Showing posts from February, 2021

The Flute Player of Brindaban: A Summary

Sarojini Naidu is one of the greatest poets of India. She is a poet of versatile genius. She has composed numerous beautiful poems. The Flute Player of Brindaban is one of them. It is a highly devotional poem that deals with devotional love. It belongs to the Indian bhakti tradition. The speaker in the poem is the poetess herself. Here she appears as a great devotee who exhibits her deep love for her divine lover, Lord Krishna. She seeks a spiritual union with him. Here she shows her great fascination for the sweet music of Krishna’s flute. In order to enjoy this music she is ready to follow him wherever he goes. She is prepared to face any danger that comes in her way. In the beginning part of the poem Sarojini Naidu says that Lord Krishna played his flute under the tree of Kadamba. The music of his flute is so moving that it fills her heart with extreme happiness and joy. It is difficult for the poet to live without this music. That is why she has decided to follow him.

The Flute-Player of Brindaban- Sarojini Naidu

Why didst thou play thy matchless flute 'Neath the Kadamba tree, And wound my idly dreaming heart With poignant melody, So where thou goest I must go My flute-player with thee? Still must I like a homeless bird Wander, forsaking all The earthly loves and worldly lures That held my life in thrall, 'And follow, follow, answering Thy magical flute-call. To Indra's golden-flowering groves Where streams immortal flow, Or to sad Yama's silent Courts Engulfed in lampless woe, Where'er thy subtle flute I hear Belovèd I must go! No peril of the deep or height Shall daunt my wingèd foot; No fear of time-unconquered space, Or light untravelled route, Impede my heart that pants to drain The nectar of thy flute!

Ash Wednesday - T. S. Eliot

I Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign? Because I do not hope to know The infirm glory of the positive hour Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessèd face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget

The Hollow Men - T. S. Eliot

Mistah Kurtz—he dead. A penny for the Old Guy I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behav