Brough

https://archive.org/details/PoemsFromTheSanskritJohnBrough

            
            A man lives long who lives a hundred years: 
            
            Yet half is sleep, and half the rest again 
            
            Old age and childhood. For the rest, a man 
            
            Lives close companion to disease and tears, 
            
            Losing his love, working for other men. 
            
            Where can joy find a space in this short span?

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            No single plant in this world’s garden-plot 
            
            Bears such sweet fruit, such bitter fruit as she: 
            
            Ambrosial are the apples on her tree 
            
            When she’s in love, and poison when she’s not.

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            You cheat yourself and others with your lies. 
            
              Philosopher, so foolish-wise, 
            
                In that you state 
            
                  A celibate 
            
              Has greater grace to win the prize. 
            
            Are there not heavenly nymphs beyond the skies?

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            Upwards, thick cloud-tresses, and below them 
            
              the mountain-slopes where the peacock plays; 
            
            See, on the ground snow flower-petal whiteness: 
            
              where shall the traveller rest his gaze?

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The clear bright flame of man’s discernment dies When a girl clouds it with her lamp-black eyes.

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            Her face is not the moon, nor are her eyes 
            
            Twin lotuses, nor are her arms pure gold: 
            
            She’s flesh and bone. What lies the poets told! 
            
            Ah, but we love her, we believe the lies.

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            If the forest of her hair 
            
            Calls you to explore the land, 
            
            And her breasts, those mountains fair,
            
            Tempt that mountaineer, your hand –
            
              Stop! before it is too late:
            
              Love, the brigand, lies in wait.

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            She needeth no instruction in the art
            
            Of using woman’s wiles to win man’s heart:
            
            The lily’s scarlet stamens grew untaught,
            
            The bee came freely, wishing to be caught.

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            In former days we’d both agree
            
            That you were me, and I was you.
            
            What has now happened to us two,
            
            That you are you, and I am me?

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            This is the truth, good people, and no lie.
            
            Why should I lie? In heaven, and earth, and hell,
            
            _Womman is mannes blis and al his joye:_
            
              Womman is mannes onlie grief as wel.

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            Love goes a-fishing with the rod Desire, 
            
            Baiting his hook with Woman for delight.
            
            Attracted by the flesh, the men-fish bite.
            
            He hauls them in and cooks them in his fire.

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            Granted her breasts are firm, her face entrancing, 
            
            Her legs enchanting - what is that to you? 
            
            My mind, if you would win her, stop romancing. 
            
            Have you not heard, reward is virtue’s due?

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            No, but look here now, this is just absurd. 
            
            The way our famous poets talk of girls 
            
            As weak and winsome. Weak? Is this a word 
            
            To use of those who, with a shake of curls 
            
            And with the triumph of a modest glance,
            
            Can lead the very gods a merry dance?

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            On sunny days there in the shade 
            
            Beneath the trees reclined a maid 
            
            Who lifted up her dress (she said) 
            
            To keep the moonbeams off her head.

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            Of Amor is yone hure ane altir fyre 
            
            Quhair passioun ay kyndillis het desyre, 
            
            That yhongis thair evir sacrifices heilth
            
            Offrand oblacioun of yewth and weilth.

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            Although I have a lamp, and fire,
            
            Stars, moon, and sun to give me light,
            
            Unless I look into her eyes, 
            
            All is black night.

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            The pleasant city and its mighty king,
            
            The tributary princes at his side,
            
            The learned men that were the kingdom’s ride,
            
            The minstrels with a ready song to sing.
            
            The gracious ladies of the court, the ring
            
            Of haughty nobles, arrogant of birth.
            
            Are conquered by the Lord of all the earth,
            
            Time, who makes memories of everything.

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            Eild has my eyne clokit in darknes.
            
            My fors is failyeit in distres
            
            And feblit with infermite:
            
              This warld is verray vanite.
            
            Sen Deid hes all my brether tane.
            
            In this warld I man lif alane: 
            
            Thocht plesour mair I myght nat se, 
            
              _Timor mortis conturbat me._

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            ‘Stop but a moment, friend, and rise and carry 
            
            The burden of my weary poverty’
            
            But the dead man, who would not change his peace
            
            For poverty, said nothing in reply.

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            The noble man works for another’s good. 
            
            Sacrificing his own. Most common men
            
            Will help another, if it’s understood
            
            That nothing of their own is thereby lost. 
            
            Devils incarnate we can comprehend, 
            
            Those who wax fat while others bear the cost. 
            
            But are there wretches who would harm a friend 
            
            And neighbour without any hope of gain?

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            Patience, better than armour, guards from harm. 
            
            And why seek enemies, if you have anger?
            
            With friends, you need no medicine for danger.
            
            With kinsmen, why ask fire to keep you warm?
            
            What use are snakes when slander sharper stings?
            
            What use is wealth where wisdom brings content?
            
            With modesty, what need for ornament?
            
            With poetry’s Muse, why should we envy kings?

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                  Deer and fish and good men live
            
                On grass and water and content:
            
              No cause for hatred do they ever give
            
            To hunters, fishers, or to men malevolent.

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            Trees bend when the fruit swells. 
            
            With fresh rains, the clouds droop low. 
            
            Good men are not made proud by wealth. 
            
            They cannot act otherwise: 
            
            It is their nature to bring help to others.

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            Seeking shelter from the sun, 
            
            A bald man sat beneath a Bilva-tree. 
            
            A fruit fell down 
            
            And cracked his crown. 
            
            It often happens that an unfortunate man is followed by 
            
            misfortunes wherever he goes.

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            Prince, would you milk this bounteous cow, the State? 
            
            First, you must let the People drink their share: 
            
            Only when calves are fed, will Earth’s tree bear 
            
            Fruit, like a cornucopia, for your plate.

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When I knew a little, then I was like an elephant blinded with rut, and my mind was infected by the pride of omniscience: but when from wise men I learned and understood a little here and a little there, then I knew I was a fool, and my pride vanished like a fever cured.

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            Good noble men, after a fall 
            
              Bounce like a ball. 
            
            Th' ignoble fall another way: 
            
              Like lumps of clay.

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            A man who has the world for his wide bed.
            
            His arm for pillow and the sky for tent.
            
            The pleasant wind to fan him, overhead
            
            Bright moon for lamplight, and his calm content
            
            His consort - were it not he lacked one thing,
            
            Life’s anxious fear, would sleep like any king.

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            The sun and moon, for all their light,
            
            Have little reason to be proud.
            
            When he by day and she by night
            
            Share the same ragged patch of cloud.

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            My best respects to Poverty, 
            
            The master who has set me free: 
            
            For I can look at all the world. 
            
            And no-one looks at me.

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            ‘The night will pass soon, and the dawn will come.
            
            The sun will soon rise, and the lotus open.’
            
            But while the bee dreamt, caught within the blossom, 
            
            An elephant uprooted the lotus-plant.

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            Rags are enough for me, silk pleases you: 
            
            A difference undifferentiated. 
            
            A man is poor till his desires are sated. 
            
            Who is the rich, who poor, between us two?

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            To be apart
            
            From you, sweetheart.
            
            May yet be best.
            
            One thing I see 
            
            When you’re with me,
            
            A single face: 
            
            From all things - one.
            
            When you are gone, 
            
            I see your grace 
            
            In all the rest.
            
            (Or, if the reader prefers a different style:) 
            
            Pure logic may convince a lover’s heart
            
            That ampler blessings flow when we’re apart.
            
            When she is here, my lady is but one:
            
            When she’s away, in all things I see her alone.

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            Water to quench a blaze. 
            
            Shade to keep off the sun’s fierce light. 
            
            Goad for the elephant in rut. 
            
            Stick for the ox and mule. 
            
            Herbs to subdue disease. 
            
            Spells for the poison serpent’s bite - 
            
            All things else have an antidote: 
            
            Nothing can cure a fool.

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            You are the king: we too are highly placed. 
            
            Honoured for the deep wisdom we command. 
            
            You are praised for your riches: poets sing 
            
            Our fame in every comer of the land. 
            
            Thus no great difference lies between yourself 
            
            And us. - And, sire, if you despise our state, 
            
            We for our part care naught for anything.

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            I am no actor, nor a prince’s jester.
            
            No king’s musician, nor a scheming courtier. 
            
            What place at court, then, for a man such as I am? 
            
            For neither am I a young attractive woman.

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            There are men brave enough to face and slay 
            
            A wild rogue elephant, or a hungry Hon. 
            
            But – I will tell such heroes to their face –
            
            Few men, for all their strength, can break Love’s pride.

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            She who is always in my thoughts prefers
            
            Another man, and does not think of me.
            
            Yet he seeks for another’s love, not hers; 
            
            And some poor girl is grieving for my sake. 
            
            Why then, the devil take 
            
            Both her and him; and love; and her; and me.

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            The pieces move, now few, now more: 
            
            Here many, where before was one. 
            
            Here none, where many stood before. 
            
            Time, with the goddess Death at play, 
            
            Sits at the chequer-board and rolls 
            
            Alternate dice of night and day. 
            
            And takes the pieces: living souls 
            
            Of all that dwell beneath the sun.

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            The ignorant are quickly satisfied, 
            
            And argument will soon convince the wise; 
            
            But Heaven’s own wisdom scarcely will suffice 
            
            To contradict a half-baked scholar’s pride.

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            If only you squeeze hard enough, you will 
            
            Press oil from sand; 
            
            And, if you’re thirsty, even drink your fill 
            
            From a mirage. 
            
            Sooner or later you may somewhere find 
            
            A rabbit’s horn: 
            
            But never hope to change the stubborn mind 
            
            Of a born fool.

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            If you can snatch the jewel a crocodile 
            
            Holds in its teeth, 
            
            If you can swim across the ocean, while 
            
            The tempest roars.
            
            If round your head, unruffled, you can wind 
            
            A poison snake,
            
            You still can’t hope to change the stubborn mind 
            
            Of a born fool.

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            A chance swift glance;
            
            Her eyebrow bow with casual cunning bended;
            
            Words’ witching spell; 
            
            Laughter, fading in maiden modesty; 
            
            Unstudied stance; 
            
            Cool graceful steps wherein love’s fire is blended: 
            
            Woman knows well 
            
            These are her ornaments, her armoury.

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            No more evasions, please. Consider well 
            
            The facts, and tell where best to seek for rest: 
            
            At court, or exiled where flanked mountains swell?
            
            Or in her smile, reclining on her breast?

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            In this vain world, when men of intellect
            
            Must soil their souls with service, to expect
            
            A morsel at a worthless prince’s gate,
            
            How could they ever hope to renovate
            
            Their spirits? - were it not that fate supplies
            
            The swinging girdles and the lotus eyes -
            
            Women, with swelling breasts that comfort soon,
            
            Wearing the beauty of the rising moon.

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            In this vain fleeting universe, a man 
            
            Of wisdom has two courses: first, he can 
            
            Direct his time to pray, to save his soul. 
            
            And wallow in religion’s nectar-bowl; 
            
            But, if he cannot, it is surely best 
            
            To touch and hold a lovely woman’s breast. 
            
            And to caress her warm round hips, and thighs, 
            
            And to possess that which between them lies.

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            ‘No! don’t!’ she says at first, while she despises
            
            The very thought of love; then she reveals
            
            A small desire; and passion soon arises,
            
            Shyly at first, but in the end she yields.
            
            With confidence then playing without measure
            
            Love’s secret game, at last no more afraid
            
            She spreads her legs wide in her boundless pleasure.
            
            Ah! love is lovely with a lovely maid!

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Surely the god of love became her willing slave. Obedient to the orders that her glances gave.

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            Earth, my own mother; father Air; and Fire, 
            
            My friend; and Water, well-beloved cousin; 
            
            And Ether, brother mine: to all of you
            
            This is my last farewell. I give you thanks
            
            For all the benefits you have conferred
            
            During my sojourn with you. Now my soul
            
            Has won clear, certain knowledge, and returns
            
            To the great Absolute from whence it came.

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            For one short act, a child; next act, a boy 
            
            In love; then poor; a short act to enjoy 
            
            Status and wealth: till in the last act, Man, 
            
            Painted with wrinkles, body bent with age, 
            
            Ending the comedy which birth began, 
            
            Withdraws behind the curtain of life’s stage.

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