Wow Moments - The Beauty of Poetry

 What is it in a piece of verse that makes your heart go pit-a-pat?

In an anthology of essays on great equations in modern science, editor compared these equations to a beautiful poem. I sat back, closed my eyes, and effortlessly slipped into a pleasant reverie of one constant love in my readerly world. Words, lines, stanzas, and occasionally a complete poem floated in my consciousness.

Poetry is regarded as the pinnacle of human creativity, the most beautiful of literary arts, the purest representation of man’s aesthetic sense. Outstanding achievements of human mind are called poetic, be they in: science, architecture, music, painting, or even prose.

Einstein placed high value on beauty in science. According to his elder son Hans, for Einstein, ‘the highest praise for a good theory or a good piece of work was not that it was exact but that it was beautiful.’ He once said, ‘the only physical theories that we are willing to accept are the beautiful ones.’ Paul Dirac, perhaps the most brilliant theoretical physicist of the generation that followed Einstein believed that ‘it is more important to have beauty in one’s equations than to have them fit experiment.’

I understood – or believed that I did – the beauty in science, that great mathematicians, physicists, and their biographers explained in their essays, often painstakingly. But I did not viscerally feel this beauty. Its blurred image formed in my mind, that too fleetingly.

The reason is my abject ignorance of the language of the poetry of physics, i.e., higher mathematics. To be swept off your feet by the beauty of poetry or science, one has to know the language. This enables the surge of emotions to swamp your heart even before you are aware of the deeper meaning.

Beauty in the equations of science is exact. It conveys a truth that doesn’t change with the eyes of the beholder. This is not true for the beauty of poetry. Today, I do not intend to talk about beauty of science, but of poetry.

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Joys of poetry came to me unbidden, like destiny. I know nothing about the literary merits of a piece of poem. I am drawn to some poems instinctively. And I have read many since my teens. On occasions, I have tried to find pleasure in poems, especially in English, by application of a little industry – Poems, that did not find favour with me on first reading, but had been highly acclaimed by critics. I’ve mostly failed in these efforts. I have worked a little to understand some Urdu, but only because the poems cast an inescapable spell on me, even when I did not understand the key words. Here, my paltry and insincere efforts were lavishly rewarded.

Beauty is scattered around us indiscriminately, in nature and in multihued human creations. There are beautiful mountains, rivers, seascapes, islands; and there are beautiful books, paintings, buildings, films, cities, and villages. As in a book or a movie, beauty of many of these grows on us gradually. The more we delve in, the deeper is the lure we discover. But there is a kind of beauty that hits you like a bolt from blue, in the first encounter, before you have understood what the thing stands for.

I remember the first time I saw Taj Mahal. Till then I was sceptic of its great beauty; I had been reading about it since I was a child. But I could not have fathomed in my dreams the panoramic view that suddenly loomed before my eyes as soon as I entered Darwaja-i-Rauja, the main gate, blinding me with its dazzle. Mesmerising splendour of marble columns rose high, against the background of a stark blue sky. I have since seen Taj Mahal many times: in the shy light of dawn and bathed in the soft rays of fading sun at dusk, in the scorching heat of a midday sun and against an overcast monsoon sky. The magic it cast on the first viewing, remains intact.

This is the beauty of poetry I talk about. If one knows the language, an arresting poem stops you dead in your tracks even as you read the lines, before you get its essence. These are the wow moments for the fan of poetry. There are, of course, elements in such poetry an aficionado recognises instinctively. I presume, this is the beauty Einstein, Dirac, G.H. Hardy saw in the equations of physics and mathematics proof; Art-lovers find in the paintings of Picasso, Gauguin or Vincent van Gaugh; music-fans discover in the notes of Beethoven, Ravi Shankar or Yehudi Menuhin.

I cite one poem of Jaishankar Prasad, a Hindi poet of early twentieth century, to illustrate what I mean by beauty of poetry and its power to deluge our senses.

 

ले चल मुझे भुलावा देकर,

मेरे नाविक! धीरे-धीरे!

Deluded, carry me O boatman, inch by inch,

 

जिस निर्जन में सागर लहरी

अम्बर के कानों में गहरी --

निश्छल प्रेम-कथा कहती हो,

तज कोलाहल की अवनी रे!

to such desolation, where, sea whispers lore of pure love in the ears of a soundless sky.

 

जहां सांझ-सी जीवन छाया

ढीले अपनी  कोमल काया,

नील नयन से ढलकाती हो,

ताराओं की  पांति घनी रे!

Where, life released from all stress, languishes like dusk, shedding unending rows of stars.

 

जिस गम्भीर मधुर छाया में --

विश्व चित्र-पट चल माया में --

विभुता विभु-सी पड़े दिखाई

दुःख-सुख वाली सत्य बनी रे!

Where, in the shadow of solitude, world is like a mirage and greatness of the creator is spread like eternal truth of joy and sorrow.

 

श्रम-विश्राम क्षितिज-वेला से --

जहां  सृजन  करते मेला से --

अमर जागरण-उषा नयन से --

बिखराती  हो ज्योति  घनी रे!

Where, strife and repose meet like horizon and dawn of boundless awakening showers rays of dense light.

 

My paeans on merits of poetry sound like circular reasoning. Poetry is beautiful because it overwhelms, it overwhelms because it is beautiful. But what is it that makes poetry beautiful?

The views I offer here are the views of an untaught fan, who, in spite of his ignorance continues to receive ecstatic delights from this sublime activity of human mind.

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Urbane, aesthetically pleasing, and appropriate words are essential to the appeal of a poem. There must be many other choices, but once you have read a captivating poem, it feels, not one of those words can be changed without changing the poem’s essence. Words and their usage are graceful yet easy to comprehend. Following is an extract from Mahadevi Verma’s poem Prateeksha, where she laments elusiveness of beloved.

 

मैं फूलों में रोती वे
बालारुण में मुस्काते,
मैं पथ में बिछ जाती हूँ
वे सौरभ में उड़ जाते।

I cry in flowers; he smiles in the rising sun. I await him, prostrate on the path. He escapes in fragrance.

वे कहते हैं उनको मैं
अपनी पुतली में देखूँ,
यह कौन बता जायेगा
किसमें पुतली को देखूँ?

He says I should see him in my eyes. None tells me in whom should I see my eyes?

 

झिप झिप आँखें कहती हैं
यह कैसी है अनहोनी?
हम और नहीं खेलेंगी
उनसे यह आँखमिचौनी।

Eyes complain, this is a strange occurrence. We will not play with him the blindman’s bluff anymore.

अपने जर्जर अंचल में
भरकर सपनों की माया,
इन थके हुए प्राणों पर
छाई विस्मॄति की छाया!

I gather wealth of dreams in my shabby lap as unconsciousness spreads upon a tired life.

मेरे जीवन की जागॄति!
देखो फिर भूल न जाना,
जो वे सपना बन आवें
तुम चिरनिद्रा बन जाना!

O wakefulness of my life, do not ever forget this: If he comes as a dream, you become an eternal sleep.

 

Ghalib’s verse is the supreme example of the use of common words and phrases to weave an image of incomparable beauty. These are few couplets from one of his unforgettable ghazals.

 

वो फ़िराक़ और वो विसाल कहाँ 

वो शब-ओ-रोज़ ओ माह-ओ-साल कहाँ 

Where have gone those unions, those separations, those days and nights and months and years?

 

थी वो इक शख़्स के तसव्वुर से 

अब वो रानाई-ए-ख़याल कहाँ 

It was from the contemplation of a person, there is no beauty in thoughts now.

 

ऐसा आसाँ नहीं लहू रोना 

दिल में ताक़त जिगर में हाल कहाँ 

Not so easy is to cry blood. Who has the needed strength of the heart?

 

फ़िक्र-ए-दुनिया में सर खपाता हूँ 

मैं कहाँ और ये वबाल कहाँ 

I waste time in worldly concerns. These misfortunes are much removed from my existence.

 

मुज़्महिल हो गए क़वा ग़ालिब 

वो अनासिर में ए'तिदाल कहाँ 

All strengths have now weakened, O Ghalib! There is no balance in the elements of your body now.

 

An ineluctable attribute of an imposing verse is brevity. Unlike the writer of prose, poet is severely constrained by space. He is forever handicapped by the restricted pool of words he can access to express his effervescent thoughts – restrictions imposed mainly by rhyme and extreme intolerance to verbosity that his art demands. Beauty of poetry has the capacity to enthral because of the impediments in which it is born. No other form of poetry exemplifies brevity like Ghazal. Poet packs his majestic thoughts in a couplet comprising few words. One learns how a thing takes your breath away, as you read a ghazal of staggering beauty. Innumerable ghazals of Ghalib have and continue to move me indescribably. I extract a few shers from one of his haunting poems, where he describes magnificence of his thoughts vis-à-vis an ephemeral material world.

 

बाज़ीचा-ए-अतफ़ाल है दुनिया मिरे आगे 

होता है शब-ओ-रोज़ तमाशा मिरे आगे

World is but a child’s play in front of my eyes, revealing new spectacles day and night.

 

जुज़ नाम नहीं सूरत-ए-आलम मुझे मंज़ूर 

जुज़ वहम नहीं हस्ती-ए-अशिया मिरे आगे 

World’s appearance, I accept only as a name. Matter’s existence is only a doubt in my mind.

 

होता है निहाँ गर्द में सहरा मिरे होते 

घिसता है जबीं ख़ाक पे दरिया मिरे आगे 

Boundless desert disappears in a whirl of dust as I watch. Mighty river rubs its forehead on earth in my presence.

 

मत पूछ कि क्या हाल है मेरा तिरे पीछे 

तू देख कि क्या रंग है तेरा मिरे आगे 

Do not enquire how have I fared in your absence. Look at the colour of your face in my company.

 

There was a movement in Hindi literature, many decades back, to free poetry of rhyme. I have alluded to my ignorance of the technique of poetry. To me rhyme is to poetry as sugar is to pudding, chilli is to Andhra cuisine, a plot is to a story. Without rhyme a collection of words may be an intelligent, witty, and succinct commentary, but not poetry. Rhyme lends a perfect symmetry to the words of a poem as you vocalise them in your mind. Humans find symmetry beautiful. This has been confirmed in experiments where people tag symmetrical faces beautiful and sexually attractive. Symmetrical motifs and designs are considered gorgeous, as is the ‘v’ shaped formation of flying geese, symmetrical minarets of a Mughal mausoleum, sun caught setting between two peaks.  Loss of symmetry is often a sign of illness in the body. I’ve always cherished the way words of a memorable poem ring in my mind. Without rhyme, they do not jingle.

Words and phrases that seamlessly dovetail with poet's thoughts, and a sing-song rhyme, are probably the reasons why a poem feels flat and soulless in translation.

A quality of a beautiful poem is the beguiling imagery poet creates of universal human emotions. One often finds in these delicate words, feelings that have assailed each one of us at one time or other. But shorn of words, these have lain quiescent. It is elevating and liberating to hear the echo of your own feelings in the words of a poet.

Here, Harivansh Rai Bachchan recounts the unbearable and often inexpressible agony of unrequited love.

 

बंद कपाटों पर जा-जाकर जो
फिर-फिर साँकल खटकाए,
और न उत्तर पाए उसकी
लाज- व्यथा को कौन बताए,
पर अपमान पिए पग फिर भी
उस डयोढ़ी पर जाकर ठहरें,
क्या तुझमें ऐसा जो तुझसे मेरे तन-मन-प्राण बँधे-से।
मेरी तो हर साँस मुखर है, प्रिय, तेरे सब मौन सँदेशे। 

Who can narrate the shame and pain of one, who returns, again and again, to knock at the closed doors, without ever receiving a response?

But, even after suffering innumerable humiliations, feet return to the same landing.

What is it in you that binds my heart, body, and life to you?

My every breath is forthcoming. But alas! Beloved! all your messages are silent.

 

Faiz Ahmad Faiz imagines the heart-wrenching melancholy of despair in his ineffably beautiful nazm Khwab Basera.

 

इस वक़्त तो यूँ लगता है अब कुछ भी नहीं है
महताब न सूरज, न अँधेरा न सवेरा
आँखों के दरीचों पे किसी हुस्न की चिलमन

और दिल की पनाहों में किसी दर्द का डेरा
This moment it feels nothing’s left in life.

Moon nor sun, neither dark nor light.

Veil of a beauty in eye’s window

and a pain dwelling in heart’s shelter.

           

मुमकिन है कोई वहम था, मुमकिन है सुना हो    

गलियों में किसी चाप का इक आख़िरी फेरा  

शाख़ों में ख़यालों के घने पेड़ की शायद              

अब आ के करेगा न कोई ख़्वाब बसेरा

Possibly an illusion it was, or did I truly hear?

sounds of receding footsteps in the street.

On the dense branches of the tree of thought,

no dream will now ever come to reside

                       

इक बैर न इक मेहर न इक रब्त न रिश्ता           

तेरा कोई अपना, न पराया कोई मेरा                  

माना कि ये सुनसान घड़ी सख़्त घड़ी है              

लेकिन मिरे दिल ये तो फ़क़त इक ही घड़ी है      

हिम्मत करो जीने को तो इक उम्र पड़ी है

No malice, no affection, no intimacy, no relation

You have none your own, I’ve none stranger to me.

Accepted, this forlorn time is hard to bear

But my heart, this is but mere one moment

Keep courage, a whole life is yet to be lived.           

 

Poets and writers of prose, often lay bare the seemingly disparate and insuperable elements in a situation. And then in the end, as if pulling out a rabbit from the hat, they resolve convincingly and beautifully, the incongruous emotions. This lends to the composition an iridescent beauty. Astute vison of a poet that enables him to penetrate human mind, view, and articulate its conflicts, and imagine a resolution, inspires reader’s awe.

Faiz Ahmad Faiz in his nazm, Bahar Aayee, teases out contrasting emotions that bubble in heart, when a spring of joy visits life.

 

बहार आई तो जैसे यक-बार                                              

लौट आए हैं फिर अदम से                                 

वो ख़्वाब सारे शबाब सारे                                  

जो तेरे होंटों पे मर-मिटे थे                                  

जो मिट के हर बार फिर जिए थे

spring arrived and it appears, for once,

from void have returned

old dreams, bygone youth.

which had perished in your love

but had come alive after every death.

                                               

निखर गए हैं गुलाब सारे                                                     

जो तेरी यादों से मुश्कबू हैं                                  

जो तेरे उश्शाक़ का लहू हैं

all the roses bloom afresh

which are redolent in your fragrance

which are the blood of your lovers.

                               

उबल पड़े हैं अज़ाब सारे                                                    

मलाल-ए-अहवाल-ए-दोस्ताँ भी                                                          

ख़ुमार-ए-आग़ोश-ए-मह-वशां भी     

all agonies boil over:

sorrows at friends’ miserable conditions

regret at the vanishing hangover of beauty. 

               

ग़ुबार-ए-ख़ातिर के बाब सारे                                             

तिरे हमारे                                                                             

सवाल सारे जवाब सारे                                                       

बहार आई तो खुल गए हैं                                   

नए सिरे से हिसाब सारे       

Spring arrived and

all the accounts are opened anew:

pretext of mind’s countless vexations,

Yours and mine

all the queries and all the answer.

...

Cocktail of majestic thoughts, tasteful words, foot-tapping rhyme, insightful commentary on human condition, all woven together with a faultless parsimony, make for an intoxicating brew, no mortal can resist. I am forever indebted to the chance – which as seers, and quantum physicists alike, tell us is the provenance of all that happens to one in life – that brought me to the shores of this eternal source of joy.

It is the lot of man, like every other animal on earth, to spend most of his life in the essential – but nevertheless mundane – activities of life. Poetry has the power to elevate the individual, albeit momentarily, from these run-of-the-mill worries of living and remind us of the exquisite world of thoughts that our minds are capable of.

 

गो मैं रहा रहीन-ए-सितम-हा-ए-रोज़गार

लेकिन तिरे ख़याल से ग़ाफ़िल नहीं रहा  

Though I remained under the yoke of the tyrannies of daily living

Never was I oblivious of your thoughts

-Ghalib

I close these musings with a poem from Jayashankar Prasad’s immortal epic Kamayani. Man’s consort, in his moments of utter desolation, is consoling him, reminding him what she is to him.

 

तुमुल कोलाहल कलह में, मैं हृदय की बात रे मन।

Amid the tumultuous din, I am the voice of your heart.

 

विकल हो कर नित्य चंचल
खोजती जब नींद के पल
चेतना थक–सी रही तब, मैं मलय की वात रे मन।

When consciousness, perturbed and tired, looks for moments of sleep, I am the gentle breeze from the Malay mountains.

 

चिर विषाद विलीन मन की,
इस व्यथा के तिमिर वन की
मैं उषा–सी ज्योति-रेखा, कुसुम विकसित प्रात रे मन।

For the mind ever-drowned in sorrows, in the dark forest of suffering, I am alike rays of dawn, a morning of blossoming flowers.

 

जहाँ मरू–ज्वाला धधकती,
चातकी कन को तरसती,
उन्हीं जीवन घाटियों की, मैं सरस बरसात रे मन।

Where fires of desert burn, where skylark desperately thirsts for a drop of water, I am lush rain in the same valleys of life.

 

पवन की प्राचीर में रुक,
जला जीवन जी रहा झुक,
इस झुलसते विश्वदिन की, मैं कुसुम ऋतु रात रे मन।

Held captive within the walls of breath, burnt life is bent double in pain. I am the night of spring in this scorched day of life.

 

चिर निराशा नीरधर से,
प्रतिच्छायित अश्रु सर से,
मधुप मुखर मरंद मुकुलित, मैं सजल जल जात रे मन।

In the pond of tears, shadowed by the dark clouds of despondency, I’m the lotus filled with compassion, surrounded by bumblebees.