Jayadevas ashtapadis

Jayadeva’s bhakti for Krishna finds its match in his lyrical prowess

Jayadeva’s Ashtapadi differs from other bhakti compositions because of the predominant element of poetry. There is sensitivity and imagination in every stanza. The main problem in citing examples is the explicit nature of his description of the amorous dalliance of Krishna with Radha and other gopikas. One has, therefore, to be choosy, and be somewhat of a Bowdler, in quoting from Jayadeva.

The beauty (or, is it irony?) of it is that Jayadeva keeps saying that reading his explicit verses will not only confer various kinds of benefits but also neutralise the sins of kali:

“Yadgandharva kalaasu kaushalamanudhyaanam cha yad vaishnavam, Yashrungaara viveka tatva rachanaa kaavyeshu lilayitham, tatsarvam Jayadevapanditha kave: krushnai kahaanaatmanana: saanandaa: parishodayanthu sughiya: shri Gita Govindata”

(From the Gita Govinda composed by Jayadeva, who is extremely devoted to Krishna, the wise may get proficiency in music, uninterrupted contemplation on Vishnu and knowledge of the intricate techniques of erotics (sloka).

“Sri Jayadeva vachasi ruchire sadayam hrudayam kuru mandane, haricharana smaranaamrutha nirmitha kali kalusha jwara khandane:”

(Always remember the words of Jayadeva which dispel the fever, namely, the sins of Kali and express the sweet devotion to the feet of Krishna - ‘kuru yadhu nandana.’)

The apocryphal story is that Jayadeva once toned down his explicit version in one of the stanzas and went to sleep and, on waking up, found that Krishna had appeared and restored the original version!

Let us see some examples of his beautiful poetry:

“Abhinava jaladhara sundara” — beautifully dark-hued like a fresh rain-bearing cloud (shritha Kamala kucha)

“Shrimukha chandra chakora:” — longing for Goddess Lakshmi’s face as a chakora bird longs for the moon (shritha Kamala kucha)

“Shri Radhapathi paada padma bhajanaanandaabdhi magno anisham tham vande Jayadeva sathguruvaram Padmavati vallabham” — I bow down to that foremost preceptor Jayadeva, who is always immersed in the ocean of bliss in worshipping the lotus feet of the consort of Radha and who is the spouse of Padmavati (Dhyana slokam – Shri Gopalavilasini )

Rama avatar

“Vitharasi dhikshu rane dikpathi kamaniyam dasamukhamouli balim ramaniyam, Keshava dhrutha Rama sareera:” — O Keshava! One who has assumed the form of Rama! You scattered the heads of Ravana in ten directions in the battlefield as if offering oblations acceptable to the guardian deities (‘Jaya Jagadisha Hare’)

“Lalitha lavanga latha pariseelana komala malaya samire, madhukara nikara karambita kokila koojita kunja kutire:” — In the soft westerly winds embracing the soft clove creepers and in the bowers filled with the buzzing swarms of honey bees and sweet notes of cuckoos (‘lalitha lavanga’)

“Spuradathi muktha latha parirambhaNa mukulita pulakita chuthe” — As the mango tree blossoms as it were on account of the embrace of the atimuktha creeper, Krishna rejoices with the maidens (’viharathi hari riha’)

“Nityotsanga vasath bhujanga kavalakleshadi veshachalam, praleyaplavanechaanusarati shri khandana shailaanila” The soft breeze from the Malaya mountains wafts north as if it cannot stand the heat produced by the poisonous serpents in the southern mountains and wants to get cooled by the snowclad Himalaya mountains of the north.

“Jalada patala chaladindu vinindaka chandana bindu lalatam” — (The sandal paste pottu on Krishna’s forehead in its beauty mocks at the moon, which moves slowly through the banks of cluds (‘sancharadhara sudha’)

“Varnitam Jayadevakena hareritam pravanena, kindubilva samudrasambhava rohini ramanena” — Just as the moon, which rises from the ocean makes it happy, Jayadeva, who was born in kindubilva makes it happy (‘mamiyam chalita’)

“Shashimukhi! tava bhaathi bhangura bhru yuvajanamohakar aalakaala sarpi” — One who has a beautiful face like the moon! Your curved eyebrow is like the cruel black cobra that stupefies youth (‘dhyana slokam — parihara kruthathanke’)

“Shashimukhi! mukharaya manirashanagunamanuguna kanTaninadam, shrutiyugale pikarutavikale mama shmaya chiradavasadam” — “O moon-faced one! Let the bells in your girdle ring in resonance with the sweet notes of your voice. It will soothe my ears which have found even the notes of cuckoos harsh due to separation from you (‘kisalaya shayanatale’)

Jayadeva ends his kaavyam with a striking compliment to himself: “Saadhvi maadhvika! chintha na bhavati bhavata: sharkare! karkashasi, dhrakshe! dhrakhshayanti ke tvaamamrutha! mruthaamasi ksheera! niram rasasthe, makand! krandha kanthadhara! dhara na thulam gala yachchanthi bhavam, yaavatshrungarasaaram shubhamiha Jayadevasya vaidagdhya vaacha” — O sweet wine, do not consider yourself sweet any longer. O sugar! you are crude and harsh. O grapes! who would bother to look at you? O milk! You are tasteless and insipid. O mango fruit ! You lament that you are worthless. O ruddy lips of lovely women! Do not aspire to any comparison as long as the words of Jayadeva last.

wooooooooooooooomen

if women could be fa ire & never fond,
or that their beau tie might continue still:
I would not mervaile though they made men bond,
by service long, to purchase their good will.
But when I see, how frail these creatures are:
I laugh, that men forget themselves so far.

To Mark what choice they make, and how they change,
how leaving best the worst they chose out still:
And how like haggard Wilde, about they range,
Scorning after reason to follow will.
Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist,
& let them file (fa ire fool es) which way they list.

Yet for our sport, wee Fawne and flatter both,
To passe the time, when nothing else can please:
And trainee them on to yield by sub till oath,
The sweet content, that gives such humour ease.
And then wee say, when wee their follies tire,
To play with fool es, Oh what a Foley was I.

cambridge dec 2018.

Breathes there the man sir walter scott.

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.

The Sea

By: Lord Byron

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean,—roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin,—his control
Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth:—there let him lay.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee and arbiter of war,—
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada’s pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee;
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou;
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play,
Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow;
Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed,—in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime,
The image of Eternity,—the throne
Of the Invisible! even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers,—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror, ’t was a pleasing fear;
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane,—as I do here.

Casabianca

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck,
Shone round him o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

The flames rolled on – he would not go,
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud – ‘Say, father, say
If yet my task is done?’
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

‘Speak, father!’ once again he cried,
‘If I may yet be gone!’
– And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath
And in his waving hair;
And look’d from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,
‘My father! must I stay?’
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound –
The boy – oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,
But the noblest thing which perished there,
Was that young faithful heart.

English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray. The Harvard Classics.  1909–14.

My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is

Sir Edward Dyer (d. 1607)

MY mind to me a kingdom is;   Such present joys therein I find, That it excels all other bliss   That earth affords or grows by kind: Though much I want that most would have,         5 Yet still my mind forbids to crave. No princely pomp, no wealthy store,   No force to win the victory, No wily wit to salve a sore,   No shape to feed a loving eye;         10 To none of these I yield as thrall; For why? my mind doth serve for all. I see how plenty surfeits oft,   And hasty climbers soon do fall; I see that those which are aloft         15   Mishap doth threaten most of all: They get with toil, they keep with fear: Such cares my mind could never bear. Content I live, this is my stay;   I seek no more than may suffice;         20 I press to bear no haughty sway;   Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring. Some have too much, yet still do crave;         25   I little have, and seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have,   And I am rich with little store; They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.         30 I laugh not at another’s loss,   I grudge not at another’s gain; No worldly waves my mind can toss;   My state at one doth still remain: I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;         35 I loathe not life, nor dread my end. Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,   Their wisdom by their rage of will; Their treasure is their only trust,   A cloakèd craft their store of skill;         40 But all the pleasure that I find Is to maintain a quiet mind. My wealth is health and perfect ease,   My conscience clear my chief defence; I neither seek by bribes to please,         45   Nor by deceit to breed offence: Thus do I live; thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I!

IF

POEM: IF BY RUDYARD KIPLING

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream- -and not make dreams your master;
If you can think- -and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on! '

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings- -nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And- -which is more- -you'll be a Man, my son!

She Was a Phantom of Delight

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

She was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine; 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveller between life and death; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 

With something of angelic light. 

jayadevas songs with meanings.

Jayadeva (11th century)Poet Sri Jayadeva was born in 11th century in Bindu Bilva village near Puri Jagannath Temple in Orissa. His wife Padmavati, was an accomplished temple dancer. He was very much influenced by the culture and devotion of Vaishnava Brahmanas. It is believed that Sri Chaitanya Maha Prabhu also visited him. Poet Jayadeva's magnum opus "Gita Govinda' is one of the most popular compositions in Sanskrit language, describing the divine love of Radha and Krishna. It is lyrical poetry divided into 'Prabandhas' which contain couplets grouped into eights called 'Ashtapadis'. The poems describe the attraction between Radha and Krishna,their separation, their yearning and union with the assistance of Radha's Sakhee (confidante) are very engrossing. Ashtapadis have a very important place in Indian Classical dance and music. Excellent lyricism, exquisite vocabulary, alliteration and description of divine love have unique place in literature. Gita Govinda overflows with 'Madhura Bhakti' known as one of the nine forms of devotion to God. I have my own limits to venture translating fully the descriptions of sports of love. Only Jayadeva who was immersed in devotion to the divine couple Radha and Krishna could outpour his ecstasy and admiration uniquely. I acknowledge my hearty gratitude to 'Vavilla Rama Sastry & Sons' whose publication 'Gita Govinda Kavyam', a Telugu translation of Poet Jayadeva's immortal classic, helped me to understand the Sanskrit work.

Ashtapadis praLaya payOdhi jalE Srita kamalA lalita lavanga chandana charchita sancharadadhara sakhee hE kEsi madhana sA virahE tava deenA rAdhikA krishNA tava virahE vanamAli dheera sameerE nAda harE yAmi hE kAmiha kApi madhuripunA ramatE yamunA pulina sakhee yA ramitA yAhi mAdhava hari hari hatAdaratayA mAdhavE mAkuru priyE chAru SeelE mugdhE madhu praviSa rAdhE harimEka rasam kshaNa madhuna nijagAda sA yadunandanE Ehi murAree

cambridge nov 2018

Three Years She Grew

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Three years she grew in sun and shower, 

Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 

This Child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A Lady of my own. 

"Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse: and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

"She shall be sportive as the fawn 

That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs; 

And hers shall be the breathing balm, 

And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her; for her the willow bend; 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the Storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

"The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

"And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake—The work was done— 

How soon my Lucy's race was run! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 

Lord Ullin's Daughter by Thomas Campbell A chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries ‘Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry!’   ‘Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle This dark and stormy water?’ ‘O I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, And this, Lord Ullin’s daughter.   ‘And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.   ‘His horsemen hard behind us ride— Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?   Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, ‘I’ll go, my chief, I’m ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:—   ‘And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white I’ll row you o’er the ferry.’   By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.   But still as wilder blew the wind And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode arméd men, Their trampling sounded nearer.   ‘O haste thee, haste!’ the lady cries, Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.’   The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,— When, O! too strong for human hand The tempest gather’d o’er her.   And still they row’d amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore,— His wrath was changed to wailing.   For, sore dismay’d, through storm and shade His child he did discover:— One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, And one was round her lover.   ‘Come back! Come back!’ he cried in grief ‘Across this stormy water: And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!—O my daughter!’   ‘Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o’er his child, And he was left lamenting. Home they brought her warrior dead. Alfred Tennyson. Home they brought her warrior dead:  She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:  All her maidens, watching, said,  ‘She must weep or she will die.’  Then they praised him, soft and low,  Called him worthy to be loved,  Truest friend and noblest foe;  Yet she neither spoke nor moved.  Stole a maiden from her place,  Lightly to the warrior stepped,  Took the face-cloth from the face;  Yet she neither moved nor wept.  Rose a nurse of ninety years,  Set his child upon her knee—  Like summer tempest came her tears—  ‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’ She Walks in Beauty BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON) She walks in beauty, like the night  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  And all that’s best of dark and bright  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;  Thus mellowed to that tender light  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.  One shade the more, one ray the less,  Had half impaired the nameless grace  Which waves in every raven tress,  Or softly lightens o’er her face;  Where thoughts serenely sweet express,  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.  And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,  But tell of days in goodness spent,  A mind at peace with all below,  A heart whose love is innocent! Annabel Lee BY EDGAR ALLAN POE It was many and many a year ago,     In a kingdom by the sea,  That a maiden there lived whom you may know     By the name of Annabel Lee;  And this maiden she lived with no other thought     Than to love and be loved by me.  I was a child and she was a child,     In this kingdom by the sea,  But we loved with a love that was more than love—     I and my Annabel Lee—  With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven     Coveted her and me.  And this was the reason that, long ago,     In this kingdom by the sea,  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling     My beautiful Annabel Lee;  So that her highborn kinsmen came     And bore her away from me,  To shut her up in a sepulchre     In this kingdom by the sea.  The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,     Went envying her and me—  Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,     In this kingdom by the sea)  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,     Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.  But our love it was stronger by far than the love     Of those who were older than we—     Of many far wiser than we—  And neither the angels in Heaven above     Nor the demons down under the sea  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul     Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams     Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes     Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side     Of my darling—my darling—my life  Song: Sweetest love, I do not go John Donne, 1572 - 1631 Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best To use myself in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die. Yesternight the sun went hence, And yet is here today; He hath no desire nor sense, Nor half so short a way: Then fear not me, But believe that I shall make Speedier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs than he. O how feeble is man's power, That if good fortune fall, Cannot add another hour, Nor a lost hour recall! But come bad chance, And we join to'it our strength, And we teach it art and length, Itself o'er us to'advance. When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind, But sigh'st my soul away; When thou weep'st, unkindly kind, My life's blood doth decay. It cannot be That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st, If in thine my life thou waste, That art the best of me. Let not thy divining heart Forethink me any ill; Destiny may take thy part, And may thy fears fulfil; But think that we Are but turn'd aside to sleep; They who one another keep  Alive, ne'er parted be.