Burn. Know. Surrender.

A translation from the Patanjala Yoga Sutrani by Kanya Kanchana

Kanya Kanchana_HeadshotSadhana Pada: The Chapter of Doing It is an excerpt from my experimental translation of a Sanskrit text called Patanjala Yoga Sutrani (Yoga Sutras of Patanjali).

Estimated to be around 2,400 years old and attributed to the eponymous Indian sage, it is a braid that weaves together 196 sutras or aphoristic verses on yoga. It has four chapters: Samadhi Pada (51 verses),Sadhana Pada (55 verses), Vibhuti Pada (56 verses), and Kaivalya Pada (34 verses). Each verse is subsequent and consequent to the one before.

This taut, vital text has its lovers and its dissenters. It begins with the assumption that you have already done everything necessary to practice yoga. Cryptic yet bright, exacting yet liberal, it endures as a technical manual for the mind.

Its translations and commentaries, however, are prosaic and verbose, scholarship notwithstanding (or perhaps as a result thereof). In my translation, I want to come back full circle to the original text, regaining some of the terse, textured quality of these multilayered sutras in a modern idiom.

This text is also called Yoga Darshan. Darshan means vision, a higher form of seeing beyond the senses and the mind. In Sanskrit, one word can have many layers of meaning, yet convey a precise idea in context. I choose my words carefully—simple, strong, capable of deeper meaning. I cut everything superfluous and keep the tone light. I pay attention to the sonics of the chant, with emphasis on certain elements. Mostly, I just have fun.

—Kanya Kanchana

साधना पाद

by Patanjali

तपःस्वाध्यायेश्वरप्रणिधानानि क्रियायोगः॥१॥

 

समाधिभावनार्थः क्लेशतनूकरणार्थश्च॥२॥

 

अविद्यास्मितारागद्वेषाभिनिवेशाः क्लेशाः॥३॥

 

अविद्याक्षेत्रमुत्तरेषां प्रसुप्ततनुविच्छिन्नोदाराणाम्॥४॥

 

अनित्याशुचिदुःखानात्मसु नित्यशुचिसुखात्मख्यातिरविद्या॥५॥

 

दृग्दर्शनशक्त्योरेकात्मतेवास्मिता॥६॥

 

सुखानुशयी रागः॥७॥

 

दुःखानुशयी द्वेषः॥८॥

 

स्वरसवाही विदुषोऽपि तथारूढोऽभिनिवेशः॥९॥

 

ते प्रतिप्रसवहेयाः सूक्ष्माः॥१०॥

 

ध्यानहेयास्तद्वृत्तयः॥११॥

 

क्लेशमूलः कर्माशयो दृष्टादृष्टजन्मवेदनीयः॥१२॥

 

सति मूले तद्विपाको जात्यायुर्भोगाः॥१३॥

 

ते ह्लादपरितापफलाः पुण्यापुण्यहेतुत्वात्॥१४॥

 

परिणामतापसंस्कारदुःखैर्गुणवृत्तिविरोधाच्च दुःखमेवसर्वं विवेकिनः॥१५॥

 

हेयं दुःखमनागतम्॥१६॥

 

द्रष्टृदृश्ययोः संयोगो हेयहेतुः॥१७॥

 

प्रकाशक्रियास्थितिशीलं भूतेन्द्रियात्मकं भोगापवर्गार्थं दृश्यम्॥१८॥

 

विशेषाविशेषलिङ्गमात्रालिङ्गानि गुणपर्वाणि॥१९॥

 

द्रष्टादृशिमात्रः शुद्धोऽपि प्रत्ययानुपश्यः॥२०॥

 

तदर्थ एव दृश्यस्यात्मा॥२१॥

 

कृतार्थं प्रति नष्टमप्यनष्टं तदन्यसाधारणत्वात्॥२२॥

 

स्वस्वामिशक्त्योः स्वरूपोपलब्धिहेतुः संयोगः॥२३॥

 

तस्य हेतुरविद्या॥२४॥

 

तदभावात्संयोगाभावो हानं तद्दृशेः कैवल्यम्॥२५॥

 

विवेकख्यातिरविप्लवा हानोपायः॥२६॥

 

तस्य सप्तधा प्रान्तभूमिः प्रज्ञा॥२७॥

 

योगाङ्गाऽनुष्ठानादशुद्धिक्षये ज्ञानदीप्तिराविवेकख्यातेः॥२८॥

 

यमनियमासनप्राणायामप्रत्याहारधारणाध्यानसमाधयोऽष्टावङ्गानि॥२९॥

 

अहिंसासत्यास्तेयब्रह्मचर्यापरिग्रहा यमाः॥३०॥

 

जातिदेशकालसमयानवच्छिन्नाः सार्वभौमा महाव्रतम्॥३१॥

 

शौचसंतोषतपःस्वाध्यायेश्वरप्रणिधानानि नियमाः॥३२॥

 

वितर्कबाधने प्रतिपक्षभावनम्॥३३॥

 

वितर्का हिंसादयः कृतकारितानुमोदिता लोभक्रोधमोहपूर्वका मृदुमध्याधिमात्रा दुःखाज्ञानानन्तफला इति प्रतिपक्षभावनम्॥३४॥

 

अहिंसाप्रतिष्ठायां तत्सन्निधौ वैरत्यागः॥३५॥

 

सत्यप्रतिष्ठायां क्रियाफलाश्रयत्वम्॥३६॥

 

अस्तेयप्रतिष्ठायां सर्वरत्नोपस्थानम्॥३७॥

 

ब्रह्मचर्यप्रतिष्ठायां वीर्यलाभः॥३८॥

 

अपरिग्रहस्थैर्ये जन्मकथंतासंबोधः॥३९॥

 

शौचात्स्वाङ्गजुगुप्सा परैरसंसर्गः॥४०॥

 

सत्त्वशुद्धिसौमनस्यैकाग्र्येन्द्रियजयात्मदर्शनयोग्यत्वानि च॥४१॥

 

संतोषादनुत्तमसुखलाभः॥४२॥

 

कायेन्द्रियसिद्धिरशुद्धिक्षयात्तपसः॥४३॥

 

स्वाध्यायादिष्टदेवतासंप्रयोगः॥४४॥

 

समाधिसिद्धिरीश्वरप्रणिधानात्॥४५॥

 

स्थिरसुखमासनम्॥४६॥

 

प्रयत्नशैथिल्यानन्त्यसमापत्तिभ्याम्॥४७॥

 

ततो द्वन्द्वानभिघातः॥४८॥

 

तस्मिन्सति श्वासप्रश्वासयोर्गतिविच्छेदः प्राणायामः॥४९॥

 

बाह्याभ्यन्तरस्तम्भवृत्तिर्देशकालसंख्याभिः परिदृष्टो दीर्घसूक्ष्मः॥५०॥

 

बाह्याभ्यन्तरविषयाक्षेपी चतुर्थः॥५१॥

 

ततः क्षीयते प्रकाशावरणम्॥५२॥

 

धारणासु च योग्यता मनसः॥५३॥

 

स्वविषयासंप्रयोगे चित्तस्य स्वरूपानुकार इवेन्द्रियाणां प्रत्याहारः॥५४॥

 

ततः परमा वश्यतेन्द्रियाणाम्॥५५॥

Sadhana Pada

The Chapter of Doing It

by Patanjali

        Burn. Know. Surrender.

 

Clean up. Hurt less.

Know not—suffering.

 

Much I—suffering.

Like much—suffering, dis-

 

like much—suffering.

And death—oh, suffering.

 

All four—suffering.

Know what’s what.

 

What’s real. What’s pure.

 

                  Eternal. 

 

What’s what. This I.

That I. See clear.

 

Good stuff, like it.

Bad stuff, dislike it.

 

Dying, fear it.

All right.   

 

                   Stop it.

 

Draw in. Go in.

Feel it. Cut down.

 

Store it. No way.

Feel it. Go through.

 

Born how. Born where.

How long. Get what.

 

Good stuff/ bad stuff.

Sow seed. Reap fruit.

 

Change—painful.

Burn—painful.

 

Habit—painful.

 

See it.

                   Hurt less.

 

All done. Close it.

Mix up. See how.

 

Doer. Done to.

Seer. One seen.

 

One seen. Light up.

Move it. Steady now.

 

Mental. Astral.

Causal. No mark.

 

See clear, colour.

Unveil. Know it.

 

See how. For what.

See link. Free up.

 

This one, goes out.

That one, goes on.

 

See Self. Unfold.

Inside, outside.

 

Know not. Tie up.

Know it. Free up.

 

See through. Know it.

All seven. Go through.

 

Go on. Clean up.

Rise up. See through.

 

Eight limbs, five out,

three in. Do it.

 

Hurt none. Hold true.

Hold clear. Hold back.

 

Hold loose. That’s one.

Hold all. For all.

 

Clean up. Just right.

Burn up. Know Self.

 

Surrender. That’s two.

See across. Calm down.

 

See through. See true.

Clear heart. Stay down.

 

Hold true. Take fruit.

Hold clear. Take gems.

 

Hold back. Stay brave.

Hold loose. Know how.

 

Clean up. Cut loose.

Focus. Take reins.

 

Just right. Take joy.

Burn up.

 

                   Perfect.

 

Know self. Meld with.

Surrender. Merge in.

 

Sit still. Solid.

Sit still. Feel good.

 

Loosen. Lighten.

Focus. Easy.

 

Opposites. No worries.

Inhale. Exhale.

 

Stop it. Stay still.

Outside, inside.

 

See where. See when.

See how. See fine.

 

Inside, outside.

Go up. Over.

 

Unveil. See light.

Clear mind. Focus.

 

Turn in. Master.

Turn in. Master.

 

Turn in. Master.

Higher. Highest.

 

 

translated from Sanskrit by Kanya Kanchana
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to condense the world into a single cry

Two poems by Florbela Espanca translated by Kay Cosgrove

Florbela Espanca                 Kay Cosgrove

Ser Poeta

by Florbela Espanca

Ser poeta é ser mais alto, é ser maior

Do que os homens! Morder como quem beija!

É ser mendigo e dar como quem seja

Rei do Reino de Aquém e de Além Dor!

 

É ter de mil desejos o esplendor

E não saber sequer que se deseja!

É ter cá dentro um astro que flameja,

É ter garras e asas de condor!

 

É ter fome, é ter sede de Infinito!

Por elmo, as manhãs de oiro e cetim…

É condensar o mundo num só grito!

 

E é amar-te, assim, perdidamente…

É seres alma e sangue e vida em mim

E dizê-lo cantando a toda a gente!

To Be a Poet

by Florbela Espanca

To be a poet is to be taller, to be larger 

Than men. To bite like others kiss. 

It is to be a beggar and to give like you are king

of the kingdom of brief and ever-lasting pain. 

 

It is to have a thousand wishes, splendor

And not even know what you desire.

It is to have here inside a star, a flame.

It is to have the condor’s talons and wings.

 

It is to be hungry, to thirst for the infinite.

The gold and satin mornings like an antique helmet;

It is to condense the world into a single cry,

 

And it is to love you, even so, desperately.

You are the soul, the blood, and the life in me

And I tell it to everyone through my song. 

translated from Portuguese by Kay Cosgrove
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Verses de Orgulho

by Florbela Espanca

O mundo quer-me mal porque ninguém


Tem asas como eu tenho! Porque Deus


Me fez nascer Princesa entre plebeus


Numa torre de orgulho e de desdém.

 

Porque o meu Reino fica para além …


Porque trago no olhar os vastos céus


E os oiros e clarões são todos meus!


Porque eu sou Eu e porque Eu sou Alguém!

 

O mundo ? O que é o mundo, ó meu Amor ?


—O jardim dos meus versos todo em flor…


A seara dos teus beijos, pão bendito…

 

Meus êxtases, meus sonhos, meus cansaços…


—São os teus braços dentro dos meus braços,


Via Láctea fechando o Infinito.

Verses of Pride

by Florbela Espanca

The world distains me because nobody

Has wings like mine. Because God

Begot me princess among the people

In a tower of pride and disgust.

 

Because my Reign goes beyond here.

Because I bring in my look the vast skies

And the gold and lightening are all mine.

Because I am who I am and because I am somebody.

 

The world? What is the world, oh my Love?

—The garden of my verses all in bloom,

The wheat field of your kisses like blessed bread.

 

My ecstasy, my dreams, my fatigue,

—They are your arms inside my arms,

the Milky Way closing the Infinite. 

translated from Portuguese by Kay Cosgrove
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…they move like snowstorms or squalls

A poem by Maxim Amelin translated by Derek Mong and Anne O. Fisher

Катавасия на Фоминой неделе

by Maxim Amelin

Gratia cum Nymphis geminisque sororibus audet

      ducere nuda choros.

Immortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum

      quae rapit hora diem.

                    Q. Horatius Flaccus, Od., IV, 7.

 

Но нет! — он может пробудиться,

Из гроба света луч пролить.

                    Граф Д. И. Хвостов.

                    К Дарье Алексеевне Державиной

                    на Паше, 1816 года Июля 16 дня

 

 

Подражание Хвостову

сочинить ко дню Христову

не случилось, — на Страстной

строчки — чаяния паче —

для решения задачи

сей не влезло ни одной

 

в голову. — Привычка к лаврам

быстро делает кентавром,

грозным с виду, косным в шаг, —

к вящей славе Их Сиятельств

в нарушенье обязательств

не стоится на ушах,

 

на потеху следопытам

не летается, копытом

стройным в воздухе маша:

раз-два-три, два-три-четыре. —

Неприкаянная в мире

дольнем странствует душа,

 

тяжкий груз таская тела,

от известного предела

неизведанного до, —

с миром выспренним в разлуке

не сидит, поджавши руки,

в ожидании Го — —.

 

В ожидании чего-то

эдакого: поворота,

перемены невзначай, —

изменив порядок строчек,

память вырвала листочек

с приглашением на чай.

 

Старое стихотворенье,

что прокисшее варенье,

крытый плесенью пирог. —

Не для всех своих исчадий

остаётся добрым дядей

вдохновений светлый бог.

 

Страх и ужас: вот бы если

все умершие воскресли

без разбору, — что тогда? —

Понесутся целым скопом

по америкам, европам

в залу Страшного суда,

 

друг отталкивая друга,

точно вихорь или вьюга,

всё сметая на пути,

необузданны и дики,

оглушительные крики

сея: «Не развоплоти!» —

 

«Пощади меня, Всевышний!» —

«И меня!» — «И я не лишний!» —

взвоют все до одного. —

Милосерд Господь и правед, —

только избранных восставит

или — лучше — никого.

 

Никого. — Какая демо-

кратия! — Моя поэма,

совершая трудный путь,

чертит странные зигзаги. —

Хорошо б у тихой влаги

на припёке отдохнуть:

 

«Мне ли, жителю вселенной,

внятен будет современный

шёпот, ропот или вой?» —

Ясные бросая взгляды,

плотоядные Наяды

плещут вешнею водой. —

 

Всяк родженный не однажды

глада не страшится, жажды,

обстоятельств или нужд,

хоть в казарме, хоть на зоне

размышляет о Назоне,

человеческого чужд. —

 

То, что свойственно природе,

тще не тщись в угоду моде

изменить, — со что и как,

как ни силься, что ни делай:

день взлетел, как ангел белый,

пал, что чёрный демон, мрак. —

 

Сутки — прочь, вторые сутки

помрачение в рассудке. —

Кто мне толком объяснит? —

Чёткий на вопрос вопросов

даст ответ? — Какой философ? —

Но молчат и Фет, и Ф. И. Т.

 

(псевдоним, инициалы). —

Геркулес у ног Омфалы,

весь в оборках кружевных,

северянинскому пажу

подражая, сучит пряжу,

упорядочен и тих.

 

Он, от жизни голубиной

отмахнувшийся дубиной,

облачится в шкуру льва

и взойдёт на склоны неба

убеждаться в том, что Геба

девственная, чем вдова

 

безутешная, не хуже, — 

тоже думает о муже:

«Я  невеста, ты  жених,

ты  жених, а я — невеста».

Нет ни времени, ни места

на подробности про них.

 

Так болтать шутливым слогом

можно долго и о многом:
то Ерема, то Фома, —
слов — полно, да толку мало, —
мысль, увы, не ночевала
в недрах некошна ума. —

«Кто герой моей поэмы? —
Я ль один? — А может, все мы,
кто не низок, не высок,
у кого, хотя негромкий,
свой, отдельный — там потомки
разберутся — голосок?» —

В гневе огненной геенны,
ненависть! не лезь на стены,
укроти свой, зависть! пыл,
не скрипи зубами, злоба! —
Да, Державин встал из гроба
и меня благословил. —

Смерти нет — одна морока:
классицизм или барокко? —
Зримый мир и мир иной
связаны, перетекая, —
катавасия такая
на неделе Фоминой.

 

1999-2002

Katabasia for St. Thomas Week

by Maxim Amelin

The Graces and their twins the nymphs will dare

      to dance undressed.

Don’t hope for immortality. The year gives warning,

      each hour steals the day’s sweet life.

—Horace, Odes IV.7

 

But no! He may awaken

and send a ray of light from out his coffin.

—Count D. I. Khvostov, to Darya Alekseyevna Derzhavina, the 16th of July, 1816

 

I couldn’t quite compose an homage

to Count Khvostov in time for Christmas,

not as I’d meant to, not a line—

despite my hopes for Holy Week.

I’ve yet to solve this simple problem,

and no solution comes to mind.

 

The moment you take praise for granted

is the moment you become a centaur:

crooked of gait, a grim demeanor.

But I’ll not tie myself in knots,

neglecting my own obligations,

just to win Their Lordships more honor.

 

Nor shall I fly to tease my trackers,

my slender hoof held up to mark

the time I’ve spent in graceful flight:

one-two-three, two-three-four.

My restless soul still wanders across

the earthly world’s endless sights;

 

it drags my body’s heavy load,

testing the limits of where we go

into the known and unexplored.

My soul won’t sit on its hands and wait—

off by itself in its lofty world—

for the Second Coming of the Lord.

 

For that certain something I’d heard,

I wait; for a turn of fate that’s better,

a sea change or serendipity…

my memory has switched some lines

and found, stuck between the mind’s

pages, an invitation out to tea.

 

A poem that’s old is like a pie

encrusted with mold, a sour jam

that sports a furry rind.

Likewise the god of inspiration,

who’ll only shine on his chosen brood.

To others he’s wholly unkind.

 

Fear and horror: what if the dead

were reincarnated, willy-nilly?

Could we handle them all?

I see the herds stampede across

the Europes and the Americas—

they enter the Day of Judgment’s halls.

 

Jostling each other out of the way,

they move like snowstorms or squalls

that clear all paths of debris—

they’re wild and unrestrained, their screams

can scatter us all with this deafening plea:

“Don’t unembody me!”

 

“Have pity on me, Almighty! Spare me!”

“And me!” “And me! I matter too!”

they wail in unison.

The Lord is merciful and just:

he’ll only raise a chosen few,

or—even better—none.

 

None. Now that’s a shit-

ocracy. My own epic poem

traces out its funny zig-zags

as it travels its difficult path.

How nice it’d be to laze near water,

soak up the rays and just relax.

 

“Will this newfangled whispering, grumbling,

and howling ever make sense to me:

the Universe’s denizen?”

The flesh-eating Naiads shoot me glances—

they splash their vernal water coyly

and flirt in my direction.

 

Whoever’s been born has felt the pangs

of thirst or hunger more than once.

He’s been resigned to poverty.

Even in barracks or labor camps,

where all that is human is foreign,

he ponder Ovid’s poetry.

 

So don’t exert yourself to change

the native and natural order of things,

to fit today’s modish fashion.

Your like and as are wholly futile:

the dawn rose like a white angel,

the darkness fell, black as a demon.

 

I’ve lost one day and then a second

to this growing eclipse of my reason.

Where’s the answer coming from

to this question of questions?

Which thinker’s got a clear solution?

Both Fet and F. I. T. are mum.

 

(Of course: a pseudonym, initials.)

Here’s Hercules in flounces lacey—

he sits at fierce Omphale’s feet.

He’s just like Severyanin’s page-boy.

The hero spins his yarn effetely,

so dutiful, mute, and meek.

 

But with a swing of oaken club

our Hercules undoes his dovecote.

Again arrayed in lion skin,

he soon ascends the vault of heaven

to locate Hebe virginal.

Zeus’s daughter is akin

 

to widows inconsolable:

like them, she wants a husband too.

“I’m the bride, you’re my bridegroom.

You’re the bridegroom; I’m your bride.”

Further details, though, are moot.

I’ve no more time to talk, nor room.

 

We joke like this in endless cycles

but to what end? Take Jeremiah,

Thomas, or any of their kind:

they’re rich in words, but what’s their use

if thought, alas, won’t tread a path

through a reader’s unmown mind?

 

“Who is the hero of this poem?

Just me alone? Or all of us?

Whoever’s neither prince nor lout?

Whoever’s got a singular voice,

however hushed? Let generations

to follow figure it out.”

 

O Hate! Don’t climb the walls inside

fiery Gehenna’s hellish wrath!

And calm your ardor, Envy!

Spite, you shouldn’t grind your teeth.

Yes, Derzhavin has finally risen

from his grave to bless me.

 

There is no death, but there is this mess:

is it Classical or just Baroque?

The world we see and the world we seek

are linked and bound to intermingle.

Behold: my katabasia

in honor of St. Thomas Week.

 

1999-2002

translated from Russian by Derek Mong & Anne O. Fisher
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what they call me

A poem by Shrawan Mukarung translated by Haris Adhikari

Shrawan-Mukarung      Haris Adhikari (2)

जङ्गली फूल

by Shrawan Mukarung

 

गाउँ

सहर

या नगरतिर

मलाई—

जङ्गली फूल भन्छन्

तर जङ्गलमै त

मेरो नाम अर्कै छ ।

Wild Flower

by Shrawan Mukarung

In villages,
cities
or towns,
what they call me is—
wild flower;
but I
do have a different name
in the jungle. 

translated from Nepali by Haris Adhikari
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