By N. KRISHNAMURTI

Can you tell me when Poetry was born, the ‘Poetry of words’ which is the subject of our present consideration? I cannot. But beyond the abysm of time, some heart, pregnant with fire, I ween, burst the bonds of contained emotion. The surcharge found vent in rhythmic speech, in words both of harmony and melody embodying the Spirit within. Like a sudden realisation, beautiful silence passed into beautiful utterance. "As an expression of imaginative feeling, as the movement of an energy, as one of those great primal forces which go to the development of the race, poetry has played as important a part as science," says a writer of authority. This wonderful birth, this clothing in human speech the truths and the emotions of the ages–is undoubtedly a fundamental gift of the Gods. "A tradition where poetry and religion are the same thing, has passed through the centuries, gathering from learned and unlearned, metaphor and emotion, and carried back again to the multitude the thought of the scholar and the noble," says Yeats. I shall not here attempt any definition of Poetry. Nor shall I describe how its technique grew. Once Byron wrote–"so far are principles of poetry from being invariable, that they never were, nor ever will be settled". But still, of course, what baffles definition does not baffle recognition. We know poetry when we hear it, or see it, or read it. But it wants poetry to describe it or define it. Just see these lines:

This is from the Japanese. It is a lovely picture–a most suggestive likening of supreme things to one another. But there is no definition in it. Each is undefinable, but we sense it still. So lies Poetry beyond the definition of words. But,

Its secret charm lies, ever a mystery to the distant worshippers of beauty like our humble selves, in the facility to dress emotion in apt expression. The words are known to us. They are so simple when we see them. But that magic which so subtly arranges them, and gives shape to those wonderful images and expressions, word-mosaics, it is the gift of the All-Giver to the blessed on earth, they "whose heads did stars and sunbeams know," and they

I am not sure if, all this while, by one of those usual but strange delusions, I am not guilty of the thought that the appeal of Poetry is not universal enough today. Perhaps I am. Somehow things are rather cheapish now. The rich legacy of the world's literature, of the East and of the West, has come to us but lies unused. There is, instead, a feverish desire for cheap stuff that, like a stimulant, will yield excitement for the hour and pass away, leaving the reader sick, and perishing itself. The treasures of Sanskrit and English literature, of Tamil, Telugu and Malayalam, are laid aside for sensational literature abundantly purveyed and spread all over by every passing wind. Libraries and Reading Rooms flourish under big names, but very few adore the emblazoned ideals. I have no specific charge to make. I am only describing a widespread tendency of the day. Mahatma Gandhi said the other day that he would abolish all newspapers. Another great idealist said he would never more make editorial comments. I sincerely think that there is more beneath these sayings than may appear at the top. Only, if Libraries supplied more the great Masters! Only, if we felt that the golden grain was garnered from them! Only, if you and I sang with the poet:

If the strife of hearts should cease, and a broader vision and holier love should prevail, if the Gods should walk this our earth again, and "when the heart is parched up," as it is today, "come upon me with a shower of mercy;" "when grace is lost from life," as it is today, "come with a burst of song,"–then were the consummation of life.

Between us and the poets there is one bond-our humanity. Our dreams are theirs; our loves are theirs; our aspirations are theirs; our worship is theirs. But then, the vision and the gift of song is theirs only. So must we voice ourselves forth through their tongues.

The poet is not merely a dreamer. It has been said that Shakespeare was practical to his finger-tips; that a better business-man than Goethe was not then living. They saw life and were kindled with glory of the Maker. The vision and the word exalted them beyond their brothers.

If you ask me to give you a plan for the study of Poetry, I would say I have my own way. For that matter, in regard to all literature. Do not read vastly. But read very deeply. Here is a piece of sound advice–if you dream, but not make dream your business; if you think, but not make thought your master; then you hold one of the master-keys.

As I said, through the English language, through Sanskrit and our vernaculars, the world's choicest treasures are ours. That they are too cheap, is my complaint. Food is dear; life is dear. Why should these be so cheap as to make us prize them so little?

Make the choice of your study. Then read them again and over again. I believe in reading the same poet and the same poem a hundred times over. Out of that intensity alone will true appreciation come. Shakespeare or Kalidasa, Wordsworth or Coleridge, Byron or Shelley or Keats, Tennyson or Browing, Toru Dutt or Tagore, each of us has a kindred soul to one or more of these, and we make our choice.

Then pursue that choice. Studying the poet over and over again, we see new beauties, discover new melodies, trace new suggestions of thought, and above all, enjoy without cost or limitation that which has given us the joy of our soul.

Now I shall take you over some of the lighter charms of poetry. There is silence in poetry. There is picture in poetry. There are the emotions–joy, sorrow, surprise, love, hate, the hesitancy of thought. There is the revelation of the kinship between man and nature.

Every one of the great Masters saw this oneness of the universe, how one supreme Spirit informed all things:

It was again Wordsworth:

I would like to illustrate a few other things also. I spoke of silence in poetry. These two lines in Shakespeare's 64^th Sonnet –

The words so prolong, and the end, so dismal to the lover, is so long–drawn and deliberate, and the lines die away too.

From Wordsworth again:

The individual She has been lost. She has joined with the elements and plunged into the eternal silence,

See this lonely plight of the Knight in Keats:

The two last lines–what grievous loneliness and suggestion of gloomy peril!

Or from Keats again:

Let us turn to Tennyson for two pictures, out of his abundance:

Or from Oenone:

What a combination of effects here–silence and the picture of the scene drawn!

Or Coleridge:

The Ancient Mariner has some of the best of such pictures. What shall I say–of those opening lines of Kubla Khan:

Look at the sound effects thus:

"The slow moon climbed," "the long day waned."

Tennyson is full of them. Such art was peculiarly his own.

Or again:

The action mentioned–so subtly true. Then look at repartee–King Claudius asks Hamlet:

"Nay I am too much in the sun," comes the reply.

In the scene between his mother and Hamlet, the Queen asks:

See again the way how you work upon a crowd's feeling, to your own purpose. I shall simply refer you to Antony's well-known words. I won't quote.

Look at the sudden flash of these lines:

The lonely wanderer is suddenly thrown into the company of friends and all are in a flutter of joy.

Turn to the consolation and the message of these lines:

Listen to Tagore for a minute–

"I was not a ware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. Even so, in death, the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.

"The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation."

I do not want to multiply examples. But whosoever be the poet of your choice, read him again and again. So in prose. So in fiction. Intensity is my plan–not extent. Look in every poet for such beauties as the few we have illustrated. The more you read, the more you will enjoy. Until, when reading is done, you can say of yourself–