Kalidasa

As we often say, this blog is about taking a stand for beautiful poetry. Poetry is not random words, shock tactics, Hallmark platitudes, cheap tricks, nonsense, re-countings of some random strange life experience, or for preaching. The point is not to show some truth about life, or to make some philosophical point about life, love or the world. It's beyond that. Those are petty things that change constantly with every culture that rises and falls.

ZA is taking a stand. Poetry is incredible, beautiful and moving. Everything under the sun has been done before, but what real poets do is capture those moments again and again in new beautiful language. I don't care if you read Tagore or Shelley or Sappho, but read real poetry. Talk about it, let it become great again. I'd like the same to happen for opera and the traditional music of all countries, especially Morocco.

The great ancient poets never let you down--one is Kalidasa who wrote in Sanskrit from around Kashmir [c. 400s a.D.], more information here.

He wrote the long, famous play [filled with poetry, only a little prose really] called Shakuntala [often in the West] or Abhijñānashākuntala (Devanagari: अभिज्ञान शाकुन्तलम्), it's here, and here's an excerpt:

XIII

with its artificial pool;

A pool is near, to which an emerald stairLeads down, with blooming lotuses of goldWhose stalks are polished beryl; resting there,The wistful swans are glad when they beholdThine image, and forget the lake they loved of old.

XIV

its hill of sport, girdled by bright hedges, like the dark cloud girdled by the lightening;

And on the bank, a sapphire-crested hillRound which the golden plantain-hedges fit;She loves the spot; and while I marvel stillAt thee, my friend, as flashing lightnings flitAbout thine edge, with restless rapture I remember it.

XV

its two favourite trees, which will not blossom while their mistress is grieving;

The ashoka-tree, with sweetly dancing lines,The favourite bakul-tree, are near the bowerOf amaranth-engirdled jasmine-vines;Like me, they wait to feel the winning powerOf her persuasion, ere they blossom into flower.

XVI

its tame peacock;

A golden pole is set between the pair,With crystal perch above its emerald bandsAs green as young bamboo; at sunset thereThy friend, the blue-necked peacock, rises, stands,And dances when she claps her bracelet-tinkling hands.

XVII

and its painted emblems of the god of wealth.

These are the signs—recall them o'er and o'er,My clever friend—by which the house is known,And the Conch and Lotus painted by the door:Alas! when I am far, the charm is gone—The lotus' loveliness is lost with set of sun.

XVIII

Small as the elephant cub thou must becomeFor easy entrance; rest where gems enhanceThe glory of the hill beside my home,And peep into the house with lightning-glance,But make its brightness dim as fireflies' twinkling dance.

Here's another great passage from that same Kalidasa's Sanskrit play here and if you want to know about the entire work, read here:

Dushyanta describes Shakuntala to his friend:

"anāghrātaṃ puṣpaṃ kisalayam alūnaṃ kara-ruhair
anāviddhaṃ ratnaṃ madhu navam anāsvādita-rasam।
akhaṇḍaṃ puṣyānāṃ phalam iva ca tad-rūpam anaghaṃ
na jāne bhoktāraṃ kam iha samupasthāsyati vidhiḥ॥"
— Abhijñānaśākuntalam 2.10

"She seems a flower whose fragrance none has tasted,
A gem uncut by workman's tool,
A branch no desecrating hands have wasted,
Fresh honey, beautifully cool.

No man on earth deserves to taste her beauty,
Her blameless loveliness and worth,
Unless he has fulfilled man's perfect duty—
And is there such a one on earth?" — translation by Arthur W. Ryder 


Here's an little piece from Rumi that I just saw and liked, from the translation series here:

I want a trouble-maker for a lover,

Blood spiller, blood drinker, a heart of flame,

Who quarrels with the sky and fights with fate,

Who burns like fire on the rushing sea.