Poems from the Sanskrit

by John Brough (Editor)

160pages. in12. Broché.

Genres: Poetry, India, Language, World Literature

160 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1969

Reviews

[Caroline · Rating 4 out of 5]

When he saw her,
He was struck by the arrows of love.
Nor could he save himself by shutting his eyes:
For he was a young man of an enquiring
And philosophical turn of mind.
And so he was forced to to examine the problem
In greater detail
Of how the Creator
Had come to make
A figure like hers.

Bhavabhuti

Lovely poems nicely translated. There is a good introduction covering Sanskrit sources (anthologies), Brough's approach to translating poetry (as poetry, with judicious adaptations to retain poetic value, but no padding), Sanskrit prosody, different cultural conventions, and related information such as the wealth of synonyms and punning in Sanskrit.

The majority of the poems in this selection are love poems, but a few address other topics. This one struck me as echoing a similar description in an essay by a contemporary author who was dining on a restaurant terrace somewhere and looked up to see the same sight (I wish I could remember who it was):

Hand in clasped hand and side pressed close to side,
Silently stand some children of the poor
And shyly, hungry eyes half-turned aside
Observe the eater through the open door.

Anonymous

[Nick · Rating 5 out of 5]

I wrote a review (laden with excerpts and commentary) for this on my blog:

I'll copy paste it here too, but it reads much worse without the proper formatting, pictures, and links:


“If learned critics publicly deride

My verse, well, let them. Not for them I wrought.

One day a man shall live to share my thought:

For time is endless and the world is wide”

-Bhavabhuti (p.53)

I try not to saturate this blog with book reviews, but I have a justification in this case. This review contains a slew of poems excerpted from the book, which are worth far more than my review, and my numerous tangents. Hit “Continue Reading” and scroll down if you just want to check those out.

John Brough’s Poems from the Sanskrit[1], despite its confusing title, (what is the Sanskrit?) is actually a very charming anthology of translated Sanskrit poems, ranging from roughly the 4th through 10th centuries.

The translator’s stated purpose for compiling this volume is as follows: Normally Sanskrit translators, focus on conveying meaning at the expense of poetic or prosaic style. But since Sanskrit and English grammars differ considerably, meaning focused translations often come across as stilted or sometimes even unreadable. Sanskrit Poetry compounds this problem, because so much literary value is vested in the poetic structure itself (for example: The number, repetition, and weight of syllables.) This is a translation, which attempts to give equal weight to content and form.

Translating a Sanskrit poem into rhyming verse while keeping the original meaning intact is an impossible task. Perhaps a more accurate description of the book is: an anthology of English poems by John Brough, based closely on Sanskrit classics. The purist in me recoils at this prospect, but if you read the poems without wringing your hands over the potential “butchery” of the originals which preceded them, they are actually quite lovely on their own merits. And based on the samples and explanation of his technique as delineated in the introduction, I have faith that he has amply conveyed at least the basic sense of each work.

I’ll jump right into the verses and save my criticisms for the end:

I noticed some recurring patterns:

Anti-Clericalism: There are a surprising amount of poems in here, which are highly critical of priests, focusing on their hypocrisy foolishness, or exploitation. These are mostly secular poems, but it still surprises me. One has to wonder: Were they talking about priests generally or about “the bad ones” i.e. the heterodox ones?

“‘So, friar, I see you have a taste for meat.’

‘Not that it’s any good without some wine.’

‘You like wine too, then?’ ‘Better when I dine

With pretty harlots.’ ‘Surely such girls eat

No end of money?’ ‘Well, I steal, you see,

Or win at dice.’ ‘A thief and gambler too?’

‘Why, certainly. What else is there to do?

Aren’t you aware I’m vowed to poverty?’”

-Sudraka (p.79)

At some points this attitude of mockery towards priests spills over into secular sources of power as well:

“Strong drink may make a man forget

His mother or his wife,

Mistake a palace for the shack

He’s lived in all his life.

One day, a puddle in the sea;

The next, he’ll try to stand

Upon the ocean’s surface, which

To him appears dry lad,

To such a drunkard’s foolishness

There’s hardly any end:

He’ll even think, when he’s in drink

A king might be his friend”

- Bhartṛhari (p.66)

Anti-clericalism in particular occurs too frequently to brush it off as an artifact of Brough’s translation. Before investigating this I had always assumed that most of these poets were either court patrons, or worked out of religiously premised universities. Now I realize that some of these poets were kings themselves, which gave them an unusual degree of artistic privilege. I also discovered that some of these poets held non-mainstream beliefs which may have influenced their work. Dharmakirti for example may have been a Buddhist, and Bhartṛhari was likely either a Nyaya or a Mimamsa. Also, there is no denying that some minority of poets may have achieved fame solely through their own accomplishments, and without elite patronage, and attained a sort of artistic license by virtue of their freedom. With this in mind, it isn’t unfathomable that such writings were intended to (perhaps playfully) mock the orthodox religious order. A contrasting theory is put forward by Wendy Doniger on pages 278 through 280 her journal article The Origin of Heresy in Hindu Mythology. She asserts that such verses could either have been playfully self deriding, or meant specifically to target heterodox brahmins. Evidence towards her theory is the abundance of heterodox sects which engaged in asceticism during this period, and the fact that ascetics were, on many occasions, the explicit targets of poetic mockery.

Romance and Eroticism: The heavy majority of the poems in this volume have to do with love and sex. There are some reserved takes on the subject, which focus on pure romance:

“You are pale, friend moon, and do not sleep at night,

And day by day you waste away.

Can it be that you also

Think only of her, as I do?”

- Bhartṛhari (p.58)

But there are also quite a few which directly address sexuality directly:

“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”

-Bhartṛhari (p.113)

Take this perplexing verse. Initially, its hard to see how it could be about romance and/or sexuality at all:

“‘Did you sleep in the garden, dear,

On a bed of magnolia flowers?

I suppose you know that your breast

is smeared with the pollen dust?’

‘O, why will you try to be clever,

And scold me with hints like this?

Let me tell you I got these scratches

From cruel magnolia thorns.’”

-Amaru (p.136)

What is going on here? I refer you to the introduction:

“Indeed, there are some aspects of love-making quite frequent in Sanskrit poetry, of which, I suspect, it would be difficult to find even a hint among the love-poems of Europe. Apart from those, it may be remarked that biting is frequent: next day, the girl’s standard excuse is that she has been stung on the lip by a bee. So also i scratching: and the girl may either with some pride display to her friends the weals on her breasts and elsewhere, as proof that she really had been loved; or, if she is by nature more modest, she may attempt the excuse (though with little chance of being believed) that she has been scratched by the thorn-bushes in the garden.” (p.38)

Women and Consent in the 7th century… and Today: Some poems positively describe what we would consider sexual assault in the modern west, although It surely read differently in an ancient Indian context:

“First find yourself a charming girl,

And while she says, ‘No, no!’

And while with trembling voice she cries,

‘You scoundrel, let me go!’

And while with rage her eyebrows acne,

And while she quorums and hisses,

Just go ahead and use your strength,

And steal yourself some kisses.

Then you will find that this is how

Mere mortal men obtain

Ambrosia, while the foolish gods

Once churned the sea in vain.”

-Amaru (p.133)

This is unsurprising. Cultural inertia has carried this through to the present. Forced kiss scenes are common in Bollywood films. Through the male character’s masculine, and sexually charged use of force upon the female character, he draws her out of her timidity, and reveals a hidden truth about herself— that she in fact loves him.

Examples of the nonconsensual, yet ultimately romantic kiss in Bollywood: (youtube links):

Dil Se

Arya 2, (Telugu film)

Kambakht Ishq

Devdas (not quite the same, but it is violence legitimized through romance)


This scene from Dil Se would not be out of place in 7th century Sanskrit poetry.
This next poem follows the process of resistance to capitulation from beginning to end:

“‘No! Don’t!’ she says at first, while she despises

The very thought of love; then she reveal

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!”

-Bhartṛhari (p.114)

I’m curious as to how modern Western feminists and/or progressive cultural relativists will react to this. The fact is, force and romance arent as morally distinct in India as they are in the west. Relatedly, the concept of consent typically isn’t upheld as inviolable in South Asian cultures. Western, particularly Western feminist conceptions of “consent,” and “sexual violence” are in no way objective or universal. “Acceptable” mating strategies vary by culture.

The Western liberal seems to be in a pickle. Either embrace relativism and abandon the model of feminism which holds consent sacrosanct, or embrace feminism and openly declare your desire to spread your “superior” Western culture to uplift the backwards natives.

This final verse summarizes the ancient Indian view of women conveyed by these poets:

Loving the manly virtues, they delight

To point his fault out in the plainest way; They’ll give their souls to him they love, despite

The fact that their eyes will ne’er their hearts betray.

When they most long for love, their affirmation

Is constantly expressed as firm negation.

May Women smile on you: the most perverse,

Delightful creatures in God’s universe.

-Amaru (p.111)

Existential Angst: Its somewhat amusing to see the elites of a society make existential complaints, but modern western civilization has made it clear that such psychological pain, dhukka, is an aspect of the human condition which wealth cannot obviate.

“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?”

-Bhartṛhari (p.54)

Vignettes: Besides the romance angle, these are the most interesting poems for me. They offer a little peek into lives not that different from our own, except in temporal proximity. These might be called “microfiction” if they were written today. I love that they give just enough information so that you can make vaguely supported inferences about what else is going on in these people’s lives.

“Today adds yet another day

And still your father is unkind.

The darkness closes up the path.

Come, little son, let us go to bed.”

- Bhartṛhari (p.55)

And another:

“’Wont you awake and eat?’ I gently said:

But still she slept, though opening half an eye,

Then straightaway closed it. Turning with a sigh

She nestled warmly deeper in the bed.”

Bhartṛhari (p.77)

And my favorite one:

“’The road is rough; and, oh, the moon is bright

–‘Suppose my husband should discover!

People may talk. –But can I bear tonight

To disappoint my lover?’

And so she walked a step or two, and then

Turned and came back again.”

-Amaru (p.62)

Esoteric Academic References: The ideal Indian poet was meant to be highly educated in every academic subject available to them from logic and science, to grammar and philosophy. As a result, certain references or perhaps “in jokes” about esoteric subjects like Pāṇini’s grammar or Buddhist theology. These guys were ancient nerds and I love it:

“The grammar-books all say that ‘mind’ is neuter,

And so I thought it safe to let my mind

salute her.

But now it lingers in embraces tender:

For Pāṇini made a mistake, I find,

In gender.”

-Dharmakirti (p.64)

Criticisms and Conclusion: Before I start my criticism:

“A critic is a creature who has views

quite like a camel’s: flowers and fruit he scorns.

In the flower-garden of the honeyed Muse

He starves unless he finds a meal of thorns”

Bhartṛhari (p.78)

Ok, point taken Bhartṛhari. There are still a few problems though. Firstly, some degree of meaning is definitely lost as the result of Brough’s pursuit of poetic English form. Secondly, the “sing-song” tone which rhyme often conveys in English can potientally miscommunicate the tone of the original poem, if a more serious or somber tone was intended. I think that these two flaws could have been fixed if he had provided the Sanskrit text for each poem as well, or if he did two translations for each poem: one literal and one poetic. Given the overall quality of the anthology, these are negligible flaws.

However, there is one inexcusable flaw with this volume, which occurs in most Sanskrit translations but usually not to this extremity. Mythological Hindu characters or concepts are replaced with mythological Greek, Norse or otherwise European ones. For example, “ambrosia” comes up repeatedly, which I’m assuming is actually “amrit.” Venus shows up once (in the context of Shiva so I’m assuming it was actually Parvati?) “Jove’s nectar” comes up, which is a mystery to me. Likewise, elves and fairies make appearances, and who knows what that means? Apsaras? Gandharvas? We just don’t know because he doesn’t provide the Sanskrit. This could easily have been mitigated using footnotes, and significantly obfuscates the meaning of the poems.

This volume paints a picture of ancient India very different from the one we get from the epics, Manu Smriti, or from the British anthropologists of yore. Kings aren’t accorded the near universal reverence and obedience, which the religious texts would like us to believe, nor is the piety of holy men taken for granted. Premarital and extramarital sex seem tolerated enough to be written about with sympathy. The view on women seems basically consistent with the religious literature, but the more …immersive depictions of sex were also a welcome change (obviously excepting Kama Sutra.) The rules of the priests are ridiculed and violated with a casualness foreign of in the religious texts. One might venture to guess that religious portrayals of ancient India more often depicted a utopian (or dystopian?) ideal rather than a reality. This is not a new theory, but it is interesting to see some primary source evidence of it.

But honestly, this was an absolute pleasure to read. I highly recommend it. It was one of those books which I started reading more slowly towards the end to avoid finishing it. Buy it.

I’ll close with this riddle from Kalidas. No answer was given in the book and I havent thought of a solution. It’s a real brain tickler. If you think you’ve figured it out, put the answer in the comments.

“I’m a footless traveller, very well read,

And yet no scholar (I’ve got no head);

Without any mouth, speaking truth or lies

–Riddle me this, and you’ll be wise.”

Kalidasa (135)

[1] All page numbers in this post come from John Brough’s 1968 edition of Poems From the Sanskrit, unless otherwise noted

[albin james · Rating 4 out of 5]

Envoi
She who forsook me when I fondly burned
The midnight oil at Fame's false shrine, has now
By her young sister Sloth - I know not how -
Been pacified, and home to me returned.

My earning heart, I swear, henceforth I'll keep
Constant in worship of my first love, Sleep.

[Preetam Chatterjee · Rating 5 out of 5]

World Sanskrit Day, 2025:

John Brough’s Poems from the Sanskrit is one of those Penguin Classics that doesn’t look ambitious at first glance—just a slim paperback, printed in 1968, modest in length—but which manages to open a whole world for readers who had barely imagined Sanskrit could sound like lyric poetry.

For decades, the West knew Sanskrit mostly through scripture and philosophy: the Vedas, the Upaniṣads, the Bhagavad Gītā.

When poetry was acknowledged, it was treated as ornamental, more curiosity than canon. Brough’s book changed that. He made a small anthology of short, often anonymous poems, many plucked from medieval subhāṣita collections, and rendered them not as exotic specimens but as living verse, concise, lyrical, and emotionally resonant. Reading the anthology is like walking into a crowded court of voices—lovers, sages, satirists, poets of longing, poets of laughter—each distilled into a four-line shot of rasa.

Take Bhartṛhari, the wandering king-turned-ascetic whose Śatakatraya is still memorized by students across India. One of his verses brims with quiet stoicism:

“उदये सविता रक्तो रक्तश्चास्तमये तथा ।
सम्पत्तौ च विपत्तौ च महतामेकरूपता ॥”

“The sun is red at dawn,
red again at dusk.
So too the noble remain
the same in fortune and misfortune.”

Alternate Translation:

"At rising red, the sun doth flame,
At setting red, it showeth same;
So too the gallant still appear,
In weal or woe, unchang’d, sincere." (Alternate rendering done by Pritam Chatterjee)

Brough translates it in the same stripped clarity: “The sun is red at rising, red again at setting. In prosperity or adversity the noble are the same.” What he preserves is not the wordplay but the aphoristic punch. The rasa here is śānta—equanimity, calm, the flavor of stillness. It sits in English like a Stoic fragment, and perhaps that was part of Brough’s aim: to make Bhartṛhari sound as close to Marcus Aurelius as to a Sanskrit moralist. The universality is genuine; the cultural bridge is deliberate.

Yet Bhartṛhari was not always a sage. In the Śṛṅgāraśataka, he sings the fire of love. Here is one of his tenderest verses:

“स्मरामि मन्दस्मितचूर्णिताननं
स्मरामि च क्षिप्रविलोलदृष्टिम् ।
स्मरामि वेणीभ्रमरप्रवेशं
स्मरामि बाल्ये कृतसंगमं तत् ॥”

“I remember her face, powdered with gentle smiles,
I remember her eyes, swift and restless;
I remember the bees that strayed into her braided hair,
I remember our meeting when we were young.”

Alternate Translation:

"Her face with fond smiles besprent I mind,
Her roving eyes, so swift, so unconfined;
Her braids where wand’ring bees did careless dwell,
Our childhood’s meeting still I mind full well." (Alternate rendering done by Pritam Chatterjee)

The Sanskrit is full of incantation—smarāmi smarāmi smarāmi—and Brough, knowing that repetition risks deadening in English, pares it back into a soft lyric: “I remember her face… I remember her eyes… I remember her hair… I remember our meeting.” The rasa is śṛṅgāra in its nostalgic mode—love remembered, seasoned by loss.

A Sanskrit reader hears the ritual cadence, but an English reader still feels the ache of memory. Brough’s compromise is careful: he knows music can’t always be translated, but mood can.

Kālidāsa, the great master of Sanskrit drama and epic, is represented too. The anthology gives glimpses of his Meghadūta, that long cloud-messenger poem of separation.

A typical stanza runs:

“त्वां द्रक्ष्यन्ति प्रियसहितया गात्रसङ्गेन तृष्णाः
संक्षिप्येमे मुदमधुरया व्यत्ययव्याप्तदृष्टेः ।
कान्तारस्थां हरितकुसुमैरुत्सवं कल्पयन्त्यो
यास्यन्त्यस्तं पथि पथि दृशं प्रेयसीनामपाङ्गाः ॥”

“They will see you, as though embraced by their lovers,
those thirsty eyes, compressed together with delight;
the forest girls will deck you with green flowers,
their sidelong glances celebrating a festival on the path.”

Alternate Translation:

"The thirsty eyes shall gaze on thee embraced,
As lovers clasp’d, with sweetest rapture graced;
The forest maids with garlands green adorn,
And feast with glances soft as break of morn." (Alternate rendering done by Pritam Chatterjee)

In Brough’s English this becomes much less baroque: “The village girls will gaze at you, Cloud, as though embraced by their lovers. They will crown you with flowers and their sidelong glances will be your festival.”

The Sanskrit luxuriates in compounds, but Brough streamlines it into an imagistic lyric, closer to imagism than to ornate court poetry. The rasa here is both śṛṅgāra and karuṇa, for beneath the beauty of the cloud’s journey is the aching separation of the exiled yakṣa who speaks. By cutting excess, Brough ensures Western readers don’t get lost in Sanskrit elaboration but feel the emotion directly.

Amarū, often called the “Petrarch of Sanskrit,” provides a different flavor. His Amaruśataka is filled with miniature dramas of erotic life—playful, tender, often ironic. One of the best known says:

“यदि स्निग्धं त्वया चित्तं मम वाऽस्ति तव प्रिये ।
किं स्वर्गफलभोगेन किं वा मोक्षसुखेन मे ॥”

“If your heart is tender to me, beloved,
what need have I of the joys of heaven?
But if your heart is not tender to me,
what need have I of the joys of heaven?”

Alternate Translation:

“If thou dost hold me in thy gentle heart,
What use have I of Heaven’s blissful part?
And if thy breast with love doth not incline,
What use have I of Heaven’s joy divine?” (Alternate rendering done by Pritam Chatterjee)


Brough renders it almost word for word, preserving the repetition: “Dearest, if you will love me true, what use are joys of heaven to me? But if you will not love me true, what use are joys of heaven to me?” The power lies in its taut symmetry. The rasa is śṛṅgāra, but with a kind of universal simplicity. You could imagine this as a pop lyric today, and that timelessness is precisely why Brough chose to keep it plain.

Not all the anthology is erotic or devotional. Some verses bite with satire. A mendicant friar, asked about his vows, confesses one after another: meat, wine, harlots, gambling. The Sanskrit epigram runs:

“मांसानि भक्षयति योऽपि च मद्यपायी
व्यभिचाररतिरप्यभवत्सुदूष्यः ।
लोभात्सदा लुण्ठयते च यः स धर्मी
धर्मानुकारी खलु भिक्षुकः सः ॥”

“He eats meat, he drinks wine, he loves harlots;
he steals from greed, he cheats, he gambles—
and yet he is called holy:
such indeed is the pious friar.”

Alternate Translation:

“He feasts on flesh, and swills the crimson wine,
In wanton beds doth nightly sport incline;
From greed he steals, in craft and gaming lives,
Yet ‘holy’ name the cloistered hypocrite gives.” (Alternate rendering done by Pritam Chatterjee)

Brough recasts it as a quick-fire dialogue, almost like a medieval comedy sketch: “So, friar, I see you have a taste for meat.” “Not that it’s any good without some wine.” “You like wine too, then?” “Better when I dine with pretty harlots.” What Brough emphasizes here is hāsya rasa, humor, laced with satire. He lets the modern reader feel the bite without the Sanskrit wordplay.

At other times the poems are all tenderness, the kind of soft lyric that almost anticipates haiku. One short verse runs:

“आलिङ्गिता मन्दगतिर्भ्रुवोर्ध्वं
दृष्ट्वा प्रियं प्रेक्ष्य विभावितास्मि ।
सन्दर्शयित्वा मुखपद्ममस्य
निद्रापरीतं सखि तस्य चक्षुः ॥”

“She embraced him slowly, her brows raised,
she looked upon her beloved, gazing—
showed him her lotus-face,
and then her eyes closed in sleep.”

Alternate Translation:

“She clasp’d him slow, with lifted brow on high,
And gaz’d upon her love with melting eye;
Her lotus-face she to his sight did keep,
Then clos’d her lids, and sank in balmy sleep.” (Alternate rendering done by Pritam Chatterjee)

Brough translates this with ironic brevity: “Her eager lover still she tried to keep from intercourse, the longer to enjoy love’s tender talk; and the impassioned boy quite suddenly fell fast asleep.” Here the shift in rasa is subtle. In Sanskrit, it is playful śṛṅgāra; in Brough’s English, it tips into humor, almost parody. The translator allows the situation to laugh at itself, adjusting the emotional valence for his audience.

Philosophy too sneaks in. Bhartṛhari again:

“यावज्जीवेत्सुखं जीवेत्
ऋणं कृत्वा घृतं पिबेत् ।
भस्मीभूतस्य देहस्य
पुनरागमनं कुतः ॥”

“As long as you live, live happily;
borrow if you must, but drink ghee.
When this body is reduced to ashes,
where will it return again?”

Brough translates it with almost Epicurean candor: “As long as life lasts, live happily; if need be, drink ghee on borrowed money. For when once the body is ashes, how shall it return again?” The rasa is vīra mixed with śṛṅgāra—bold hedonism, shocking even, but in English it comes across as wry, almost Lucretian. This is part of Brough’s achievement: he finds the closest Western resonance, allowing the verse to shock but not bewilder.

Again and again, the anthology proves that rasa can be portable. Śṛṅgāra, hāsya, śānta, karuṇa—they can leap into English if handled with delicacy. What cannot leap are the textures of sound: the alliteration, the compact compounds, the rhythmic mantras. Brough knew this and admitted it in his introduction. He chose, instead, to make the English live, even if it meant abandoning literal exactness.

The result is a collection that never feels like a graveyard of meanings. It feels like poetry, alive, mischievous, tender, wise. It places Sanskrit alongside Greek epigrams, Chinese quatrains, Japanese tanka, and medieval troubadour lyrics as part of the shared human archive of lyric feeling. That was the great leap of Penguin Classics: to democratize world literature.

And Brough’s Poems from the Sanskrit is one of its quiet masterpieces.

Close the book, and you carry away not philological notes but emotional residues: the bee clinging to the mango blossom, the girl staving off sleep with whispers, the friar confessing his lusts, the lover remembering a youthful smile, the sage watching the sun at dawn and dusk. Across languages and centuries, rasa persists.

What Brough shows is that poetry is not only about syllables and meters but about the way human beings everywhere tremble, laugh, sigh, and reflect. The anthology is slim but inexhaustible, and in its pages Sanskrit ceases to be distant; it becomes intimate, urgent, modern.

That is why the book matters still, more than fifty years after it first appeared.

[Lauren · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book gathers translations from 4th-10th century CE Sanskrit texts, primarily secular poetry and some dramatic stage scenes.

Aphorisms, love poetry, and a lot of comparing one's lover to fruit and the moon.

[Ramaprasad KV · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is one of the best anthology of samskrta verses available in English. I find a very high percentage of English translations of Samskrta poetry never captures the essence of the original. But this anthology, has some of the best translations, that don't sound out of place in translation.

Only negative I can find in this is that the original verses are not given. If they were, it would have added to the value to the collection.

[James Violand · Rating 5 out of 5]

The introduction must be read before attempting the body of this work. Very well written. It lays the ground for these wonderful selections. In our world we seem to have lost our ability to create sensuality without approaching the pornographic. These ancient poets, the amazing Kalidasa among them, astutely conveyed the essence of love between a man and a woman, what it is to grow old and other conditions that all humanity can relate to.

[SBC · Rating 4 out of 5]

Unfortunately I didn't get time to read all of this but it was really interesting and enjoyable. First of all, the introduction on the difficulties of translating poetry was fascinating and great reference material. Secondly, the ancient Indian poetry itself was terrific - from a western perspective, such original ideas, new perspectives on life, and neat conventions (e.g. face like the moon, eyes and skin like lotus, walk like elephant).

[Just_An_E · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was a pretty good collection of poetry from Sanskrit. Kinda wish that it had titles paired with the poetry though. I'm fairly certain based on the introduction that that may have been possible but I'm unsure. In any case, the introduction was pretty good at explaining why this was translated the way it was, although I have no clue if it is remotely still accurate seeing as this was published in the late 60s. Good poetry, with good translations.

[Sreena · Rating 4 out of 5]

"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."

Good collection!

[James · Rating 5 out of 5]

Any young Indian poet of this era would have had, first of all, to undergo a thorough study of Sanskrit grammar, beginning at the age of six. By the age of eight, he or she would have memorized the first 1,000 sutras of Panini's grammar, and not long after that, the full 4,000 sutras. Having accomplished that, he would then learn to apply the rules of grammatical analysis to domains such as logic, philosophy, poetics, mathematics, and numerous other disciplines.

It is for this reason that so often philosophical, mathematical, and logical themes appear in these poems.

Poetry, of course, is untranslatable, but often Brough's renderings, like flashes of monsoon lightning, reveal blinding visions of court life that would otherwise remain eternally obscured.

[Phillip · Rating 5 out of 5]

For the most part I really liked these poems. Although the book wasn't organized in any way, I almost feel like the randomness of the poems mirrored the philosophical underpinnings of many of them--the playfullness and enjoyment of life. Many of the poems reminded me of haiku, in their tone and diction, though definitely not in subject matter or line organization. The Sanskrit poems aren't three lines (most of them), but vary in lengths and almost never seem to have recognizable structures. Also, most are about sex, love, and admiring beautiful women's breasts, hips, and lotus-flower-eyes.

[Peter King · Rating 3 out of 5]

The translations are often better than most that try to retain rhyme and metre, but the attempt nevertheless spoils them. Brough's often interesting introduction tries to justify his approach, but for me he doesn't succeed.

[David · Rating 4 out of 5]

super fun

[Eryl · Rating 3 out of 5]

Some of these are just lovely.

[Laidun · Rating 3 out of 5]

was surprised to discover a handful of poems written in the idiom of the Makars, with a couple of direct references to Dunbar