See the link
-Please check for -
thinks about life which transforms the words into poetry; I feel
that a number of dead words get life when they translate
themselves into poetry. Poetry and words have a very unique
relationship. Words became powerful in poetry, but poetry is not
just words. There is something which gives life to poetry,
something more than words. Then from where do these words get
power? Vedant says that the word itself is a Supreme Power.
Shabdah Brahmah- the shabd is Brahma, and this
means creative power. Indian philosophy, especially Vedic
philosophy, equates the ‘kavi’ (Poet) to Brahma. Thus ‘kavi’
could be the creator of this universe.
Thus the importance which Vedic philosophy gives to
“Shabd-brahman” or “word-creator” is more than what we give to
poetry in our times.
poetry is always difficult and problematic. Problems in between
South Indian (Dravida group) languages, North Indian and
European languages are different and divergent. All Indian
languages except Tamil (of course, due to age old historical,
political and social reasons) have no aversion for Sanskrit,
instead they have an affinity for it like English has for Greek
and Hebrew. Not only scholars, but also most of the creative
writers-poets in those languages are fondly using Sanskrit words
without a feeling of strangeness even they don’t mind to
sacrifice oral and dialects in their languages. But Tamils are
opposite to this trend, even from the age of Kampan(9th century,
another version 12th century) who recreated Valmiki’s Ramayana
in to Tamil(Kampa Ramayanam, 885 AD) . Kampan changed the name
of ‘ Lekshmanan ‘as ‘Ilakkuvan’, ‘Vibheeshanan’ as ‘Vipidanan’,
‘Suparnan’ as ‘Uvanan’, ‘Akalya’ as ‘Akalikai’ or Aalikai’etc.
it is said,
I say it just
Begins to live
THE HEART asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
’T WAS such a little, little boat
That toddled down the bay!
’T was such a gallant, gallant sea
That beckoned it away!
’T was such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the coast;
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!
I CAN wade grief,
Whole pools of it,—
I ’m used to that.
But the least push of joy
Breaks up my feet,
And I tip—drunken.
Let no pebble smile,
’T was the new liquor,—
That was all!
The burning sands emit furious heat
afflict the snake, with lowered hood panting,
speeding with crooked creep aggrieved.
Behold ! the snake now with fear no more,
Rests in the shade, at his enemy peacock’s feet.
Malignant heat makes the thirst more acute
and now the king of the jungle of prowess famed,
Forgetting his valour pants perturbed,
Open-mouthed, dangling - tongued, with
And kills not the nearby elephants too.
With upraised heads and nostrils wide,
bloody dangling tongues and foamy mouths,
the thirsty herds of buffaloes
emerge from the caves of the hills
in search of water,
And leave behind the hovering hoof-crushed dust.