A chance conversation on an email thread reminded me of some lines about poetry by W.B. Yeats:
These lines on the difficulty of crafting poetry—not just rhyming, rhythmic utterances but real poetry—reminded me in turn of two Sanskrit verses on the same topic. The Sanskrit literary tradition is acutely self-aware of its linguistic nature (one of the words for literature or literariness / литературность, is vāṅ-maya, literally “speech-stuff”), as befits an intellectual and cultural universe that has perhaps paid more systematic attention to the Word and the World than any other from its very inception. The two verses, and my attempts at translating them, follow:
We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, “A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.”
These lines on the difficulty of crafting poetry—not just rhyming, rhythmic utterances but real poetry—reminded me in turn of two Sanskrit verses on the same topic. The Sanskrit literary tradition is acutely self-aware of its linguistic nature (one of the words for literature or literariness / литературность, is vāṅ-maya, literally “speech-stuff”), as befits an intellectual and cultural universe that has perhaps paid more systematic attention to the Word and the World than any other from its very inception. The two verses, and my attempts at translating them, follow: