GITA GOVINDA(1)

With clouds the sky is thickened, and the woodlands
darken with Tamála trees. Tonight
is someone leading home a doubting Rádhá
near the Yamuná, by Nanda sent:
by every path and tree and branching arbour
to win her Mádhava in honeyed sport.

Speech's deity informs this house;
at Padmávatí's feet the world turns round;
and prince of wandering poets, Jayadeva,
tells of Vásudeva and his Shrí.

If, in memory of Krishna's mind,
you're curious to learn the lover's art,
then hear these sweet and tender verses
Jayadeva makes to eloquence.

Umápatidhara causes words to bloom,
Sharana dazzles with his lightning thought.
Dhoyí's lord of poets, Govardhana
has his love skills, Shrutidhara fame,
but Jayadeva is both clear and true.

First Song

When world was water, you became
a tireless vessel of the Vedas.
You, in Pisces form, Keshava:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

When this heavy earth you carried
on your callused turtle's back,
how venerable you were, Keshava:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

A blemish on the hare-marked moon,
the earth became as on your tusk:
you held us when a boar, Keshava:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

With nail on lotus hand you cut
the bee-like Hiranyakashipu.
What a lion-man, Keshava:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

A marvellous dwarf, Keshava, you
outwitted Bali: from your toenail
water poured to bless the people:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

Bhrgu's lord, you made in blood
of Kshatriyas the people bathe.
As evil left, the heat declined:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

In Ráma's body, you have hurled
around you heads of Rávana,
a blessing of the war, Keshava:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

You carried beauty as a cloud
and shone as wielder of the plough
that struck with fear the Yamuná:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

Kind as Buddha, you refused
to take the sacrificial life
of animals despite our customs:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

In Kalki's body you became
a sword to scourge the foreign people,
comet-like in fire, Keshava:
conqueror of the world, Hari!

You, in a decad form, Keshava,
are the comfort of our life.
Hear the poet Jayadeva,
conqueror of the world, Hari!

* * *

To he who bore the world, who raised the Vedas,
Bali, demon and Kshatriyas killed:
Pulastya's victor, compassion's spreader, wielder
of the plough and scourge of foreign races:
Krishna, your ten faces: reverence.

Second Song

Held within the rounded breasts
of the goddess of the lotus,
impelled to wanton, garlanded:
victorious you are, Hari!

A jewel of our day abroad,
the breaker of our bond of death,
the spirit moving Mánasa:
victorious you are, Hari!

Yadu's lineage, people pleasing,
but bane of venomed Káliya,
ruler of the sun and lotus:
victorious you are, Hari!

Garuda aided, you have vanquished
Madhu, Mura, Naraka:
you caused to play the other gods:
victorious you are, Hari!

Eyed as is the petalled lotus,
releasing us from this existence,
three-world dweller and its end:
victorious you are, Hari!

Hung as ornament for Sítá,
still you conquered Dúshana
quelled the war and Rávana:
victorious you are, Hari!

You, supporting Mount Mandara,
look as clouds do, a chakora
at the moon of Lakshmi's face:
victorious you are, Hari!

If bowed we must be at your feet
then bless us to become the most
obedient among adorers:
victorious you are, Hari!

Let these praises by the poet
Jayadeva be auspicious,
as befits a deity:
victorious you are, Hari!

* * *

Madhu's killer, clasped upon the lotus-
goddess's exhausted breasts, has caught
her mark of saffron in his fondest loving:
may you follow in his sweated drops.

In springtime, tender-bodied with its creepers,
so they wander in the love god's pain,
so many of them, through the forest, led
by Krishna, when the friend to Rádha said:

Third Song

Watch the clove-tree with its creepers
in the warm Malaya breeze.
Attend to honeybee and cuckoo
murmuring in cottage glade.

Look to Hari in the spring time,
dancing with his youthful women:
endlessly the pain encircles
one who's solitary, my friend.

Traveller's brides are rent by passion,
much they wander in their pain
to see Bakula flowers, unruffled,
thick with swarms of honey bees.

Look to Hari in the spring time,
dancing with his youthful women:
endlessly the pain encircles
one who's solitary, my friend.

Garlanded with leaves, Tamála trees
are overcome with musky scent:
as love god's nails, Kinshuka buds,
must lacerate the youthful heart.

Look to Hari in the spring time,
dancing with his youthful women:
endlessly the pain encircles
one who's solitary, my friend.

Keshara trees with golden pistils
reign as sovereign of the spring,
and bees the arrows lovers take
from trumpet quivers of their flowers.

Look to Hari in the spring time,
dancing with his youthful women:
endlessly the pain encircles
one who's solitary, my friend.

How the young Karuña flowers
laugh at prudishness, and spears
of sharp Ketaka buds attack
the separated, lovelorn one.

Look to Hari in the spring time,
dancing with his youthful women:
endlessly the pain encircles
one who's solitary, my friend.

When air is thickly wreathed with jasmine,
and fragrant Mádhaví will catch
the notice of the forest hermit,
what will youth then not commit?

Look to Hari in the spring time,
dancing with his youthful women:
endlessly the pain encircles
one who's solitary, my friend.

Here tendrils of the Atimukta
clasp the bristling Mango buds,
and all around the Brindavan,
watered by the Yamuná.

Look to Hari in the spring time,
dancing with his youthful women:
endlessly the pain encircles
one who's solitary, my friend.

At the feet of radiant Krishna
Jayadeva speaks, remembering
how spring returned to forest meetings
colours every hint of love.

Look to Hari in the spring time,
dancing with his youthful women:
endlessly the pain encircles
one who's solitary, my friend.

* * *

The wind that hums like arrows brings
to hearts the frank Ketaka tree -
inflaming them as forest clothes
itself with jasmine's pollen scent.

The hungry bees at Mango shoots,
the cuckoo's fever in the ear:
sweet days when travellers must think
how breath and amorousness unite.

* * *

Again her girlfriend told her: see how, Rádhá:
there he wantons, friends with all:
Mura's enemy, embracing many,
how that trembling eagerness invites.

Fourth Song

With sandal smeared the bluish body,
garlanded, with yellow clothes.
With jewelled earrings on the cheeks,
now to and fro the smiling roves.
Carelessly the women play.

Burdened there by heavy breast,
one embraces passionately.
And here another, simple herder,
sings in elevated key.
Carelessly the women play.

Yet another, young and artless,
dreams of Krishna's rolling glances.
Sees in Madhu's slayer's gaze
the beauty of a lotus face.
Carelessly the women play.

Someone to his ear has spoken,
kissed him sweetly on the cheek:
someone with the splendid buttocks,
as he bristles with delight.
Carelessly the women play.

Someone sporting, skilled and eager,
along the slopes of Yamuná,
through hibiscus bowers she's led him,
beautiful, her hand on dress.
Carelessly the women play.

Hands are clapping, bracelets softly
lift above the bamboo flute.
Such power and uproar in the dancing:
one engrossed is praising Hari.
Carelessly the women play.

One by one he takes and kisses
these most beautiful of girls.
And then another, all-surpassing,
smiles and beckons, leads him on.
Carelessly the women play.

How marvellous this secret rapture
Jayadeva grandly tells:
through Brindavan and wantoning,
let it radiate in Krishna's fame.
Carelessly the women play.

* * *

The love god's festival: a darkened body
draws them garlanded as lotus blooms.
How freely, through their limbs, the comely Vraja
women sport with Hari through the spring.

From pent with snakes in sandal trees, the mountain
breezes plunge in Himalayan snows,
and, sweet and loud, the cuckoo's coo coo callings
echo from the shoots on Mango trees.

But still was Krishna equal with his kisses.
Rádhá felt she should be first and left him,
and in those thickets humming bees encircle
now unhappily to girlfriend said.

Part Four: Tender Krishna

Radha's friend, to one love-burdened in
the reeds of Yamuná, then came and said:

Eighth Song

Confused, she blames the sandal paste and moon,
finds venomed serpents in Malaya winds.
In Mádhava she dreads the love god's arrows:
apart and miserable, she thinks of you.

She hopes in watery lotus leaves to shield
her vital being from love's raining arrows:
In Mádhava she dreads the love god's arrows:
apart and miserable, she thinks of you.

She'd turn the barbs to flowers, make her bed
in blossom echoing to your embrace:
In Mádhava she dreads the love god's arrows:
apart and miserable, she thinks of you.

Her eyes are trembling and her gentle face
is split as moon is by serrated tears:
In Mádhava she dreads the love god's arrows:
apart and miserable, she thinks of you.

She paints with musk how love has been,
inclines to monsters with a Mango branch:
In Mádhava she dreads the love god's arrows:
apart and miserable, she thinks of you.

Though unapproachable and locked in thought,
aloud she laughs and trembles at her tears:
In Mádhava she dreads the love god's arrows:
apart and miserable, she thinks of you.

Declares each step she takes is to your feet:
how thin the moon is when you've turned away:
In Mádhava she dreads the love god's arrows:
apart and miserable, she thinks of you.

If thought would dance to Jayadeva's words
then study what the friend of Rádha said:
In Mádhava she dreads the love god's arrows:
apart and miserable, she thinks of you.

* * *

Her home's the forest and her friends a snare;
she fans her blazing griefs with sighs.
The absence terrifies: as with a deer,
your play becomes the deadly tiger's sport.

* * *

Ninth Song

She wears the bright and slender pearls
upon her breasts as though a burden:
Krishna, Rádhá feels deserted.

She feels the soothing sandal cream
as potent venom on her body:
Krishna, Rádhá feels deserted.

She sighs the compass of her love
and in that breath the passion burns:
Krishna, Rádhá feels deserted.

She scatters everywhere a tear
as lotus from its hollow stem:
Krishna, Rádhá feels deserted.

She holds her palm against her cheek
as evening steadies with the moon:
Krishna, Rádhá feels deserted.

She sees a bed of tender leaves
ordained for her as fire instead:
Krishna, Rádhá feels deserted.

Again she whispers Hari, Hari,
as though your absence brought her death:
Krishna, Rádhá feels deserted.

Let Jayadeva's song so chanted
please and lead to Krishna's feet:
Krishna, Rádhá feels deserted.

* * *

With pain she bristles, sighs, she shuts her eyes,
she rises, whirls about and falls in faints:
unless your heavenly healing aid in this
her raging fever holds until her death.

But you, divine physician, by a touch
of your blest body can relieve her pain,
do not abandon Rádhá, lest you'd hurt
her grievously as Indra's thunderbolt.

Against that wantoning and dragging fire
she looks to lotus, sandalpaste and moon,
and thinks of lover in his lonely place,
and of his coolness as she lingers on.

Before she would not even close her eyes
a moment lest you leave her sight; no more
she breathes with you away, nor bears to think
of how the Mango trees were full of flowers.

Part Five: Desiring, Lotus-Eyed Krishna

Krishna told the friend of Rádhá:
here I wait but say these words
to pacify and make her come.
At this the friend to Radha went.

Tenth Song

Malaya breezes speak of swelling passions,
blooms in opening tear at lovers' hearts:
forest-garlanded, he sits apart.

To him the cooling moon-beam seems as fire,
the falling love god's arrows leave him hurt:
forest-garlanded, he sits apart.

As though beset by humming bees at night
he puts the pain of absence out of mind:
forest-garlanded, he sits apart.

He leaves his pleasant house to live in thickets,
and rolls on earth, his bed, and calls your name:
forest-garlanded, he sits apart.

Poet Jayadeva tells of loving's
parting: Hari favours fervent thought:
forest-garlanded, he sits apart.

* * *

As was passion first accomplished, now
is Mádhava inside his river bower,
constantly in thought and chanting prayers
to have the ferment of your spilling breasts.

Eleventh Song

To the love god's sporting house he's gone:
where you must follow him with heavy hips.

Steady breezes sweep the Yamuná
and on its leafy shoreline Krishna lives.

He plays your name and softly on his flute,
adores the air's light pollen you have touched.

Steady breezes sweep the Yamuná
and on its leafy shoreline Krishna lives.

No leaf or feather falls but you are near,
his eyes make incantations on the bed.

Steady breezes sweep the Yamuná
and on its leafy shoreline Krishna lives.

Leave off the anklets that betray your sport,
but in the darkest thicket, friend, delight.

Steady breezes sweep the Yamuná
and on its leafy shoreline Krishna lives.

Be on Krishna's breast as falling cranes,
the flash that lights up thunder clouds.

Steady breezes sweep the Yamuná
and on its leafy shoreline Krishna lives.

Let fall the girdle cloth from your strong hips:
your bliss his treasure in that bed of leaves.

Steady breezes sweep the Yamuná
and on its leafy shoreline Krishna lives.

The night is ending, and in Krishna's pride
fulfill the words I gave to his desire.

Steady breezes sweep the Yamuná
and on its leafy shoreline Krishna lives.

Jayadeva speaks to honour Krishna:
bow to him who is compassionate.

Steady breezes sweep the Yamuná
and on its leafy shoreline Krishna lives.

* * *

Around and round about he sighs and watches,
and fights, as bees in thickets, for his breath,
and makes, remakes the bed, and still he watches:
tired, by love bewildered, still he waits.

Your stubbornness now quenched as setting sun,
and Krishna's passion thickening with night,
the long-lamenting cuckoo bird repeats
delay is useless: let the lovers meet.

How many through the dark on some affair,
impelled by passion and in pleasure keen
to clasp and kiss and claw their bodies, find
then bashfully it is their spouse they greet?

Still fearful, trembling on the gloomy path,
by each tree loitering, and with crossing step,
she comes with promises of fortune in
her face and love god moving through her limbs.

Part Six: Indolent Krishna

With Rádhá passionate but in her bower
and Krishna slow to act, to him she said:

Twelfth Song

Rádhá sees you everywhere
as drinking sweetness of her lip.
Rádhá serves you in her house.

Moving in her haste to meet you
she takes her little steps and falls.
Rádhá serves you in her house.

With bracelets of white lotus shoots
she keeps alive that doubtful love.
Rádhá serves you in her house.

As I am ornament in play,
she says, I'm Krishna too in this.
Rádhá serves you in her house.

Why won't Hari haste to me?
incessantly she asks her friend.
Rádhá serves you in her house.

The dark she kisses, hugs the clouds,
from which she thinks her Hari comes.
Rádhá serves you in her house.

She moans and wails and decks herself,
all modesty now thrown away.
Rádhá serves you in her house.

May the pride of Jayadeva
spread to all who have his taste.
Rádhá serves you in her house.

In boundless ecstasy she bristles, brings
a note of lamentation to her voice.
On you, her great deceiver and her treasure,
the fawn-eyed woman meditates and clings.

She ornaments her body, has each leaf
announce your coming, makes her couch a hundred
times anticipating you in love:
alone this beauty cannot pass the night.

Part Seven: Cunning Krishna

A maze of beams, a mark of shame, a spot
of sandal blemishing young beauty's face:
to light the paths that unchaste women take
in Brindavan's vast wood there swells the moon.

Mádhava is lonely. She laments.
A hare-marked disk of light hangs low.

Thirteenth Song

She says: no meeting Hari in the wood:
in vain the shining figure of my youth.
What refuge is there when a friend deceives?

In dark frequenting of that wood was where
unequally love's arrow caught my heart.
What refuge is there when a friend deceives?

Shamed and useless, it is better death
than burn continually as one apart.
What refuge is there when a friend deceives?

I am alone this ardent, sweet spring night
while she, more merited, with Hari sports.
What refuge is there when a friend deceives?

My jewelled ornaments in glints convey
too well the fires of Hari fled from me.
What refuge is there when a friend deceives?

Though delicate my body, as a flower,
barbed, the flowers hung there hurt the heart.
What refuge is there when a friend deceives?

I linger in the innumerable thick reeds,
that he for all his thinking never sees.
What refuge is there when a friend deceives?

The words of Jayadeva fall at Krishna's feet
to live supported in a woman's heart.
What refuge is there when a friend deceives?

* * *

My love is somewhere wantoning or held
by relatives or lost his way, his mind
confused, the forest dark, to nowhere find
the pleasing arbour of that thicket place?

Returned without her Mádhava, the friend
so tongue-tied and dejected, Rádhá knew
he sported fecklessly with someone else.
As though there seeing him, now Radha said:

Fourteenth Song

Bedecked as courtesan, the hair now shaken
in love's long tournament where stems are broken.
Krishna's garland is some other girl.

In shimmering necklaces above each breast,
by Hari stirred and changed in each embrace.
Krishna's garland is some other girl.

Around her moon-like face waves clouded hair
as there, exhausted, of his lips she drinks.
Krishna's garland is some other girl.

To and fro his earrings strike her cheeks,
and then the stirrings of her girdle zone.
Krishna's garland is some other girl.

Laughing bashfully at lover's looks,
and then what murmuring and long she makes.
Krishna's garland is some other girl.

Broken, bristling, trembling sighs she sheds
who has the love god under shuttered lids.
Krishna's garland is some other girl.

The body fortunate and dewed in sweat,
that chest in joy she rests on after fight.
Krishna's garland is some other girl.

* * *

The moon-pale splendour of the lotus face
of Mura's enemy may stop my pain.
To one left solitary in thought, the moon
is friend to passion but no peace of mind.

Fifteenth Song

The face in rapture for a kiss he marks
with musk as antelope attend the moon.
On sandy Yamuná's thick-wooded shore
triumphantly is Krishna revelling now.

A flower he places in the tumbling hair,
is fast as deer or lightning to her mouth.
On sandy Yamuná's thick-wooded shore
triumphantly is Krishna revelling now.

He hangs a pendant on her musky breasts
that shine resplendent as the deer-marked moon.
On sandy Yamuná's thick-wooded shore
triumphantly is Krishna revelling now.

Her arm he subdues with an emerald clasp
as bees cool-clustered on a lotus shoot.
On sandy Yamuná's thick-wooded shore
triumphantly is Krishna revelling now.

Around the golden house of love, the hips,
he hangs a laughing girdle arch of gems.
On sandy Yamuná's thick-wooded shore
triumphantly is Krishna revelling now.

The feet that touch his heart he paints with lac
as garment covering love's inner house.
On sandy Yamuná's thick-wooded shore
triumphantly is Krishna revelling now.

He's mesmerized by beauty's eyes, while I—
say why, my friend—reside in sapless shoots.
On sandy Yamuná's thick-wooded shore
triumphantly is Krishna revelling now.

Jayadeva echoes Hari's best
that age's discords end at Krishna's feet.
On sandy Yamuná's thick-wooded shore
triumphantly is Krishna revelling now.

* * *

He's false and hurts my messenger. He has
too many loves, my friend: he will not come.
Yet I am drawn to him and burst with longing:
consciousness itself would go with him.

Sixteenth Song

His eyes are round her like the wind-tossed lotus:
a palliasse of leaves will never scorch her
when she is pleasuring one forest-wreathed.

His mouth voluptuous as open lotus,
her blossoms will not break the love god's arrows
when she is pleasuring one forest-wreathed.

With words so ever-living, sweet and soft
she will not blaze up in Malaya breezes
when she is pleasuring one forest-wreathed.

Like the land-borne lotus on her are his hands
and feet: the cool of moonbeams will not hurt
when she is pleasuring one forest-wreathed.

Coalescing, radiant as the clouds,
no separation there can cleave the heart
when she is pleasuring one forest-wreathed.

His clothing leaves the touchstone gold:
she pays no heed to how her servants sigh
when she is pleasuring one forest-wreathed.

This youth is better than a world of people,
despite the pain and pity and the sorrow
when she is pleasuring one forest-wreathed.

May Jayadeva's singing words so give
my friend, this Hari entrance to your heart
when she is pleasuring one forest-wreathed.

* * *

The Sandal winds delight and fill my mind,
but move so variously in love or spite.
The life-breath of the world you bring me for
a moment, then as Mádhava you're gone.

My friends deceive me, the chill wind is fire,
the sweet light venom, and a scourge my mind:
though forcibly the heart is drawn to hardness,
auspicious looks and I am loving mad.

Afflict me, Sandal wind, with love's five arrows,
take my life-breath back, I have no home.
My sister-death, the Yamuná, relieve
this conflagration in your cooling waves.

Part Eight: Abashed Krishna

Somehow having spent the night's long watches,
in the morning, and still stung with arrows,
with him in front of her, conciliatory
and bowing even, angrily she said:

Seventeenth Song

With eyes still reddened from a wakeful night,
would you in condenscension offer me
a look belated as your sluggish love?

I ask you, Hari, speak no lying words,
nor, Madhava, to make those eyes at me.
Be off, the pair of you, Keshava, Krishna:
following me will only add to grief.

Besmirched by kissing of her lampblack lids,
your morning lips are marked with that deep hue
which is the colour, Krishna, of your shape.

I ask you, Hari, speak no lying words,
nor, Madhava, to make those eyes at me.
Be off, the pair of you, Keshava, Krishna:
following me will only add to grief.

How harsh love's battle your scratched body shows:
the nailmarks driven as dark emerald bits
that write your victory in their gleaming strokes.

I ask you, Hari, speak no lying words,
nor, Madhava, to make those eyes at me.
Be off, the pair of you, Keshava, Krishna:
following me will only add to grief.

At heart and printed on your belly go
the trail of pale lac feet: the tree of love
displays—how charmingly!— its train of leaves.

I ask you, Hari, speak no lying words,
nor, Madhava, to make those eyes at me.
Be off, the pair of you, Keshava, Krishna:
following me will only add to grief.

For me her tooth mark on your lip is pain.
By that you'd urge, and urge compellingly,
I merge that splendid body into mine?

I ask you, Hari, speak no lying words,
nor, Madhava, to make those eyes at me.
Be off, the pair of you, Keshava, Krishna:
following me will only add to grief.

Your mind is blacker than your colour, Krishna,
to lead astray the followers brought down
unequally with fevers of the heart.

I ask you, Hari, speak no lying words,
nor, Madhava, to make those eyes at me.
Be off, the pair of you, Keshava, Krishna:
following me will only add to grief.

Why would your lordship wander in the woods
to prey on foolish women there, suck out
their life as from the demoness Putana?

I ask you, Hari, speak no lying words,
nor, Madhava, to make those eyes at me.
Be off, the pair of you, Keshava, Krishna:
following me will only add to grief.

So Jayadeva of a girl deceived,
and wailing. Sages listen: not in Heaven
even is there sweetness heard as this.

I ask you, Hari, speak no lying words,
nor, Madhava, to make those eyes at me.
Be off, the pair of you, Keshava, Krishna:
following me will only add to grief.

* * *

My love is on the roads: your chest displays
the decoration of her red-lac feet:
my swollen heart is broken by some cheat,
and worse than grieving is the shame I feel.

Part Nine: Languishing Krishna

To her so separated, passion broken,
hurt by Hari, now the girlfriend said:

Eighteenth Song

Hari's speaking is as first month breezes;
what further pleasure can there be, my friend?
Why scorn the purposes of Mádhava?

In essence fuller than the fan-palm fruit,
why won't you press on him those pitcher breasts?
Why scorn the purposes of Mádhava?

How soon and many times, must I repeat:
do not withhold yourself from Hari's gifts.
Why scorn the purposes of Mádhava?

Why such a spectacle of prostrate grieving?
Your whole community of girls is laughing.
Why scorn the purposes of Mádhava?

A bed of cool and watery lotus leaves
has Hari: feast on what your eyes have seen.
Why scorn the purposes of Mádhava?

Why conjure up such heavy thoughts, but hear
the parting words unwanted that I bear.
Why scorn the purposes of Mádhava?

When Hari comes to speak melodiously
why would you make your heart so solitary?
Why scorn the purposes of Mádhava?

Let then Hari's amorousness expressed
by Jayadeva move the man of taste.
Why scorn the purposes of Mádhava?

* * *

He's friendly, bows. You are unkind. He lifts
his face, you turn away. Perverse, you make
of sandal paste a poison, frost a fire,
moon's coolness sun, and love a suffering.

Part Ten: Four-Armed Krishna

And then so gentle at her tears and rage
he brought a brightness to her ravaged face:
in joy and modesty a friend to her,
so Hari, stammering that evening, said:

Nineteenth Song

A little even of your glowing teeth
dispels my gloominess, as comes the moon's
rich nectar trembling from your lower lip
to salve my longing in chakora eyes.

My love, you have no cause to curse me so:
I ask, as this fierce passion burns my mind,
for nectar's sweetness in that lotus mouth.

If you, with teeth so beautiful, are truly
angry, claw at me with arrow nails,
bind, fetter me with arms, and with your teeth,
attack whatever happiness you find.

My love, you have no cause to curse me so:
I ask, as this fierce passion burns my mind,
for nectar's sweetness in that lotus mouth.

You are my ornament, my breath, my world,
my jewel in the endless sea of life:
that you at last will yield to me I make
perpetually the motive of this heart.

My love, you have no cause to curse me so:
I ask, as this fierce passion burns my mind,
for nectar's sweetness in that lotus mouth.

As blue lotuses your eyes, that show
the red of water lilies, slender Rádhá:
those barbs that strike my body in their fiery
passion find the darkness of your eyes.

My love, you have no cause to curse me so:
I ask, as this fierce passion burns my mind,
for nectar's sweetness in that lotus mouth.

May gems which, trembling, hang beneath the pitcher
breasts entreat those quarters of the heart,
and girdle zone that circles those strong hips
obey the love god who is murmuring there.

My love, you have no cause to curse me so:
I ask, as this fierce passion burns my mind,
for nectar's sweetness in that lotus mouth.

Outshine the flared hibiscus, soft-voiced one,
and let me paint your feet with pale red lac,
that you in amorous disporting place
a shining harmony about my heart.

My love, you have no cause to curse me so:
I ask, as this fierce passion burns my mind,
for nectar's sweetness in that lotus mouth.

Place as ornament upon my head,
to slake the love god's venom, your soft feet,
and douse the tawny-embered fire of passion
that all too pitiless still burns in me.

My love, you have no cause to curse me so:
I ask, as this fierce passion burns my mind,
for nectar's sweetness in that lotus mouth.

In words so sweet so pungent and so pleasing
Mura's enemy addresses Rádhá:
so the poet Jayadeva, wins
his joy in eloquence of Sarasvatí.

My love, you have no cause to curse me so:
I ask, as this fierce passion burns my mind,
for nectar's sweetness in that lotus mouth.

* * *

How can there be, with spreading breasts and heavy
haunches, latitude for someone else?
In me alone, and bodiless, embracing
you, the love god holds you in his heart.

Confuse, compress me in those urgent breasts,
bind hard your arms about me, and, like Durga,
have the rage of teeth and five-fold arrows
tear in love the life-breath out of me.

Disturb the young men with those serpent-sooted
eyebrows frowning on a moon-like face:
a danger, from the fear of which the only mantra
is that sweet nectar spilling from your lip.

Needlessly your silence hurts me: sing
and cure my fevered longing with a glance.
Do not withdraw your graciousness from one
whose vast bewilderment must show his love.

Bandúka are your lips, Madúka cheeks,
your nose the Sesame, white Jasmine teeth
the lotus glances: so the flower-weaponed
god in worshipping has conquered all.

Your face as is the languid moon and shining;
thighs, as plantains moving, charm the races;
pleasing's skilful, and the brow-line's bright:
you lead all heavenly women here on earth.

Part Eleven: Blissful Krishna

From long entreaty of the doe-eyed woman,
rich-clothed, Keshava found his arbour bed.
Then on that twilit evening someone went
and to a jewelled and cheerful Rádhá said:

Twentieth Song

To you he offered graceful words
and bowed in reverence to your feet,
and at the border of his thicket bower
awaits you on his loving bed.

Innocent Rádhá, you must follow
as Madhu's foe has followed you.

Firm the haunches and the breast
when borne on slowly-moving steps:
with tinkling, jewelled anklets come
and mimic the Marála bird.

Innocent Rádhá, you must follow
as Madhu's foe has followed you.

Listen to the bees whose hum
intoxicates the lovelorn girls.
Watch as flocks of cuckoo birds
announce the flower-arrowed one.

Innocent Rádhá, you must follow
as Madhu's foe has followed you.

The winds make stir the early leaves,
and thicknesses of creepers urge:
as trunks of elephants now move
in unison those supple thighs.

Innocent Rádhá, you must follow
as Madhu's foe has followed you.

The motion of your breasts betrays
the love god trembling in their swell,
and necklaces in his embrace
are pure, clear water in a stream.

Innocent Rádhá, you must follow
as Madhu's foe has followed you.

All your girlfriends learn how body
arms for passion's joyful fight,
and as the war-drums shake the girdle
roar their passion shamelessly.

Innocent Rádhá, you must follow
as Madhu's foe has followed you.

Artless, clinging to a friend
with a hand of sporting arrows,
go to Hari as your bracelets
tell by tinkling you approach.

Innocent Rádhá, you must follow
as Madhu's foe has followed you.

May Jayadeva's shining words
adorn the mind that's drawn to Hari
as will necklaces of pearls
then blossom round some beauty's throat.

Innocent Rádhá, you must follow
as Madhu's foe has followed you.

* * *

She will look and speak, remembering words;
and clasp my body eagerly, my friend:
but in the arbour's massy darkness, he,
disturbed in thought, can see his lover come:
swelled up with joy, but trembling, sweat and faint.

So women mischievous, who flit in pleasure
with eyes mascara'd, and tamála'd ears: their heads
are wreathed with lotuses and musk their breasts.
My friend: how beautiful are lustrous eyes
and limbs invested with the thicket's shade.

The blackest night is thick and beautiful
with gold when saffron wearing lovers meet.
As though the cavernous Tamála all
around could act as touchstone for the streaks
of loving's probity and find it bright.

Having at the entrance to his thicket
arbour seen a richly jewelled Hari,
the central gem ablaze in pearls, the wealth
of armlet, bracelet, golden girdle string,
to one now bashful so the girlfriend said:

Twenty-first Song

In this charming bower of pleasure,
railing laughter urges love.
Rádhá, enter in to Mádhava.

Let on these soft Tamála leaves
your breasts appear with tumbled pearls.
Rádhá, enter in to Mádhava.

For you whose body is a flower
is massed the flowering in this house.
Rádhá, enter in to Mádhava.

If fearful of the love god's arrows
here are cool Malaya winds.
Rádhá, enter in to Mádhava.

If slow to place your solemn hip
here are creepers soft and thick.
Rádhá, enter in to Mádhava.

To manifest the god of love
the bees are humming at the honey.
Rádhá, enter in to Mádhava.

Like flocks of singing cuckoos flash
the ruby gemstones of your teeth.
Rádhá, enter in to Mádhava.

May meeting Padmávatí be blessed
with happinesses hundreds fold,
so sings the king of poet kings.
Rádhá, enter in to Mádhava.

* * *

Why such agitation? Tired by passion,
he seeks the nectar of your lips, your body's
nearness. At your feet he is a slave
a moment's lifting of your brow has bought.

Delighted are the darting glances
fearfully now given Krishna.
Beautiful, the anklets tinkle
as she gains his hiding place.

Twenty-second Song

On seeing Rádhá's blossoming, his looks
were sea in ecstasy when moon appears.
Hari's whole becoming spoke his joy
at her now going to the love god's house.

Far off she saw the pearls on Hari's chest
as foam that rises on the Yamuná.
Hari's whole becoming spoke his joy
at her now going to the love god's house.

Dark and soft the body with a saffron robe
as pollen round the dark blue lotus root.
Hari's whole becoming spoke his joy
at her now going to the love god's house.

His loving glances shook his cheeks as will
two wagtails lotus in an autumn pond.
Hari's whole becoming spoke his joy
at her now going to the love god's house.

His lotus face had earrings like the sun,
and lips that glittered splendidly with love.
Hari's whole becoming spoke his joy
at her now going to the love god's house.

As moon through clouds appeared his flower-strewn hair,
and lofty lunar disk his sandal mark.
Hari's whole becoming spoke his joy
at her now going to the love god's house.

A long time bristling with the play of love,
a body moonbeam-radiant with its jewels.
Hari's whole becoming spoke his joy
at her now going to the love god's house.

May Jayadeva's words adorn those twice
who bow to Hari pondered in their hearts.
Hari's whole becoming spoke his joy
at her now going to the love god's house.

* * *

Boundlessly, as stretching to her ears,
so Rádhá, gazing on her most beloved,
let fall the perspiration of her eyes
in storms of agitation and of joy.

When followers had left the place, their smiles
concealed by hands as she approached the bed,
such love's auspiciousness was in his face,
she found her modesty, ashamed, had fled.

The son of Nanda, in his joy at pressing
Rádhá slowly slowly in his arms,
must hold her, look behind, and pray those jutting
breasts do not protrude to pierce his back.

Like Rati Devi in her hoarded beauty
so Rádhá in the lake where love is played:
a sporting Vishnu shook those lifted breasts
as geese the lotuses of Mánasa.

Part Twelve: Very Delighted Krishna

When Rádhá's many friends were gone, he saw
her lower lip so brightly bathed with love,
and on his bed of leaves so bashfully
she looked, her eyes downcast, that Hari said:

Twenty-third Song

Lay on this leafy bed your lotus foot:
in flowering, loving woman, conquer it.
At once, now Rádhá, and as closely,
follow Krishna as he's followed you.

My hand a lotus to that travelled foot:
as valiant anklet I have followed you.
At once, now Rádhá, and as closely,
follow Krishna as he's followed you.

Spill nectar from that moon-like face in words
as cloth I take that keeps me from your breasts.
At once, now Rádhá, and as closely,
follow Krishna as he's followed you.

How fierce and difficult is that embrace
of breasts whose fullness takes the love god's heat.
At once, now Rádhá, and as closely,
follow Krishna as he's followed you.

Revive your slave with nectar from those lips,
my thoughts are by that fiery body hurt.
At once, now Rádhá, and as closely,
follow Krishna as he's followed you.

In cuckoo-tortured ears your echoed voice
will lift as girdle gems my long disgrace.
At once, now Rádhá, and as closely,
follow Krishna as he's followed you.

At last in shame you do not look on one
you maimed so wantonly with futile anger.
At once, now Rádhá, and as closely,
follow Krishna as he's followed you.

May Jayadeva's words that gladden Krishna
create love's sentiment in men of taste.
At once, now Rádhá, and as closely,
follow Krishna as he's followed you.

   * * *

Clasped and brushing through such obstacles
as bristling hair and blinking eyes, of talk
that stops the nectar from the lips, the two
are brought to love's entitlement at this.

Pressed round by arms, by breasts, by fingernails,
by pounding hips, by teeth on lips, his head
pulled down but mad to have the honeyed stream:
how curiously the loved one takes his joy.

Conquering impetuously she falls:
her arms go limp, eyes close, the breasts shake free.
She holds the mount of pleasure motionless,
for such are women in their manly sports.

By morning tired, unloosed, dishevelled, hair
awry, the garlands broken, body clawed,
but still transfixed by his, the love god's arrows,
her look was to his mind a wondrous sight.

Expired the radiance of her hair and lip,
the necklace broken and the girdle lost:
she puts a hand to hide her modesty,
ashamed and artless in her pleasing him.

Ecstatic in her half-closed lids, and bathed
with play of teeth and love-words from her lips:
so warm, the deer-eyed beauty in its tranquil
body breathes a fortune with its kiss.

Rádhá, tired but joyful at the end of sport,
respectfully to Krishna said these words:

Twenty-fourth Song

Anoint with sandal-dewy hands my breasts
and, Krishna, make them worthy with your musk
to be receptacles produced in thought.
In this she spoke to him while Krishna
played delighting in her heart.

Make more glistening than the massing bees
the eye's collyrium you kissed away
and loose the arrows of the loved one's looks.
In this she spoke to him while Krishna
played delighting in her heart.

Let the leaping freedom of the deer
return with earrings fastened, that their arc
restrain the splendour in the snaring glance.
In this she spoke to him while Krishna
played delighting in her heart.

Forever may my presence here before
you rearrange your shaken curls as bees
unlock the shape of spotless lotus flowers.
In this she spoke to him while Krishna
played delighting in her heart.

Remake with musk the deer-mark of the moon,
and dress, O lotus-faced, that forehead damp
but not as sprinkled as it was with sweat.
In this she spoke to him while Krishna
played delighting in her heart.

Replace the blossoms fallen in our play
from hair as fly-whisk tossed and in a plume
of love astonishing as peacock's tail.
In this she spoke to him while Krishna
played delighting in her heart.

Reclothe with jewels and waist-string ornaments
the cave so potent, firm and beautiful
it held the elephant of love in sport.
In this she spoke to him while Krishna
played delighting in her heart.

Thus Jayadeva's nectar in a heart
compassionate and at the feet of Hari
wards off evil from the Kali age.
In this she spoke to him while Krishna
played delighting in her heart.

   * * *

Decorate my breasts and cheeks, arrange
my girdle-string and tangled hair, replace
my rows of bracelets and my jewelled anklets.
He of yellow robe, delighted, did.

Let music skills of Gándharvas, the thought
that goes with love play and belongs to Vishnu,
true discrimination, which is Krishna's,
purify the sense of Jayadeva.

May poetry of Jayadeva, son
of Bhojadeva and of Rámádeví,
in his song of Krishna, chief of cowherds,
join the travellers with Paráshara.