? The Bhaktas of the East are fond of beholding the enactment of the simple drama, “Go, woman! sin no more;” “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.” What use is any drama that serves merely to increase the self-hypnotism whose pain is now growing unbearable. The blind intensity of Othello must be made impossible, love must be clairvoyant. And even if Desdemona was in love with another, how can Infinite Love be confined to one dark piece of flesh! Shakespeare’s imagination could not go be-yond the lower spirit-world from which ghosts come to grave yards at night and fly away at the breaking of the dawn. This great dramatist was not able to pierce Reality beyond the surface-movements of an ego fettered by its own desires.

Tragedy is a surface phenomenon, there is no hell save that we create for ourselves. Life is an infinite Paradise! They who write tragedies are not yet enlightened. The function of poetry is to help us win our own paradise, but after reading Shakespeare, all that survives is a mental hell in which we may pass our days in unnecessary, artificial, yet terrible, agony. To produce sadness in the human mind may be wise, but it does not belong to the higher art of life which imparts bliss and banishes all sorrow. Let me look at the glory of Heaven, I am ashamed at the revela-tions of my nature that Shakespeare makes. Open the door, let me fly out, seeking God’s mercy.

Perhaps we of the East can never catch the tunes of the Western poets, but viewed broadly, from our stand-point, they are strange, very strange, inasmuch as they strike us as the voices of mighty geniuses who forget themselves, and find so much childish joy in playing with coloured toys! It were better to go on repeating the Bible, rather than keep writing our so-called poetry. Only when the songs of the Western poets resemble the poetry of the Bible, are they in any degree truly poetic.

Compared with Shakespeare, the genius of Dante² is Dhyâni. Unlike Shakespeare, there moves in the centre of the spheres of light in his mind, the figure of his Beloved Beatrice. Beatrice or God–what is in a name? Beatrice is the God-personality that Dante worships. The whole universe with all its gods and angels grows dark as the figure of Beatrice fades in his eyes. We can understand this, but we fail to realize the sanity of Shakespeare. Shakespeare gives us portraits of ourselves in different stages and poses of “self,” our “selves” of yesterday and of to-morrow; but we want the face of God to burn in our breath so that we may be “live” and whole to-day. We want to see in ourselves reflections of the faces of angels. Of what meaning is the whole world, if it be not kindled by the “light of His face?” We consider Shakespeare as grand as The Máyá of this created world. So far as we are concerned, his writings do not take us nearer our goal! Shakespeare multiplies our ignorance by all the knowledge he pours on us. What can be gained by constantly seeing his plays? Once in a while, it may be a good training in worldly wisdom, which, dealing with matter, is material, and has no power to receive Higher inspiration. Shakespeare represents to us the man of the earth, a thing we see moving in its varied character all about us; and we hold that this knowledge of the Near is of little use to the Soul that is already flapping its wings to fly above all such things. In no instance does Shakespeare come near to the spirit of Goethe’s Faust.

Burns is like the temple-minstrel passing along our streets; we come out to see him as he sings the awakening song. Burns is a flame. We have a direct companionship with him. He is light as the zephyrs of the morn. His sound is HO! HO! O! O! the music of the soul. He is burning with the spirit of poetry like a lamp, and is universal as light. Every morning, while the people in the Eastern cities are yet turning in their beds, a singer of Psalms passes through the streets, carolling holy tunes to awaken people to the glory of God and morning. Such is Burns!

Tennyson devotes much time to seeing that his verses rhyme well. I cannot endure him for his fault of being faultless. He is a Wonder-Palace of English literature, a great aristocrat and a great artist, but nothing more. He has not the imperfections of the real genuine hearer of the Word of God, that Word that maddens one with its infinite sweetness.

Once a great Indian Musician was singing the Vedic music faultlessly, in a choir of about fifty singers, when suddenly he went out of tune and all who were with him, and they were wafted into the higher realms of soul. When they returned, I asked the central figure what had happened? Said he: “It was our good fortune to-day to peep into the Infinite, where the insanity of perfect joy took hold of us.”

Tennyson is artistic, melodious, philosophical, but he has not the insanity that can break off from finite measures in sheer joy. He has more of assimilation than of self-Realization and on the whole he is tame, finite and deliberate. He bears the ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Copyright page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Preface
• I : The Divine Poet
• II : The Bhakta
• III : As Bhaktas See Things
• IV : Disciple Poetry
• V : Shinghar : The Blossom of Youth
• VI : The Gita Gobind
• VII : Vairagam : The Sadness of the Great Illusion
• VII : The Philosophy of The Faithful
• IX : Home and Society