The old Tagore magic

I am now reading Tagore's biography: My Life in My Words. His words are potent as always, and my joy knows no bounds as I find my way through the words he weaves together as though it were to make music. Until yesterday, I was mesmerized by Tagore, but still considered him a new discovery. Today, he brings to heart the elation of a meeting with an old friend.

But does one write poetry to explain something? Something felt within the heart tries to find outside shape as a poem. So when, after listening to a poem, anyone says he has not understood, I am nonplussed. If someone smells a flower and says he does not understand, the reply to him is: there is nothing to understand, it is only a scent. If he persists, saying: 'that I know, but what does it all mean?' Then one either has to change the subject, or make it more abstruse by telling him that the scent is the shape which the universal joy takes in the flower ...

That words have meanings is just the difficulty. That is why the poet has to turn and twist them in metre and verse, so that the meaning may be held somewhat in check, and the feeling allowed a chance to express itself.

This utterance of feeling is not the statement of a fundamental truth, or a scientific fact, or a useful moral precept. Like a tear or a smile a poem is but a picture of what is taking place within. If Science or Philosophy may gain anything from it they are welcome, but that is not the reason of its being.