Sri Aurobindo's notes and letters on his life and yoga and letters on Himself and on The Mother.
Sri Aurobindo : corresp.
Sri Aurobindo's notes and letters on his life and yoga and letters on Himself and on The Mother. In these letters, Sri Aurobindo writes about his life as a student in England, a teacher in Baroda, a political leader in Bengal, and a writer and yogi in Pondicherry. He also comments on his formative spiritual experiences and the development of his yoga.
THEME/S
Q: I should like to have a few words from you on the poetic style and technique of these two quotations. The first is an instance of Gerard Manley Hopkins' polyphony "at its most magnificent and intricate":
Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable, / vaulty, voluminous...stupendous Evening strains to be time's vast, / womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night. Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, / her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height Waste: her earliest stars, earl-stars, / stars principal, overbend us, Fire-featuring heaven. For earth her being has unbound, her dapple is at an end astray or aswarm, all through her in throngs; / self in self steeped and pashed—quite Disremembering, dismembering / all now. Heart, you round me right With: Our evening is over us; our night whelms, whelms, and will end us....
The next quotation illustrates Kipling's Tommy-Atkins-music at its most vivid and onomatopoeic—lines considered by Lascelles Abercrombie to be a masterly fusion
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of all the elements necessary in poetic technique:
'Less you want your toes trod off you'd better get back at once, For the bullocks are walking two by two, The "byles" are walking two by two, The bullocks are walking two by two, An' the elephants bring the guns! Ho! Yuss! Great—big—long—black forty-pounder guns: Jiggery-jolty to and fro, Each as big as a launch in tow— Blind—dumb—broad-breached beggars o' battering guns!
A: My verdict on Kipling's lines would be that they are fit for the columns of The Illustrated Weekly of India and nowhere else. I refuse to accept this journalistic jingle as poetry. As for Abercrombie's comment,—unspeakable rubbish, unhappily spoken!
Hopkins is a different proposition; he is a poet, which Kipling never was nor could be. He has vision, power, originality; but his technique errs by excess; he piles on you his effects, repeats, exaggerates and in the end it is perhaps great in effort, but not great in success. Much material is there, many new suggestions, but not a work realised, not a harmoniously perfect whole.
30-12-1932
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