5 Analysing Classical Poetry
The Metre
The entire corpus of earlier classical poetry is composed in two metres: 1 akaval and vaňci.
1 For the most recent treatment of Tamil classical prosody, cf. K. Zvelebil, An Introduction to Tamil Classical Prosody, Hoe & Co., Madras, 1972.
2 Some writers translated acai as “syllable” which is incorrect (cf. the criticism of this term by J. R. Marr, op. cit. 273). acai is not a syllable, neither is it a mora. Vithianathan translates it as “quantitative unit of a movement” (op. cit. 273), Kailasapathy as “basic metrical unit” (op. cit. 140). I hesitated for some time between “prosodic” or “metrical syllable” and some kind of “unit”, and then, after discussing the matter with J. R. Marr, decided for “fundamental” or “basic metrical unit”.
3 Cf. DED 39: acai “to move, stir, etc.”.
4 Cf. J. R. Marr, op. cit. 415.
The basic metrical unit 2 is the acai, 3 which is of two types: the nēr and the niṟai. The nĕr is a simple metrical unit, long or short, which may or may not be followed by a consonant, that is (C) V (C). We designate it by The niṟai is a compound metrical unit, made up of two short syllables, or a short followed by a long syllable, with or without a consonant following, i.e. (C) VCV (C). We symbolize the niṟai by We see that the nēr may be quantitatively long or short, whereas the first, initial syllable of a niṟai is always short; in terms of Western notation, then, a nēr is always (a macron), while a niṟai may be (pyrrhic) or (iambic).4
If either of these two are followed by -u or by the “overshort” -u, they become nērpu and niraipu, i.e. modified nēr and niṟai. This does not apply to cases where the -u follows a single short syllable, whence it becomes not a nērpu but a niṟai. 5 The possible combinations of these four units (nēr, nērpu, niṟai, niraipu) are sixteen. And all of them are permitted in the akaval metre. The most common combinations are or tēmā, or pulimā, kuvilam and karuvilam. These combinations form the next level in the metrical structure the level of the cir “feet”. The feet proper to the akaval are termed iyaṟcīr or “natural feet”, also āciriyaccīr or “feet proper to the āciriyam (= akaval) metre”.
5 E.g. in the words karu = and mulu =.
The combination of feet constitutes a line of poetry, termed aṭi. The standard line consists of four feet. Although there are lines of two, five etc. feet, the ideal line is that of four feet and hence is called alavaṭi or “measured line”.
In the akaval or āciriyam metre, the standard line has four feet (= eight acai). Only the penultimate line consists of three feet. Elsewhere, a three-feet line is exceptional.6
6 It was very probably rightly suggested by John R. Marr (op. cit. 464) that the three-feet penultimate line in akaval might have indicated the approaching end of a song. Kailasapathy (op. cit. 143-143) suggests an analogy of the penultimate line to the cadence in a musical composition.
The vaňci metre (which occasionally occurs with the akaval in the songs of the Pattuppāṭṭu anthology) has a somewhat different scheme. The vaňci foot is made of three acais, e.g. ― = — nērnirai- nēr. The possible combinations of the four acais are sixty for the vaňcippā. The usual vaňci line has two feet, so that it usually has six acais. The last line in a vaňci stanza may be in akaval.
The next (and for our purposes the final) important concept to discuss is the toṭai, lit. “connexion, joining”, “fastening, tying”, “series, succession”, i.e. the art of joining the lines of a poem in succession, making use of “rhyme”, alliteration, assonance, contrast etc.7 The line is considered by indigenous theoreticians as the basic and self-contained unit, in fact, as the largest single unit in a poem. According to Pērāciriyar, “the poet completes the intended meaning in each line; he does not need another line”. Toṭai is precisely the art of stringing together lines so that they constitute a song. There are various kinds of toṭai. For our purposes, we shall mention just two: etukai and mōnai. Etukai is the “consonance” in the coda of the first closed syllables in the feet, e.g. in peru (1st line)… aru (2nd line), the – is the seat of etukai ; in pāṭu (1st line). . kōṭi (2nd line), the – is the seat of etukai. Mõnai is alliteration, like in māyōṇ mārpil or paranta pāṭi.
7 The next constituent is nōkku “gaze, look, view”, i.e. the cohesion of the various elements into one single whole; Kailasapathy says that it connects “the smooth flow of meaning” (op. cit. 146).
Specimen Analysis The basic prosodic and rhetoric features of classical Tamil poetry will now be demonstrated through the analysis of three selected poems.
Kuṟuntokai 119 (by Catti Nātaānr)
ciruvel laravi navvarik kuruļai
kāna yānai yanṇańki yāan
kiļaiyaṇ muļaivā ļeyirraļ
valaiyuṭaik kaiyaḍem maṇanki yōļē
In literal translation, this means:
“little-white-snake of lovely-striped young-body
jungle elephant troubling like
the young-girl sprouts-brightness toothed-female
bangle(s) possessing hand(s)-female”.
In A.K. Ramanujan’s charming translation:
As a little white snake
with lovely stripes on its young body
troubles the jungle elephant
this slip of a girl
her teeth like sprouts of new rice
her wrists stacked with bangles
troubles me.
—
(The Interior Landscape, 1967)
The prosodic pattern is as follows:
＝ － / ＝ － / － ＝ / ＝ －
－ － / － － / ＝ － / － －
＝ － / ＝ － / ＝ －
＝ ＝ / － ＝ / ＝ － / － －
We observe in this stanza four lines of four feet, the penultimate line has three feet; the metre contains only feet of two metrical units (acai) each, of the pattern ＝ －, － ＝, － － and ＝ ＝; these feet are called īr acai cīr “two-unit-feet”. The metre is therefore akaval or āciriyam.
As for the toṭai, there is e.g. a etukai or “consonance” between the 3rd and 4th line (i/ḷ/aiyaḷ—va|ḷ|ai), and there is, e.g., a mōṉai or “alliteration” in the 2nd line: /y/āṉai /y/aṇaṅki /y/āaṅ(ku).
Now for the phonaesthetic analysis: almost all consonants belong to the nasal (so-called mellinam) or liquid (iṭaiyinam) series; the most favoured is the retroflex liquid ḷ which occurs 8 times. The occlusives are rare: c occurs only once, there is no t, k as a tense stop occurs only 3 times. This consonantal structure of the stanza results in a soft, mellifluous, liquid effect, like the murmur of a mountain stream. The distribution of the sounds is also interesting; each line has its own specific phonic structure, resulting in a specific phonaesthetic impression:
- (c) ṟ v ḷḷ r v (ṉ) vv r (kk) r ḷ
- k ṉ y ṉ y ṇ ṅk y ṅ(k)
- ḷ y(ḷ) m ḷ v ḷ y ṟṟ ḷ
- v ḷ y ṭ (kk) y ḷ mm ṇ ṅk y ḷ
Observe the various patterns in consonantal sequences in terms of feet. Given enough space one could discern similar patterns with regard to the vowels. Every stanza-every line, to be precise, since the line is a finished and self-contained unit-has its own phonic structure which is functional. The functional status of phonaesthetic properties, of “orchestration” (instrumentovka), is one of the very important and characteristic features of classical Tamil poetry. Much later, there comes a period in the development of Tamil literature when like in most literatures–the purely formal qualities become the most important features of a poem (e.g. in medieval and late medieval devotional literature). Not so, however, in early old Tamil classical texts: there, the formal side is most often-though not always in perfect unity with the thought-content, and hence the purely formal aspect of the poems is fully functional.
Next the rhetoric analysis in terms of traditional Tamil poetics, i.e. in terms of the first and most ancient descriptions of these matters as preserved in Iṟaiyaṉār’s Akapporuḷ and in the 3rd part of Tolkāppiyam (Poruļatikāram).
The two fundamental genres which were mentioned several times before are the akam “love” and puṟam “war”. It is obvious that our poem belongs to akam poetry. Within the akam genre, the first dichotomy runs between well-matched love (akam proper) and ill-matched love. Our poem belongs to the genre of well-matched love (see detailed discussion later). Akam proper is subdivided into five erotic situations, five phases of love, which are matched with the physiographic regions; these are the five tiṇais. Our tiṇai is called kuṟiňci or “lovers union”, appropriate to the mountainous region.
How can we tell?
In every classical Tamil poem, diagnostic features are present which, to an informed listener and reader, reveal immediately the type of tiṇai and theme in which the poem is composed. Sometimes they are abundant. Sometimes, they are only a few. They are conventional and traditional. There is great fixity, great stylization. The poet is obliged to abide by traditions. The bardic practice
-both in the akam and in the puṟam genres-is conditioned by traditional material. The inner tension, the very dynamism of classical Tamil poetry arises out of this relation between the traditional materia represented by conventions and formulae, and the poet’s art of improvisation. As Kailasapathy observes, simultaneous freedom and limitation constitute the dynamism of Tamil classical poetry. Now what is this traditional and conventionalized matter in our particular poem? What are the diagnostic features? First, there are some elements of the so-called karupporuḷ present here, i.e. of “things born” or “native”: the strata of karupporuḷ! is represented by the “snake” (aravu) and by the “jungle elephant” (kana yanai); that is by the beasts typical for the mountainous region (kuriňci). The word kāṇam “jungle, forest” also belongs to this strata. As far as the uripporuḷ is concerned, or the strata which deals with human situations and feelings, the key-word is aṇaňku “trouble”; “be troubled, afflicted, suffer pain”, “afflict”-a feeling typical again for the kuṟiňci situation. The “troubles” or “sufferings of love” belong to the characteristic behavioural features of the “mountain-poetry” (union of lovers). There are no other elements of conventions present in the poem; but these four catch-words or key-items (snake, elephant, forest, and afflictions of love) are sufficient and diagnostic. This is the basic traditional and conventional material around which the poem has been built. The presence of representative features of all conventions is certainly not obligatory. But some must be present. This is the kind of limitation imposed on the poet: first, the broadest frame-he may decide between love (akam) or war (puram) as his two main themes; now, if he decides for love, he again has a binary choice: well-matched or ill-matched. Within akam proper, he has to make his choice among the five situations; and after he has chosen one, he is obliged to give clues in terms of mutal or “First things”, and/or karu or “Native things” and/or uri or “Appropriate human feelings”. He is also expected to use the technique of direct and indirect comparison and suggestion (inference). Within this framework, he is relatively free.
As far as the last point is concerned: in the poem under analysis, the comparison is rather explicit; actually, the whole poem is a wonderful simile (made explicit by the use of comparative particle anku “similarly, of that nature; like, as”): the lover-a jungle elephant (kāna yānai); the sweetheart-a small young snake: no real danger for the mighty elephant; and yet–she troubles and afflicts him, by her elusiveness, mockery, and who knows what. There is also the technique of suggestion used here, or rather comparison by suggestion, which is not apparent at first sight and which requires knowledge of some cultural traits: the avvari “lovely stripes” at the body of the snake hint at the fair lines, stripes and/or dots (vari) which were considered to be marks of beauty on the body of a woman (particularly on her breasts and venus’ mound). Let us now analyse another poem, Kuṟuntokai 3, ascribed to Tēvakulattār. First the original Tamil text again:
nilattinum peritē vāninu muyarntanru
nīriņu māraļa vinrē cărar
karunkōr kuriйcip pūkkoṇṭu
peruntē nilaikkum nāṭanoṭu natpē
’earth-than big(ger), sky-than high(er)
water-than hard(er)-to-fathom mountain-slope
black-stalk-kuriйci-flower(s) taking
rich-honey-making-country’s-lord-with love’.
Bigger than earth, certainly,
higher than the sky,
more unfathomable than the waters
is this love for this man
of the mountain slopes
where bees make rich honey
from the flowers of the kuṟiňci
that has such black stalks.
—
(A. K. Ramanujan, The Interior Landscape, 1967)
Metric analysis will tell us that this is a poem of the same structure as the one preceding: four lines, each of four feet, the penultimate line has three feet; feet of two and three metrical units are used. This kind of stanza (which is technically known as nēricai āciriyap- pā) seems to have been the earliest type of stanza in the akaval metre, and hence the earliest type of stanzaic structure extant in the language. The metric patterns are Before we go into the rhetoric analysis, let us observe yet another property which many or most of these early Tamil poems composed as nēricai āciriyappās have: they are divided, from the point of thought-content and form, into two parts: the first part, usually longer (purely quantitatively; in a 4-line stanza, the first 2 lines, sometimes part of the 3rd line), deals with the mutal and/or karupporuḷ, i.e. with the time-space continuum as basic background, and with the concrete representations of the five-fold physiographic regions in Kur. 119, we have in those lines the snake and the elephant; in this stanza, we have in the first 2 lines the earth, the sky, the waters, the mountain-slopes, and the 3rd line, too, is filled with the karupporuḷ material: the black-stalked kuṟiňci flowers. The second part, usually shorter (in a 4-line stanza it usually begins in the penultimate 3-feet line, or sometimes only in the very last line) contains the substance of the poem, its essence (uripporul), the pointe: in Kur. 119, the human element appears in the 3rd line, and the essential feeling (the trouble of love) as the last word of the 4th line; in Kur. 3, the human element occurs only in the very last line (nātan), and the pointe, the essential feeling, again as the very last word of the whole stanza (naṭpē “love”).
This kind of structure gives to the classical Tamil stanzas a wonderful conciseness, terseness, pithiness and an inner tension which is resolved usually at the very end of the stanza. Sometimes, though, the procedure is exactly opposite, and the same effect is achieved by a reverse technique: the pointe, the essence of the poem is revealed in the very first line, it is a sort of direct attack on the listener; and what follows, is a kind of “decrescendo”, an unfolding of the pointe. But always, in the best stanzas of the collections (tokai), in both genres, akam and puṟam, there is a very conscious striving after a perfect and extremely potent and effective form.
The genre of Kur. 3 is akam or love, clearly well-matched love or akam proper; the basic theme-tinai-is kuṟiňci or lover’s union. The time-space continuum is not explicitly given in this poem; neither is it implicit in some suggestion or other. However, according to some interpretations, the main components of the place or nilam subdivision of the mutal are earth, water, fire, wind and sky; and in this particular poem, three of them, earth, sky and water are actually mentioned, to stress the greatness and depth and intensity of the heroine’s love. As far as the karupporuḷ or concrete representations of the physiographic regions are concerned, we have here no gods, but the term nāṭan for the lover; this is a specific term used for the chief of the mountain-tribe, so that this in itself provides the clue for the tiṇai; second, among the birds and beasts and insects, we have, implicitly, the bees, in the sphere of flora we have the kuṟiňci flower, and honey which stands for the bees, being the typical conventional apparatus of the “mountain-poetry”. The uripporuḷ or the psychological essence is represented by the word naṭpu “love”. According to some commentaries, the attributes karunkōl “black-stalked” and perunten “rich honey” belong to so-called iṟaicci or suggestion (or inference) in form of some additional material, as qualifier or adjunct to some basic concept: the kuṟiňci flowers with black stalks stand for the woman in love; the bees gathering honey from these flowers are supposed to stand for the man’s action of gathering sweetness from the pleasure of the lover’s union. As in the previous poem, the comparison is explicit, made overt by the use of the ablative plus -um: “big(ger) than earth, high(er) than sky” etc. What is compared is the intensity, the depth and greatness of the heroine’s naṭpu, love.
Finally, a third poem, from the same tokai, collection, Kuṟuntokai 68, ascribed to Aḷḷur Nanmullai. I abstain this time from quoting the original. Here is Ramanujan’s lovely translation:
The bare root of the bean is pink
like the leg of a jungle hen,
and herds of deer attack its overripe pods.
For the harshness of this early frost
there is no cure
but the breast of my man.
—
(The Interior Landscape, 1967)
The genre is obviously akam, love, and akam proper, or wellmatched love. The tiṇai is a mixed one; and this is no chance, nor an error on the part of the poet. How do we know it is a mixed “poetic situation”? As far as the time-space continuum is concerned, the poem mentions explicitly “early frost” (this comes under kālam, time): “early dew” is typical for kuṟiňci or “lover’s union”. Now to the “things native” or “concrete representations”: the bird mentioned is the jungle hen, typical for mullai or forest, appropriate to “patient waiting” in terms of the phases of love; the beast mentioned is the deer, again typical for mullai or the “patient waiting” situation. The “bean” also belongs to mullai. The uripporuḷ or essential human feeling is defined as “memory and desire”: that is, “memory of lovers’ union” (kuriňci) and “desire of patient waiting” (mullai): the tiṇai of this poem, the “situation” is thus kuṟiňci mullai, a mixed tiṇai, a mixed situation. There is, again, an explicit comparison present (the pink root of the bean compared to the leg of the jungle hen). But there is also suggestion and inference in this stanza: the bare root of the bean, pink and attacked by herds of deer in the “season of early dew” is suggestive of the bare body and soul of the waiting, pining woman, attacked by memories of union and longing for embrace.
RANDOM READER OF akam AND puṟam POEMS
Kuṟuntokai 119, by Catti Nātaṇār
As a little white snake
with lovely stripes on its young body
troubles the jungle elephant
this slip of a girl
her teeth like sprouts of new rice
her wrists stacked with bangles
troubles me.
—
(A. K. Ramanujan, The Interior Landscape, 1967)
akam
well-matched
tiṇai: kuṟiňci
- mutal: Ø
- karu: gods: Ø
- nature: human: Ø
- non-human animate: snake, elephant
- inanimate: jungle, sprouts
- nature: human: Ø
- uri: love-trouble
comparison:
- lover = jungle-elephant
- girl = little white snake
inference: stripes on the snake’s body
(= stripes on the body of the girl)
Kuṟuntokai 3, by Tēvakulattār
Bigger than earth, certainly,
higher than the sky,
more unfathomable than the waters
is this love for this man
of the mountain slopes
where bees make rich honey
from the flowers of the kuṟiňci
that has such black stalks.
—
(A. K. Ramanujan, The Interior Landscape, 1967)
- akam
- well-matched
- tiṇai: kuṟiňci
- mutal: kālam (time): ø
nilam (place): earth, sky, water - karu: gods: Ø
- nature:
- human: nāṭan-mountain-chief
- non-human:
- animate: (bees, implicit)
- inanimate:
- kuṟiňci flowers
- honey
- mountain-slopes
- nature:
- uri: love
- mutal: kālam (time): ø
- comparison: love great and deep like earth, sky, water
iṟaicci (suggestion): * black-stalked flowers = woman * honey-gathering = gathering of pleasure
Kuṟuntokai 68 by Aḷḷur Nanmullai
The bare root of the bean is pink
like the leg of a jungle hen,
and herds of deer attack its overripe pods.
For the harshness of this early frost
there is no cure
but the breast of my man.
(A. K. Ramanujan, The Interior Landscape, 1967)
- akam
- well-matched
- tiṇai: mixed kuriňci-mullai
- mutal: kalam: early dew (kuriňci)
nilam: Ø - karu: gods: Ø
- nature:
- human: Ø
- non-human:
- animate: jungle-hen (mullai)
deer (mullai) - inanimate: bean (mullai)
- animate: jungle-hen (mullai)
- nature:
- uri: memory and desire
- mutal: kalam: early dew (kuriňci)
- comparison: explicit (root of the bean pink like leg of jungle hen); suggestion and inference: bare root of the bean attacked by deer bare body and soul of the woman attacked by memories and desire for union.
Kuṟuntokai 40
What is my mother to yours?
How is my father related to your father?
And I and you
How did we two meet?
Like the waters of rain pouring down on red soil
The two loving hearts themselves
Blended with each other.
—
Author: Anonymous (“Cempulapeyalnīrār”)
Tiṇai: Kurinci
Transl.: K. Zvelebil
Kuṟuntokai 2
O bee, fair of wing, ever in search of flower-garlands,
Tell me not what I fain would hear, but what you really saw.
Among all the flowers you know is any more fragrant
Than the tresses of my lady of the close-set teeth?
Graceful as the peacock she dwells, rich in love with me!
—
Author: Iṟaiyaṉār
Tiṇai: kuṟiňci
Transl.: J. R. Marr
Kuṟuntokai 131
My girl
has lovely shoulders
that sway like wide bamboo,
her eyes are large,
liquid, burn to kill.
Her land is far
to reach,
the ways are hard.
My heart aches
in frantic haste
to reach her.
I am like the ploughman
with his single plough
in haste
to plough his vast virgin land
fresh with the rains.
—
Author: Anonymous (“Orerulavaṇār”)
Tiṇai: kuṟiňci - mullai
Transl. S. Kokilam
Ainkuṟunūṟu 409
The father holds his son close,
the son’s mother holds them both
in her arms.
Such a state is beautiful.
In its little space,
it is large enough
to hold the wide world
and all the lives in it.
—
Author: Pēyaṇār
Tiṇai: mullai
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan
Naṟṟiṇai 284
My heart says, “Go to her, unbind the thongs
of suffering from her soul”.
She of the cool-lidded eyes,
whose outlines are dark kuvaḷai blossoms,
and long black tresses hanging low.
My mind: “A job undone will bring disgrace;
rush not”.
My body bears the tension of these two
a worn-out rope pulled from both ends
by elephants
with bright upswinging shiny tusks.
—
Author: Teypuripalankayirraṇār
Tiṇai: pālai
Transl.: E. Annamalai-H. Schiffman
Kuṟuntokai 325
Let me go, let me go,
he used to cry.
Go then, I replied,
anger aflame,
like a child’s vicious play.
But now, now
he is gone.
Now my tears fill
a pool
in the hollow of my breast
Like the lake where cranes
with soft white wings
and black feet feed.
—
Author: Nannākaiyār
Tiṇai: marutam
Transl. S. Kokilam
Kuṟuntokai 8
You know he comes from
where the fresh-water shark in the pools
catch with their mouths
the mangoes as they fall, ripe
from the trees on the edge of the field.
At our place,
he talked big.
Now, back in his own,
when others raise their hands
and feet,
he will raise his too:
like a doll
in the mirror
he will shadow
every last wish
of his son’s dear mother.
—
Author: Alankuṭi Vankaṇār
Tiṇai: marutam
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan (The Interior Landscape, 1967)
Kuṟuntokai 324
Man-eaters, male crocodiles with crooked legs,
cut off the traffic on these waterways.
But you,
in your love, will come to her swimming
through the shoals of fish in the black salt marshes.
And she,
she will suffer in her simpleness.
And I,
what can I do but shudder in my heart
like a woman watching her poisoned twins?
—
Author: Kavaimakan
Tiṇai: neytal
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan (The Interior Landscape)
Kuṟuntokai 24
Will it stay for my lord’s coming—
the blossom, new and glowing
of the dark vempu tree?
Now, that my lover’s gone
these cruel women’s tongues
are working on me,
grinding me to paste
like the one solitary fruit
of the white fig-tree rising on the shore,
trampled and mashed
by seven
crabs.
—
Author: Paraṇar
Tiṇai: neytal
Transl.: K. Zvelebil
Naṟṟiṇai 149
Eyes askance,
hands cupped to mouth
the women (in small groups and not so small)
are tattling on us. My friend,
fresh flowers from the grove
could not be sweeter
than the honey-colored mane
of that steed, drawing the chariot,
which my lord rides.
Shall I leave with him at midnight?
Then to hell with these townsfolk and their gossip!
—
Author: Uloccaṇār
Tiṇai: neytal
Transl.: E. Anamalai - H. Schiffman
Kuṟuntokai 17
When love is ripe beyond bearing
and goes to seed,
men will ride even palmyra stems
like horses; will wear on their heads
the reeking cones of the erukkam bud
like flowers; will draw to themselves
the gossip of the streets;
and will do worse.
—
Author: Pēreyin Muruvalār
Tiṇai: peruntiṇai
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan
(The Interior Landscape 1967)
Paṟanāṉūṟu 271
The dark-clustered nocci trees blend with the land
that knows no dryness; the colors on the leaves
mob the eyes.
We have seen that leaf
on jewelled women,
on their lovely wide-angled mounds
of venus.
Now, mixed with fearful blood,
their looks changed, slashed
nocci-wreaths lie on the ground
where the vulture thinks them raw meat
and takes them in its beak to its heights.
We have seen that too:
just because a young man
in love with killing
wore them for glory.
—
Author: Veripāṭiya Kāmakkaṇiyār
Tiṇai: nocci | veṭci
Transl.: A. K. Ramanujan
Paṟanāṉūṟu 279
May her grief come to an end!
Her courage is cruel.
She is truly a woman
born of fighters.
In the war sometime ago, her father
killed an elephant, fell and died.
Recently, her husband fell in battle
trying to guard his great black herds
of cattle.
Yet today, as she hears the drums of war
she is beside herself
with the ancient love of glory.
She gives her son a spear to hold,
unfolds and wraps white cloth
around him,
combs his parched hair with oils—
this woman who would have no one
if she did not have this one son—
she turns his face
to the battlefront
and urges him
to go.
—
Author: Okkür Mācāttiyār
Tiṇai: vākai
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan
Paṟanāṉūṟu 82
The festival hour close at hand
his woman in labor
the sun setting behind pouring rains
the needle in the cobbler’s hand
is in a frenzy of haste
stichting thongs
for the cot of a king:
such was the swiftness
of the king’s tackles,
an atti garland round his neck
as he wrestled with the enemy
come all the way
to take the land.
—
Author: Cattantaiyār
Tiṇai: vākai
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan
Paṟanāṉūṟu 295
A heaving sea:
the battlefield with its tents.
In the battle,
pointing the forged and whetted tongues
of spears toward the enemy,
urging his troops forward
with himself at the head,
killing men with arrow and spear
in the skirmish, cleaving through
the over-whelming wave of foes,
forcing a clearing in that sea of men,
he had fallen,
his body hacked to pieces.
She saw him there in his death.
In love’s excess,
mother’s milk flowed again
in the withered dugs
of this mother
for her warrior-son
who had forsworn all retreat.
—
Author: Auvaiyār
Tiṇai: tumpai
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan
Paṟanāṉūṟu 300
A shield, you say, a shield?
Yes, a shield and a stone to stave off the enemy,
and you may survive.
The brother of the one you slew yesterday
is searching for you, his eyes jumping
like the crab’s eye seed, rolling around
on a white plate.
His search is like that of a thirsty man
for a glass of wine
in an empty house.
—
Author: Aricil Kiḻār
Tiṇai: tumpai
Transl.: E. Annamalai - H. Schiffman
Paṟanāṉūṟu 88
Whoever you may be,
beware
before you even see
our lord
the chief of warriors
terrible and strong
with their long shining spears.
His shoulders are like drums
beating the sound of battles and of feasts
and on his mighty well-formed chest
fine jewels glow and shine.
Beware
before you say:
the van and the tail
all
let’s go and fight!
—
Author: Auvaiyār
Tiṇai: tumpai
Transl.: Kamil Zvelebil
Paṟanāṉūṟu 349
The king scraped the sweat
off his brow
with the blade of his spear
and said terrible things.
The girl’s father spoke no less
and would not speak softly.
This was their normal style.
And after all, that lovely girl,
her teeth sharp; eyes cool, streaked
with red; skin the colour
of young mango leaf:
like spark
sparked by firesticks,
she will devastate,
no doubt, the very place of her birth.
—
Author: Maturai Marutaniļanākaṇār
Tiṇai: kāňci
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan
Paṟanāṉūṟu 223
The horse did not come back.
His horse did not come back.
All other horses have come back.
The horse our little boy’s father
rode, our little boy
with his small tuft of hair,
it did not come back.
A great tree succumbing, root loosened
at the meeting-place of two floods,
his horse had fallen
under him.
Author: Erumai Veliyaṇār
Tiṇai: potuviyal
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan
Paṟanāṉūṟu 256
Potter, O potter, maker of pitchers,
I’ve come with him
like a tiny white lizard
merging with the axle-tree
of a cart-wheel
through narrow places.
Be kind to me
and make wide
the casket of clay.
Make it wide enough,
you who make pitchers
for this city,
this wide, old, city.
—
Author: Anonymous
Tiṇai: potuviyal
Transl. A. K. Ramanujan
Paṟanāṉūṟu 389
Summers when the fruit of waterpalms dry and harden
when forest neems go to seed
waterplaces crack their beds
unadapting silverfish
swim south and leave behind
a fish famine,
dear young warrior,
put me among those you remember
on such days,
said my lord once
and gave me gifts, my lord of lasting glory.
He is now where no one can reach him:
yet if one could go, he is not the kind
who would be hard to see.
He, old king Ātaṇunkaṇ,
would tie up in his city
in public places
the young of jungle elephants
and make the soft-browed
mother beast grieve.
Like him, O Nallērmutiya
of Vēnkaṭam, rock and falling water, O you
who do not rise at once to run
wherever your heart goes,
you too must give
good things to hunger’s households
and give till misery ends.
May your women,
wide mounds of venus,
may they never hear
in the long yards of your house
the funeral drums of grief!
—
Author: Kallil Attiraiyaṇār
Tiṇai: pāṭāṇ
Transl.: A. K. Ramanujan
Finally, I give four different translations of one and the same poem, Kuṟuntokai 25, ascribed to the great Kapilar (the poem belongs to the finest classical Tamil poems ever composed) to show the various problems, difficulties and solutions involved in translating Old Tamil poetry.
Tamil text:
yārumillait tānē kaḷvaṉ
tānatu poyppin yānevanceykō
tinaitta lanna cirupacun kāla
olukunī rāral pārkkum
kuruku munṭutān maṇanta ňānrē
—
Kuṟuntokai 25
Author: Kapilar
Tiṇai: marutam
Theme: What she said to her girl-friend on the spot where he took her.
Prosodic pattern:
5 lines, each of them four feet, the penultime three feet;－ － / － － / － － / － －
－ ＝ / － － / － ＝ / － －
＝ － / － － / ＝ ＝ / － －
＝ ＝ / － － / － －
＝ － / － ＝ / ＝ － / － －The metre is akaval (āciriyam).
Word-by-word translation:
- Who-ever (was) not (there) only-he the thief
- he that if-denies I what shall-I-do
- millet-stalk-like small-green leg(s)-of
- running-water āral (fish) seeking
- heron was alone (he) took (me) day
Translation A
None else was there, but only he, the thief;
Should he be false, what should I do?
And when we met, there was in our sight
Only the stork, with leg as thin as a wisp of straw,
That into the gliding water peered for prey.
(C. and H. Jesudasan, A History of Tamil Literature, 1961)Translation B
There were no witnesses when he embraced me.
(If he leaves me now, what can I do?)
Only a heron stood by,
its thin gold legs like millet stalks,
eying the aaral-fish,
in the flowing water.
(E. Annamalai - H. Schiffman, Mahfil IV, 3-4, 1968)Translation C
Only the thief was there, no one else.
And if he should lie, what can I do?
There was only
a thin-legged heron standing
on legs yellow as millet stems
and looking
for lampreys
in the running water
when he took me.
(A. K. Ramanujan, The Interior Landscape, 1967)Translation D
None else was there but he,
the thief.
If he denies it, what shall I do?
Only a heron stood by,
its thin gold legs like millet stalks
eyeing the āral-fish
in the gliding water
on the day
he took me.
(K. Zvelebil, 1967)