Part One: Joyful Krishna
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
spring-time, 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.
Another even, 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.