Erotic Poems from the Sanskrit

by R. Parthasarathy

  the broken water pot is glued with lac.

  But none of this hurts me more

  than our neighbor sneering at my wife,

  annoyed that she asks every day

  to borrow a needle to darn her ragged clothes.

  TIME WASTED

  I wear no bracelet,

  clear as the rays of the autumn moon.

  I haven’t drunk from the lips

  of a shy, tender bride,

  nor have I won, by sword or pen,

  fame in Indra’s world.

  Instead I’ve wasted my time

  in ramshackle schools,

  teaching impudent, spiteful students.

  THE SCHOLAR’S LIFE

  Just as she blossoms into a charming woman,

  you leave behind your young wife

  and become a student who lives off charity

  and sleeps alone for many years.

  Though you’ve gained knowledge,

  you’re worn out with the endless wandering.

  The scholar’s life be damned!

  The reward it brings isn’t worth

  the pleasure or the pain.

  FOOLISH HEART

  A cheerless wife, relatives struck by misfortune,

  friends turned into strangers,

  servants reduced to poverty,

  an uneasy mind, and a hardscrabble life—

  such are the blows fate deals a man.

  Yet his foolish heart yearns for happiness.

  SUPREME BLISS

  The sky, my cloth; the hollow of my hand, my bowl;

  deer, my companions; meditation, my sleep;

  the earth, my bed; roots, my food.

  When will I have what I long for with all my heart—

  the noble, supreme bliss?

  BĀṆA

  IN A CORNER OF THE VILLAGE SHRINE

  At dusk, the traveler huddles near a bonfire,

  perfectly content and unmindful of his singed clothes.

  Later, he falls asleep on a bed of straw

  in the shrine of the village goddess,

  only to be woken up by a gust of frosty wind.

  His threadbare scruffy garment is cold:

  shivering and groaning,

  he scurries from one corner into another.

  BHARTṚHARI

  WISE MEN

  In this shallow fickle world,

  wise men choose two courses:

  for a time they keep the company of minds

  steeped in the ocean of wisdom.

  They spend the rest with nubile young women

  whose full hips and breasts

  glow with the pleasure of hiding

  men’s impatient hands

  in the depths of their thighs.

  POETS’ EXCESSES

  Surely her face is not the full moon,

  her eyes are not a pair of blue lotuses,

  nor is her soft body made of gold.

  Yet deceived by poets’ excesses,

  a foolish man, despite knowing the truth,

  will worship a woman’s body

  that is no more than skin, flesh, and bones.

  THE LOVE GAME

  At first she pleads with me,

  “No, not now, please.”

  But soon the petting and fondling

  light the fire of passion in her.

  Almost unnoticed, her limbs relax;

  resolve ebbs away.

  Hot with desire, she brazenly

  throws herself into the love game

  and spreads her legs out

  in an arc of never-ending pleasure.

  Such are the joys

  when a man makes love to his wife.

  HIPS

  With words of eloquent wisdom

  learned men talk of renouncing all worldly ties.

  But who can honestly turn away

  from beautiful women’s hips

  girdled with strands of rubies?

  FEAR OF DEATH

  The craving for pleasure is gone,

  the respect of men is lost,

  friends and peers have moved on to heaven,

  one depends on a cane just to get around,

  the eyes are shrouded in darkness—

  yet this foolish body is terrified of death.

  DESIRE ALONE

  My face is lined with wrinkles,

  my hair has turned gray,

  my limbs have become feeble.

  Desire alone stays forever young.

  ADORATION OF WOMAN

  Those lumps of flesh, her breasts,

  are compared to golden bowls.

  That storehouse of phlegm, her face,

  is compared to the moon.

  Damp with urine, her thigh

  is said to surpass the elephant’s trunk.

  Look, how poets embellish her vile body.

  THE POET SPEAKS TO THE KING

  You are a lord of riches; words obey my call.

  You are a man of arms;

  my undying eloquence vanquishes pride.

  Those blinded by wealth slave for you,

  but they are eager to hear me

  to rid their minds of evil.

  Since you have no respect for me, king,

  I respect you even less. I shall leave.

  CONTENTMENT

  The earth, his bed;

  limbs of creepers, his pillow;

  the sky, the roof over his head;

  pleasant winds, his fan;

  the bright moon, his lamp;

  attachment to Lady Indifference, his joy.

  Calm, smeared with ash,

  the hermit sleeps in comfort

  like a king.

  MAN’S LIFE

  Man’s life span is a hundred years:

  half of it is spent in sleep; of the rest,

  youth and old age take up another half.

  He spends much of what’s left toiling for others,

  dogged by sickness, pain, and separation.

  In this life, unstable as the waves of the sea,

  where can man find happiness?

  OLD AGE

  Your body shrinks, steps falter, teeth fall out,

  eyes dim, ears fail, you drool at the mouth.

  Relatives ignore your words, the wife doesn’t care,

  your son has only contempt for you.

  O the wretchedness of man in old age!

  WHITE FLAG

  The moment young women notice

  the hair on a man’s head has turned white—

  the flag of his surrender to old age—

  they avoid him from afar

  as they would the outcastes’ well,

  branded with a pile of bones.

  BHĀSKARA II

  ELEMENTARY ARITHMETIC

  A woman’s necklace of pearls broke while making love.

  A third of the pearls rolled onto the floor,

  one-fifth was scattered on the bed,

  she herself retrieved one-sixth,

  and her lover picked up one-tenth.

  If only six pearls remained on the string,

  how many pearls did the necklace have?

  BHAVABHŪTI

  THE CRITIC SCORNED

  Those who have contempt for my work

  are free to think as they please.

  What I write is not for their ears

  but for one who will be born someday

  with a temperament like mine.

  For time is infinite and the earth, boundless.

  BHĀVAKADEVĪ

  BITTER HARVEST

  How our bodies were as one before.

  Then you stopped being the lover,

  but I, wretched one, kept on playing the beloved.

  Now you’re the husband, and I’m the wife.

  What is left but to reap the fruit

  of my diamond-hard life?

  BHOJA

  SCRAMBLING OUT OF THE WATER

  She shakes off the fresh drops of water

  from the tips
of her unkempt hair

  and crosses her arms to hide

  the strain of her growing breasts;

  a silk cloth clings tight to her shapely thighs.

  She bends down a little, scans the riverbank,

  and scrambles out of the water in no time.

  BILHAṆA

  BITE MARKS

  I still remember her coy sidelong looks

  as her body moved in a fever of love,

  showing the curve of her shapely breast

  as the hem of her cloth slipped,

  and her lip flaunted the marks of my teeth.

  IN LIFE AFTER LIFE

  I still remember her eyes,

  flickering, closed after making love,

  her supple body relaxed,

  clothes and hair in disarray:

  a wild goose caught in the lotus thickets of love.

  I shall remember her in death,

  even in life after life.

  ALL FOR LOVE

  If I could still see her at day’s end,

  my fawn-eyed woman who revives me

  with her breasts, pots filled with nectar,

  kingly pleasures, sweet heaven itself,

  even my salvation I would forgo.

  DEVAGUPTA

  DRUMBEATS

  Silly girl, you go to meet your lover

  with a string of pearls bouncing on your breasts,

  a girdle clanking on your hips,

  and jeweled anklets tinkling on your feet.

  Yet, with such telltale drumbeats,

  you are panic-stricken,

  looking furtively in every direction.

  DHARMAKĪRTI

  THE WAY

  No one walks ahead; no one follows behind.

  On this path, no new footprints;

  a wilderness now where the ancients walked.

  The other path is broad and pleasant,

  but I have turned my back on it.

  Alone now, I know the way.

  JAGANNĀTHA PAṆḌITARĀJA

  INDRA’S HEAVEN

  If I could get her to sleep with me just once—

  the Muslim girl with an ever-so-soft body—

  (even if the bed is a bare mud floor),

  all the pleasures of Indra’s heaven I’d spurn.

  JAGHANACAPALĀ

  WIFE

  Nothing turns on a hot-assed woman more

  than the wind howling on a rainy night

  in empty streets, and a husband who’s away.

  KĀLIDĀSA

  FLIGHT OF THE DEER

  Time and again he looks back,

  his neck turned gracefully,

  at the speeding chariot that pursues him.

  Terrified of the falling arrow,

  his haunches close in on his chest:

  panting at the mouth, he leaves a trail

  of half-chewed grass on the path.

  Look how he flies through the air

  almost in defiance of the earth!

  SUCH INNOCENT MOVES

  The moment my fingers touch her girdle,

  trembling she stays my roaming hand;

  as soon as I press her close to my chest,

  she defends her breasts with her arms;

  when I gaze at her lash-wide look,

  she quickly turns aside her face.

  With such innocent moves she grants my heart’s desires.

  BLESSED SLEEP

  Take pity on me, blessed Sleep.

  I beg of you to show me once more

  my dear girl for just a moment.

  When she appears, I shall lock her in my arms

  so she cannot leave.

  But if she leaves, I too shall leave with her.

  KARṆOTPALA

  THE LAMP

  When I undid her silk blouse,

  she crossed her arms at once over her breasts.

  When I unwrapped the skirt from her hips,

  she closed her thighs tight.

  She nearly died of embarrassment

  when my eyes fastened onto her secret places.

  She then hurled at the lamp the lotus from her ear

  and put out the quivering flame.

  KEŚAṬA

  THE CAMEL

  He is back from his travels in the endless desert,

  and his wife can’t take her eyes off him

  as they brim with tears of joy.

  She spoils his camel with palm and thornleaf

  and wipes the thick layer of dust from its mane

  gently with the hem of her skirt.

  KṢEMENDRA

  ALL EYES ON THE DOOR

  Once her lover departed, the bed vanished from the house;

  the garlands of stale flowers were tossed out.

  With daybreak came her doting former lover

  whom she had stood up that night.

  As he began to undo the knot of her skirt,

  she kicked him in the leg and complained,

  “I slept all alone, my eyes glued to the door!”

  With that the courtesan chased away his blues.

  KṢITĪŚA

  THE RED SEAL

  When will I see her generous thighs again,

  shut tight at first out of modesty,

  then opening surprised by desire,

  revealing, as her silk wrap comes loose,

  the fine purple marks of my fingernails

  like a red seal inscribed on a treasure?

  KUMĀRADĀSA

  ALBA

  Come now, unwind yourself

  from the arms of your lover;

  yet how coy you were at the first meeting.

  The sun has cast its rays here,

  and the roosters have begun to crow.

  KUṬALĀ

  FURTIVE LOVEMAKING

  Nothing compares, even remotely—

  not the pleasures of betel leaves

  or of hugging and kissing in bed—

  with brief, hurried, furtive lovemaking.

  MĀGHA

  THE ART OF POETRY

  Did grammar ever feed the hungry?

  Did the nectar of poetry ever quench anyone’s thirst?

  No one can raise a family on book learning.

  Make your pile and screw the arts.

  SCENT

  You can hide her fingernail marks with your shawl,

  hide with your hand the lip she has bitten,

  but can you hide her scent that blows

  in every direction, shouting out your adultery?

  MAHODADHI

  STOP BEING WILLFUL

  The night is almost over, love,

  and the moon has all but vanished.

  Overcome by sleep, the lamp flickers.

  A woman should stop being willful

  once a man grants her wishes;

  yet you haven’t let go of your anger.

  Being so close to your firm breasts,

  even your heart’s grown hard.

  MORIKĀ

  DON’T GO

  A hundred times I’ve told you gently,

  “Don’t go; my mistress loves you so.”

  When you step into the courtyard to leave,

  your young wife is heartbroken.

  What more can I say? Her firmly tied bodice,

  that bears the weight of her breasts,

  rips at the seams, and I have used up every bit

  of thread in the house, sewing it day in, day out.

  MURĀRI

  HIDDEN FINGERNAIL MARKS

  In the morning when friends press her

  for details of the night’s intimacies,

  the bride lowers her head in shame.

  But when they embellish her breasts with musk

  and sandalwood paste, her body shudders

  and reveals the hidden fingernail marks.

  AN ACTOR IN A FARCE

  Feeble of voice and body,

  toadying to the rich and powerful,

  I’ve become an actor in a farce.

 
I have no clue in what low comedy

  old age expects me to dance

  with these pathetic gray hairs for makeup.

  RĀJAPUTRA PARPAṬI

  BLOW OUT THE LAMP

  “Wait a moment; let go of my skirt.

  You’ll wake up the servants.

  Shame on you! With folded hands

  I beg of you to blow out the lamp.”

  My beloved’s words delight me

  more than even making love.

  RĀJAŚEKHARA

  HER FACE

  Blot out the dark night with brushes heavy with ink;

  wipe off the lily’s smile with spells;

  lay the moon on a flat stone and crush it to pieces

  that I may see the whole earth engraved with her face.