SEER POETS A Vedic Story (RIGVEDA – X. 51.) THE gods are in a great fix. Where is Agni? How is it that the comrade has disappeared all on a sudden? The Sacrifice – the great work has to be undertaken. And he is to be the leader, for he alone can take up the burden. There is no time to be lost, everything is ready for the ceremony to start and just at the moment the one needed most is nowhere. So the gods organise a search party to find out the whereabouts of the runaway god. The search party consists of Varuna, Mitra and Yama. We shall presently understand the sense of the selection. They look about here and there – in ten directions, it is mentioned –

Mystic Symbolism THE Mystics all over the world and in all ages have clothed their sayings in proverbs and parables, in figures and symbols. To speak in symbols seems to be in their very nature; it is their characteristic manner, their inevitable style. Let us see what is the reason behind it. But first who are the Mystics? They are those who are in touch with supra-sensual things, whose experiences are of a world different from the common physical world, the world of the mind and the senses. These other worlds are constituted in other ways than ours. Their contents are different and the laws that obtain there are also different. It would be a gross blunder to attempt a chart

Of the Divine and its Help IT is the Divine alone that is capable of immediate and absolute surrender. But is there not in the human that which is divine? * * * Discover the centre of your being and hold fast to it; only from there can you describe the perfect circle of life rounded into its absolute fullness. * * * Do not strive and struggle to do. Only be conscious of what is being done for you. * * * There is a Power that is not grim and violent, but smiling and translucent and yet irresistible. It does not give out heat and soot but radiates a soothing and persuasive clarity. It is not the Fire of our earth that

TO THE HEIGHTS To the Heights I UNWELCOME guests are prowling round about. At times they even knock at the door and try to peep through the windows. I have all the doors and windows bolted and barred. And I shall not open them, neither out of kindness nor curiosity. Let them howl in the chill night outside and go their way or perish. I await my own Guest who shall reveal himself from within; for him I keep the hearth clean and warm. I tend the fire patiently and assiduously. The flames brighten and mount upward -each a voice that calls and prays for the coming of the Beloved. O Soul! Listen to his sweet footfall. Lend not your ear to other voices. Gather together i

The Beautiful in the Upanishads WHEN the Rigveda says idam śrestham Jyotis�m Jyotih �g�t citrah praketo ajanita vibhv� Lo! the supreme Light of lights is come, a varied awakening is born, wide manifest ruśadvast� ruśatī śwety�g�t �raigu krisn� sadan�nyasy�h The white Mother comes reddening with the ruddy child; the dark Mother opens wide her chambers, the feeling and the expression of the beautiful raise no questioning; they are authentic as well as evident. All will recognise at once t at we have here beautiful things said in a beautiful way. No less authentic however is the sense of the beautiful that underlies t

Vivekananda A PERSONAL reminiscence. A young man in prison, accused of conspiracy and waging war against the British Empire. If convicted he might have to suffer the extreme penalty, at least, transportation to the Andamans. The case is dragging on for long months. And the young man is in a solitary cell. He cannot always keep up his spirits high. Moments of sadness and gloom and despair come and almost overwhelm him. Who was there to console and cheer him up? Vivekananda. Vivekananda's speeches, From Colombo to Almora, came, as a godsend, into the hands of the young man. Invariably, when the period of despondency came he used to open the book, read a few pages, read them over again, a

Appendix I WORDSWORTH* I did not come to appreciate the poetry of Wordsworth in my school days, it happened in college, and to a large extent thanks to Professor Manmohan Ghose. In our school days, the mind and heart of Bengali students were saturated with the poetry of Tagore: . In the bower of my youth the love-bird sings, Wake up, O darling, wake; Opening thy lids lazy with love, Wake up, O darling, wake. . . This poetry belongs to the type once characterised as follows by our humorous novelist Prabhat Mukherji through one of his characters, a sadhu, describing the charms of the Divine Name: It has the sweetness and the s

Jules Supervielle JULES SUPERVIELLE is a French poet and a modern French poet. He belongs to this century and died only a few years ago. Although he wrote in French, he came of a Spanish colonist family settled in South America (Montevideo). He came to France early in life and was educated there. He lived in France but maintained his relation with his mother-country. His poetry is very characteristic and adds almost a new vein to the spirit and manner of French poetry. He has bypassed the rational and emotional tradition of his adopted country, brought in a mystic way of vision characteristic of the East. This mysticism is not however the normal spiritual way but a kind o

Of Desire and Atonement WHEREVER you meet a ray of real light, a gleam of genuine beauty, a particle of true truth- go back with it to its original source. Follow the track to the end and you will find yourself in the embrace of the Divine. *** Close not your senses -however earthly they may be. Fling them all wide open -open always and everywhere, but to the Divine. *** Life itself becomes Art - the very highest form of Art - when it is moulded in the rhythm of the Supreme Beauty, when its steps follow the cadences of the Divine. *** Every softening of the heart towards things of the earth is a hardening of it to the things of Heaven.

Boris Pasternak THE portrait of the late poet (for he is more of a poet than a novelist, as has been pointed out) on the cover of the British edition of his novel Dr. Zhivago seems to be the very image of the tragic hero. Indeed he reminds one of Hamlet as he stood on the ramparts of the castle of Elsinore. Curiously, the very first poem in the collection at the end of that book is entitled "Hamlet" and the significant cry rings out of it: Abba, Father, if it be possible Let this cup pass from me. Here is a sensitive soul thrown into a world where one has to draw one's breath in pain. Even like the Son of Man, the exemplar and prototype, he has to share in