English

Ainkurunuru 24

In his country,

spotted crabs
born in their mother's death
grow up with crocodiles
that devour their young.

Why is he here now?

And why does he
take those women,

a jangle of gold bangles
as they make love,

only to leave them?

Ainkurunuru 401ÔÇô403, 405, 407, 409, 410

Evening in the yard,
a short-legged bed,
his wife his companion,
joy, laughter,
son clambering on his chest:

but his minstrel's lute
is much too melancholy.

Minstrels sing the jasmine songs
of evening,
and his woman,
brow shining, jewelry flaming,
wears jasmine in her hair:

he's happy,
this excellent man
with his little son
who clears all evil

by just being there.

Embracing this woman
who wants him as he wants her,

senses tuned all along
to the aphrodisiac
skill of his minstrel's lute,

he enjoys his love:
this man of soft meadows,
jasmine meadows.

Like the red flame
in the bowl
of a bedstead lamp
she lights up his house,
his jasmine country
jeweled by small towns,
all sorts of flowers
raised by sounding rains,

and she, the mother of his little son.

His heart swells
as he looks at his love,
now his wife,
and at his little son
named for a famous father —
his smile toothless,
his feet unsteady,
as he rolls
his tiny chariots of war.

Embracing the young mother from behind
as she hugged her little son,
the way
her husband lay:
it was like music
from the strings
of a minstrel,

a thing of quality.

The way
they lay together
like deer, mother-doe,
and fawn,

with their boy
between them, was very sweet:

neither in this world
hugged by the wide blue sea
nor in the one above

is such a thing easy to get.

Kuruntokai 210

Melt all the butter
from all the cows of all the cowherds
in the woods of Nalli who has strong chariots,

mix it
with the steaming rice
from the dense white paddy
of Tonti fields,

heap them
in seven bowls
and offer it all to that crow
that cawed those good omens

bringing guests
and an end to the grief
that has been wasting my girl's arms.

Even so,

Ainkurunuru 491ÔÇô493, 495ÔÇô500

Her eyes
lined with kohl
once grown yellow as cassia

now have their old beauty
of purple lilies in mountain pools

now that you,
tiger of the long battle-fronts of victorious war,
have come back.