men who sing ordinary songs
now call themselves poets.
They go into places and explain their
songs to somebody
they happen to find
and they say to them,
“You are aesthetes! You know poetry!”
O God of Kāḷahasti,
substance and emptiness are not distinguished.
Poetry has been cheapened.
Where is it
good poets can go?
:HH & VNR
When I think of the past,
the terrible sinful
things I have done,
I am sickened by them.
When I see before me
that grim death after death
will come to me sooner or later,
I am frightened.
When I look at myself,
when I think of my actions,
terror descends upon me and
darkness falls across time.
O God of Kāḷahasti
:HH & VNR
I have had my satisfaction
with pleasures at the doorway of the King of Love
and those that have come to me through entering
the palace gates of many kings.
Now I want quiet. Show me
the doorway to the highest truth
where, through your kindness,
O God of Kāḷahasti,
I can be at ease and at rest.
:HH & VNR
Dhūrjaṭi
In the state of Andhra Pradesh, on the bank of a river known as the Mogileru, sits the small town of Kāḷahasti. A temple with fortified walls, placed on a hill that commands a view of the surrounding country, is dedicated to Śrī Kāḷahasti Īśvara, the town’s resident god. The name is an odd amalgam of words for spider, snake, and elephant, three creatures that figure prominently in local stories about Lord Śiva. Kāḷahasti is the regional manifestation of Śiva.
Somewhere in the mid-sixteenth century the poet Dhūrjaṭi arrived at the temple. Of Dhūrjaṭi’s biography hardly anything survives except what one can glean from his poetry. He composed a long ornate poem in Telugu court style (Telugu is the language of Andhra and several surrounding states). In them Dhūrjaṭi celebrates the Kāḷahasti temple, recounting in detail the legends attached to it. The poem’s colophon carries his name; the poem’s flourishes, laden with Sanskrit-style compound words, shows Dhūrjaṭi had trained as a court poet. Tradition assigns to him one further work, the Kāḷahastīśvara Śatakamu, or Hundred Poems to Lord Kāḷahasti. In this collection his anger and contempt, leveled at misguided pride and the terrible pettiness of rulers, sound so genuine they must reflect his personal experience. The translators consider this “hundred poems” an “emotional autobiography.” It lacks fact, episode, human names, but comes laced with passionate devotion and a fierce despair at worldly attachment. He levels particular anger at sexual vanity and the abuse of political power.
The śatakam, a collection of a hundred poems (the Victorian British called them “centuries”), shows up all over India. Dozens if not hundreds occur in Sanskrit, Tamil, Telugu, and the literary vernaculars. The number one hundred is more symbolic than actual; most collections contain a few more, a few less. (One hundred and eight, a magical number for Hindus, Buddhists, and others, is common.) Dhūrjaṭi’s collection may hold 116 poems; no scholar has sifted through and compiled a critical edition. Telugu speakers chant its verses, so Dhūrjaṭi’s work remains active, quick to rise to those dissatisfied with worldly goals or the political power structure.
The name Dhūrjaṭi, Twisted Locks, would be the name for a Śiva devotee. Śiva, as well as his sadhus—scary mendicants who sometimes follow extreme yoga practices—wear dreadlocks twisted into ropes, matted with cow dung. Some cake their locks with ash from the burning ground. These sadhus reject family and caste identity, saying they belong to the lineage of Śiva. Which may be why Dhūrjaṭi in the end left nothing but his poems.
I never think of asking you to give me things,
so if you don’t care for my poetry
I’ll bear that all right.
It’s only my tongue’s natural work,
nothing other than my worship.
(HH & VNR translation)
THE VARKARIS
: JÑANDEV
(1275—1296)
Blue is this sky, a blue filled with love,
Blue is this entire symmetry.
A blue being-in-itself, the blue of all karma,
I see a blue Guru in his blue resort.
Bluely I behave, I eat blue,
I see blueness in a blue sort of way.
Jñandev has entered the loving embrace
Of the blue cowherd in the school of blue.
:DC
The quintessence of awareness,
The knowledge of infinity,
The one whom the sky clothes,
Who has no form, no colour, nor property:
That graceful One, Hari, the reliever:
I’ve seen Him filling my eyes!
Seeing Him, I’ve set aside
Even the act of seeing!
Says Jñandev, inside any flame is
The Self’s very own flame:
And that flame is imaged here
Standing on The Brick!
:DC
Shall I call you the formed One?
Shall I call you the formless?
The formed and the unformed is
Only the one Govind!
He cannot be deduced
He cannot be conceived
The Shrutis say,
“He’s not such; nor even such.”
Shall I call You the vastest One?
Shall I call You the minutest One?
The vast and the minute
Are only One Govind.
Shall I call You the visible One?
Shall I call You the invisible One?
Both the visible and the invisible
Are the only One Govind.
By the blessing of Nivrutti,
Jñandev speaks,
“Our great parent, husband of the Goddess Rakhuma, is
Vithal.”
:DC
: MUKTABAI
(1279—1297)
the zoom ant
swallowed the sun
the barren woman
begot a son
a scorpion went
to the lower depths
shesha bowed to him
with a thousand heads
a pregnant fly
delivered a kite
having seen it all
mukta smiled
:AK
When one looks beyond the void,
There is not even a void left.
The one who sees keeps what’s seen
In one’s own place.
O mother mine! What a great saviour this!
The One who illuminates All!
He appeared in Pandharpur
Bringing Vaikunth down with Himself!
One does not know where He will go—
Being, becoming, and vanishing at will!
The resonance of the Shrutis is thus realized:
“Not such is the One; nor such is the One.”
Muktai is filled with love.
Vithal amazes her.
The mattress is emptiness.
Lie down upon emptiness.
:DC
From Muktabai’s Dialogue with the Super-Yogi Changdev
“Tell me where the Self is in its dreaming state.
And how does it continue to chase us even then?”
Says Changa, “O lady, Muktabai, will you explain to me
How illusion finds a real home in the human body?”
“Your body creates chaos,” Says Mukta to Changa,
“Try dwelling in your inner self with a st
rong will.
“It’s neither bound nor free
It’s neither real nor is it illusory
“It’s not different from you, so what difference can it make to you?
Does the real dwell in the body or is it illusory?”
Changa asks, “Tell me O Muktai.
What dwells in the body? The real or the illusory?”
“There’s no pleasure in the Self, nor is there pain; there’s no virtue, nor sin;
No karma, no dharma; for nothing is ever conceived there.
“There’s no bond; so there’s nothing to be liberated;
O Vateshvar! There’s no Supreme Reality,” says Mukta, the born siddha,
“If you show me gold, I can test it.
Show me your own experience in what you say!
“The human mind is stubbornly egocentric. But where are you
If there’s no me?” Muktai asks.
“The egoist’s mantra is ‘I am the Supreme Being.’” Says Muktai to Changa,
“Me is my anguish, me is my desire.
Temptation, possession—all this confusion—it’s your sense of me.
“Just utter the name of Hari, He is literally the ‘Reliever’!
And He’ll rob you of all your power, your pride and stiffness. Be One, with Heaven!
“The body perishes. It’s just a bundle of five senses.
Blow it into the wind! After all, it’s just air!”
Muktai gave Changa his lost life back.
She taught him how to have a home that’s no property.
:DC
: NAMDEV
(1270—1350)
The night is black. The water pot is black.
Oh my mother!
The waters of the Yamuna
Are black too.
The veil is black. The jewel is black.
Oh my mother!
The pearls I wear around my neck
Are also black.
I am black. My breasts are clothed in black.
Oh my mother!
The waist-knot of my sari is
Also black.
The maiden lover
Goes alone to the river.
O my mother! Send her the black image of her lover
As company!
Nama, the servant of Vishnu,
Has a black mistress. Oh my mother!
How black can the image of Krishna
Be?
:DC
in the beginning
is the ant
mouth of the triple river
is the mouth of the ant
in darkness
is the ant
in flames a wick of water
lights a lamp of soot
in the wake
of the ant
all the sky follows
the world of our making’s her droppings
i pursue
that ant
i, visnudas nama
unlock the ant with my guru
:AK
: JANABAI
(1298—1350)
Jani sweeps with a broom
The Lord loads up the garbage
He carries it in a basket on His head
Throws it away in a distant dump
So much under the spell of Bhakti is He
He now performs the lowliest tasks
Says Jani to Vithoba
How shall I return Your favours?
:DC
Jani’s head feels awfully itchy
Vithabai runs to help her feel easy
The Lord loosens the bun of her hair
Quickly picking out lice from there
He combs and brushes Jani’s hair
I feel so clean says Jani
:DC
Jani loosens her hair
Among basil plants growing wild
The Lord with butter in the palm of His hand
Gently massages her head
My poor little Jani has no one but me
He thinks as he pours water on her head
Jani tells all the folks
My boyfriend gives me a shower
:DC
see the void
above the void
on its top
another void
the first void
is red
it’s called
the lower void
the higher void
is white
the middle void
is grey
but the great void
is blue
it contains
only itself
jani was struck
with wonder
when she heard
the silent bell
:AK
i eat god
i drink god
i sleep
on god
i buy god
i count god
i deal
with god
god is here
god is there
void is not
devoid of god
jani says:
god is within
god is without
and moreover
there’s god to spare
:AK
: EKNATH
(1533—1599)
wonder of wonders
a thief stole a town
but when the trackers tracked him down
no thief, no town
the town was entirely unfounded
the temple windblown
god confounded
the steeple shot across heaven
the foundation fled
to the recesses of hell
and the wall wandered
from door to door
the foundation the wall the temple
underneath all paradox
the meaning is simple
:AK
: TUKARAM
(1608—1650)
This is really extraordinary, O Hari,
You are supposed to relieve misery;
And here I am, your own devotee,
Whose house is haunted by poetry.
The more I excel in poems praising you,
The more my work seems flawed:
This is yet another amazing paradox.
Watchfulness is rewarded with anxiety.
Says Tuka, My Lord, it’s just dawned on me:
:DC
Some of you may say
I am the author
Of these poems.
But
Believe me
This voice
Is not my own.
I have no
Personal skill.
It is
The Cosmic One
Making me speak.
What does a poor fellow like me
Know of the subtleties of meaning?
I speak what Govind
Makes me say.
He has appointed me
To measure it out.
The authority rests
With the Master; Not me.
Says Tuka, I’m only the servant.
See?
All this bears
The seal of His Name.
:DC
Advice to an Angry Wife
“Now there’s nothing left for you to eat.
Will you eat your own children?
My husband is God-crazy!
“See how he beats his own head?
See how he wears garlands!
He has stopped minding his shop.
“His own belly is full
While the rest of us must starve
“Look at him striking cymbals
And opening his grotesque mouth
To sing to his God in his shrine!”
Says Tuka, be patient, my woman!
T
his is only the beginning!
:DC
Advice to an Angry Wife
“He can’t stand the idea of work;
He is used to getting free meals.
“As soon as he wakes, he starts to sing.
All hell breaks loose after that.
“These fellows are the living dead.
They have no conscience to prick.
“They’ve turned a blind eye to their families.
They have deserted their homes.
“Their wives twist and turn for them
While they crush their lives with a stone.”
Says Tuka, that’s a good one, my wife!
Here! I’ve written it down!
:DC
In this Age of Evil poetry is an infidel’s art:
The world teems with theatrical performers.
Their craving for money, lusting for women, and sheer reproduction
Define their values and priorities:
And what they mouth has no connection with their own being.
Hypocrites! They pretend such concern for where the world is going,
Talk of self-sacrifice, which is far from their minds.
They cite Vedic injunctions but can’t do themselves any good.
They are unable to view their own bodies in perspective.
Says Tuka, a torturesome death awaits
All those whose language is divorced from being.
:DC
Without seeing a thing
I’ve seen entirely.
I’ve achieved a likeness
Of everybody.
Without taking
I’ve accepted.
My arms and legs
Are holidays.
Without eating
I’ve had my fill.
My mouth as it watered
Became the menu.
Without a word
I’ve spoken.
I’ve presented what
At best was absent.
The poem occurs,
Says Tuka,
Unknown
To my ears.
:AK
What will I eat now,
Where will I go?
Do I dare to stay on
In the village?
Villagers furious
Their chieftain grumpy,
If I beg I’ll only see