401 Love Poems of the Sangam Age

The Kuruntokai (குறுந்தொகை, "Collection of Short Poems") is one of the Eight Anthologies (Eṭṭuttokai) of classical Tamil Sangam literature, compiled by Pūrikkō with an invocatory verse by Perunthevanar. Its 401 poems date from approximately the third century BCE to the third century CE — the Sangam age, Tamil literature's golden period.

Each poem is a dramatic monologue spoken by a named character: the heroine to her friend, the hero to his heart, a mother watching her daughter fade, a bystander observing lovers eloping into the wasteland. The poems are classified by five tiṇai — landscape-moods that map inner states onto outer geography: kuriñci (mountain country = secret union), mullai (forest = patient waiting), marutam (farmland = marital quarrel and infidelity), neytal (seashore = anxious longing), and pālai (wasteland = separation and elopement). Love is never abstract in Sangam poetry — it lives in the taste of honey from dark-stemmed kuriñci flowers, in the call of a gecko at dusk, in the sound of waves that return without the beloved.

The Kuruntokai is widely considered the finest of the Sangam love anthologies. Its name means "short collection" — each poem is between four and eight lines of akaval (blank verse) meter, yet within that compression lives the entire emotional universe of love: desire, union, jealousy, separation, waiting, grief, and the memory that outlasts everything. Over 200 named poets contributed, including Kapilar, Ōrampōkiyār, Paraṇar, Avvaiyār, and Allūr Nanmullaiyār.

This is the first-ever complete English translation of the Kuruntokai. Translated directly and independently from the classical Tamil (Project Madurai digital text, pmuni0110) by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.

Invocation

By Perunthevanar, who sang the Mahābhārata.

With feet lovely as the lotus,
body radiant as coral,
garments bright as the mountain vine's seed —
he who hurled his fearsome, flaming spear
and split the breast of the hill:
the Rooster-bannered One protects,
and the world has reached its day of safety.

The Poems

1

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Tipputtōḷār.

The hills of Murugan with the warrior's anklet —
who slew the demons on the red field
with his straight red arrow from his red-tusked elephant —
those hills are clustered with kāntaḷ flowers
that bloom like drops of blood.

2

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Iṟaiyaṉār.

O bee with fine wings
who lives by seeking flower-nectar —
say nothing of desire, but tell me
what you have seen:
among all the flowers you know,
is there any sweeter
than the hair of this girl
with close-set teeth and peacock grace,
intimate friend of my love?

3

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Tēvakulattār.

Greater than the earth,
higher than the sky,
deeper than the sea:
my love for the man from the hills
where bees weave great honeycombs
from the dark-stemmed kuriñci flowers.

4

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Kāmañcēr Kuḷattār.

It hurts, my heart. It hurts, my heart.
Holding back tears that burn like fire on the eyelids —
that our lover, who was content to be with us,
is no longer content —
it hurts, my heart.

5

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Nariverūuttalaiyār.

Is this the sickness of love, friend?
Under the cool shade of the mastwood
where herons roost and sleep,
where salt spray from breaking waves
blooms on the sweet water —
since the lord of the gentle shore departed,
my many-lashed, painted eyes
will not close in sleep.

6

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Patumaṉār.

It is the deep hour of midnight.
Words have ceased.
The people have settled into pleasant sleep.
Without weariness,
the wide world also sleeps.
I alone — truly — do not sleep.

7

Pālai — Onlooker's words. Poet: Perupatumaṉār.

On his feet, warrior's anklets.
On her soft feet, jingling anklets.
Who are they, these pitiable ones,
heading into the bamboo wilderness
where the white pods of the vākai tree
rattle in the wind
like drums played on a rope?

8

Marutam — Other woman's words. Poet: Ālaṅkuṭi Vaṅkaṉār.

The man from the town
where ripe sweet mangoes fall from the field-trees
and the marsh-fish leap to catch them —
he makes grand promises to us,
then does whatever she desires
for the mother of his son,
dancing like a puppet
whose hands and feet are pulled on strings.

9

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Kayamaṉār.

What has become of her, the dark one!
Like flowers left alone and unworn
in a finely crafted jewel-box,
her body has withered.
The blue waterlilies on arrow-straight stems
in the dark backwaters where fish swarm
rise higher as the tide swells —
they look like the eyes
of women plunging into a pool.
She hides before us, ashamed
of the cruelty of the lord of the cool shore.

10

Pālai — Friend's words. Poet: Ōrampōkiyār.

What has become of her,
the woman who led the festival!
Because she hides the cruelty
of the man from the town of kāñci trees —
where farmers bend the sweet-flowering soft branches
so the fresh pollen can fall like green gram —
she comes to us shyly, ashamed.

11

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Māmūlaṉār.

My bangles, slipping from hollow wrists,
clink ceaselessly, and my eyes
weep without song, and I grieve alone.
Yet I would survive even this.
Come now, my heart — let us follow him,
past the land of Kaṭṭi with his strong spear,
past the frontier of the Vaṭukar
with their basil-wreathed garlands,
even into countries where they speak another tongue —
for I have resolved to follow the path to his land.

12

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Ōtalāntaiyār.

Springs as small as anthills,
rocks like furnace-stones —
on these the bowmen-hunters
hide their arrows.
That is the forked road they say
his chariot has taken.
But this gossiping town does not grieve —
it only criticizes, as if the sorrow were nothing.

13

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

Like an elephant washed clean of its dust
after the great rains,
the dark, rough boulder of the mountains
rests in solitary sadness.
The man from that country gave me this pain, friend —
and my waterlily eyes have filled with pallor.

14

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Toḻkapilar.

If only I could win her —
the girl of few sweet words,
whose bright teeth gleam
beneath her nectar-holding red tongue!
If only this town would know it,
and many would say in the street:
"This man is the husband of that good woman!"
And I would blush, just a little.

15

Pālai — Foster-mother's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

Like the trustworthy promise
of the Kōcar of Nālūr
who appeared at the council-tree
where drums were beaten and conch-shells blown —
so has it come to pass, friend:
the friendship of the young man
with the red-leaved white spear
and the warrior's anklet
with the girl of clustered bangles.

16

Pālai — Friend's words. Poet: Pālaipāṭiya Peruṅkaṭuṅkō.

Has he forgotten us, friend?
In the cactus wasteland
where the earth cracks and splits,
the red-footed gecko
calls to its mate
with a sound like a hunter
sharpening his gold-tipped arrow
with his fingernail.
He has crossed that wilderness.

17

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Pēreyiṉ Muṟuvalār.

Some ride the palmyra-horse in desperation.
Some wear the calotropis garland
with its closed buds.
Some shout through the streets.
And worse still may follow —
when desire takes root.

18

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Kapilar.

O man from the mountain country
where the jackfruit hangs heavy
from hill-bamboo behind the rattan fence —
be timely. Come at the right moment.
Who can know her state?
Like a great fruit hanging
from a slender branch —
her body is small, but her desire is vast.

19

Marutam — Hero's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

Be lean, my heart,
like the flowerless lute-playing bards
who lost their patron Evvi.
Who is she to us now —
the woman whose thick dark hair
smells of jasmine
from the tree at her door?

20

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kōpperuñcōḻaṉ.

If those who abandon their mates,
casting off tenderness and love,
and leave for the sake of wealth,
are called the brave —
then let them be brave.
We shall be the fools,
we women.

21

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Ōtalāntaiyār.

Even if the golden koṉṟai tree,
with its vine-clustered flowers
twined into garlands that women
tie with jewelry of gold,
announces the monsoon —
I will not believe it.
My lover does not deal in lies.

22

Pālai — Friend's words. Poet: Cēramāṉ Entai.

Your eyes streaming tears,
you would stay here while they go?
On the hillside where the twisted marā tree's
summer branches are fragrant —
to that honey-sweet town they go.
Will they not take you too,
bright-browed one?

23

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

O singer-woman, O singer-woman!
With your long fine hair
black as a twisted rope —
O singer-woman, sing your song!
Sing it once more —
the song that praised
his tall, beautiful hills.

24

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

The bright neem blossoms in fresh gold.
Will the season pass without me?
Like a single fruit
of the white-branched fig tree by the road,
stepped on in the cold
and crushed to softness —
so have cruel tongues turned soft,
now that my beloved has gone far away.

25

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

There is no one. He is the thief.
If he breaks his own word,
what can I do?
Even the heron was there
on the day he married me —
watching for small fish
in the flowing stream
on millet-thin legs.

26

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Kollaṉaḻici.

Even when the man from the hills
says things that do not befit him —
as if he were a stranger —
what his eyes have seen will not lie.
The father of the wild goat-kid
who plays among the rocks
by the flowering vēṅkai tree —
even the male monkey knows
that deceitful one.

27

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Veḷḷivītiyār.

The calf will not drink it.
It will not be poured into the vessel.
Like a good cow's sweet milk
spilt on the ground —
so is my dark beauty,
my spotted belly's complexion:
of no use to me, of no use to my lord.
It is only food for pallor.

28

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

Shall I set a fire?
Shall I strike a blow?
Shall I wail "Ahh!" and wail?
Or try some other scheme?
The town sleeps undisturbed
while the swaying wind
torments me with my unsleeping pain.

29

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

You have leapt past good counsel
and swum through the flood
of gossip that spread like rain-water
filling a green clay pot, O heart —
and now you arrive in difficulty.
What a commotion you make!
Like a mother monkey on a high branch
clutching her baby —
if only someone would hold you tight
and listen.

30

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaccipēṭṭu Naṉṉākaiyār.

Hear me, friend.
At midnight
the skilful liar's touch
came to me in a dream
so real I startled up from sleep
and groped across the empty bed.
Like a waterlily
weighted by a bee's visit, I sank.
Alone, truly —
pitiable, I.

31

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Ātimantiyār.

At the warriors' festival,
at the women's circle-dance —
nowhere have I seen that worthy man.
I too am a woman of the dancing-ground.
And the great lord
who has loosened the full bangles on my arms —
he too is a man of the dancing-ground.

32

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Aḷḷūr Naṉmullaiyār.

Morning, noon, helpless evening,
the midnight when the town sleeps,
and the dawn — examine any hour:
desire is a lie.
To ride the palmyra-horse through the streets,
exposed for all to ridicule — that too is shame.
And to go on living
when separation comes — that too is shame.

33

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Paṭumarattu Mōcikīraṉār.

Mother, who is this boy?
A young student,
from the open ground of his own town, they say.
His body gaunt
from living on begged food —
yet he visits our town
as though he were a grand lord.

34

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Kollik Kaṇṇaṉār.

They will not reform when punished.
They will not believe when refused.
They will not stop their gossip,
those lonely sleepers.
So let this town hear something sweet for once.
Like the great Kuṭṭuvaṉ's city of Māntai —
where warriors slew a fine, dark elephant
and the battle-cry echoed —
the lord of our girl
with the gleaming jeweled brow
is the same man. He always was.

35

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaḻārkīraṉ Eyiṟṟi.

Our eyes have no shame, truly.
The north wind arrives cool,
carrying the sweet thin drizzle
that opens the buds of the sugarcane
swelling like a pregnant green snake —
and even the wind weeps
for those who have left.

36

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

The man from the hill country
where the wild vine climbs the rocks
and elephants sleep among the boulders —
he swore on the day he took my arms:
"You alone, not another; I, not another" —
an oath that could not be broken.
Is the pain I feel from that oath,
friend, or from you?

37

Pālai — Friend's words. Poet: Pālaipāṭiya Peruṅkaṭuṅkō.

His longing is great, and he will return in kindness.
Like the great-trunked elephant
who strips the bark from the āam tree
to feed his hungry mate —
such is his love, friend.
The road he took is a road of love.

38

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

The forest peacock rolls
the round-laid egg on the hot rocks,
and the monkey-child plays with it
in the hill country —
his friendship is always good, friend.
But only for those who can endure it
when he is away
and our painted eyes dry up with tears.

39

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

The dry seed-pods of the desert tree
rattle in the hot wind
on fire-scorched branches.
They call that wilderness
the road he took —
the man who grew tired
of the space between my breasts.

40

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Cempulappeyaṉīrār.

What is my mother to yours?
What is my father to yours?
How did we ever know each other?
Yet my heart and yours —
like rain falling on red earth,
they have mingled together.

41

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Aṇilāṭu Muṉṟilār.

When my lover was near,
I would enter the town
as joyfully as one enters a festival.
Now, like the abandoned courtyard
where children once played
and squirrels now run through empty grounds
in a small wayside village —
I am desolate, friend,
since he departed.

42

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Kapilar.

Even if desire should cease —
when the great monsoon-clouds fall at midnight
and the waterfall roars in the cave —
O man from that country,
will our bond with you also wither?

43

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

I thought he would not go.
He thought I could not bear it.
Between these two great stubbornnesses,
the uproar — like a good snake
bit by a cobra in the dark —
churns my suffering heart.

44

Pālai — Foster-mother's words. Poet: Veḷḷivītiyār.

My feet have worn themselves weary.
My eyes have stared until they lost their light.
The stars in the wide sky are many,
but the strangers in this world
are far, far more.

45

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Ālaṅkuṭi Vaṅkaṉār.

At dawn he harnesses his swift chariot,
goes to embrace the other women,
and returns to the rich town late at night.
"He is very late," says the mother
of his precious little son.
But what can she do?
She was not born to this kind of life.

46

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Māmalāṭaṉār.

The house-sparrow with folded wings,
ashen as an āmpal flower,
eats the grain drying in the courtyard,
plays in the fine dust of the common,
and at evening, in the eaves,
nests with its young.
Is there such gentle dusk
in the country he has gone to, friend?

47

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Neṭuveṇṇilaviṉār.

Fallen flowers of the dark-trunked vēṅkai
lie on the boulders
like the cubs of a great dark tiger.
O tall white moonlight —
you are no friend
to those who come by night
on secret love.

48

Pālai — Friend's words. Poet: Pūṅkaṇuttiraiyār.

"Don't grieve when morning comes
over the pollen-doll that cool dew will ruin" —
so her playmates told her, and she heard,
yet still she grieves, this girl
whose bright brow grows pale.
Will our lover not utter
one word of longing,
one word to end this sorrow?

49

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ammūvaṉār.

O lord of the dark waters,
where the muṇṭakam flowers
with petals like squirrel's teeth
ripen their pollen to the color of gems —
if this life ends and another begins,
may you be my husband then too,
and may I be the one
your heart approves.

50

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Kuṉṟiyaṉār.

The small white flowers of the ñāḻal
have spread with the fine blossoms of the river marutam
and adorned his town's bathing-ford.
But my broad, soft arms
that he once embraced
have grown thin with loneliness
and are adorned only with grief.

51

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Kuṉṟiyaṉār.

The curved-thorned muṇṭakam's great cold blossoms
scatter like pearls broken from a thread
and drift with the wind to every ford.
I love the lord of the white-sand shore.
My mother desires him greatly too.
My father is willing to give me.
Even the gossiping town
speaks of him and me.

52

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Paṉampāraṉār.

When I saw you tremble in the mountain-pool —
where the fed elephant steps among bright stones —
as if the spirit of the hills had seized you,
O girl with fragrant thick hair
and shining white teeth,
I was afraid for you.
Was it not my own fear, lord, just a little?

53

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Kōpperuñcōḻaṉ.

Tell me, lord:
the vow you swore to those girls
of the spirit-dance in every grove —
where the white sand gleams
like scattered rice-puffs from red paddy
beneath the rainy mastwood trees —
when you took their slender wrists —
was that vow meant for them
or was it meant for us?

54

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Mīṉeṟitūṇṭilār.

I am here in this place.
But my beauty
is there — in the hill country
where the man from the forest
plucks green bamboo dropped by elephants
startled by the sling-stone of the millet-guard
and it rises like a fish on a hook.
My beauty has gone with him.

55

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Neytaṟkārkkiyar.

The great dark backwater's gem-flowers close.
The spray of white foam-drops mingles with the mist.
The helpless, sweeping north wind
brings sorrow at its touch.
These are bitter days
in this small, good town.

56

Pālai — Hero's words. Poet: Ciṟaikkuṭi Āntaiyār.

With her bangled hands
let her share our poor meal:
the leftovers of a hunting dog's kill,
the muddy dregs of a spring
where wasps swarm.
Let her come to us —
pitiable, pitiable,
she who dwells in our heart.

57

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ciṟaikkuṭi Āntaiyār.

Even if a flower comes between us,
it feels like a year.
Like the water-bird and its mate
who cannot bear to part —
such is our love, unquenchable.
Let our lives end together.
We know our duty.
We are two in this world
who have become one.
There is no escaping this misery.

58

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Veḷḷivītiyār.

You who thunder at me, kinsmen,
keep your complaints to yourselves!
It would be well if you could stop this.
But like butter melting in the sun,
watched by a handless, tongueless man —
this disease has spread everywhere.
It is too great to bear.

59

Pālai — Friend's words. Poet: Mōcikīraṉār.

He will not forget your fragrant brow,
O you whose forehead smells
of waterlily and wild jasmine
from the deep pool on the hill
of Ataḷai, the patron of drum-bearing bards.
And he will return —
for the wealth he seeks is not yet won,
and his journey is not long.

60

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

Like the lame man who sits
beneath a small umbrella in his hand,
looking up at the great honeycomb
of the tall mountain —
pointing and laughing, unable to reach it —
even if my lover does not care,
does not desire me,
the mere sight of him, again and again,
is sweet to my heart.

61

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Tumpicēr Kīraṉār.

The carpenter's toy chariot —
even those who cannot ride it
find joy pulling it by hand, like children.
So too with us: even if we gain
no deep pleasure from our bond
with the lord of the lily-pond town,
we are happy just being near him —
and see how tight our bangles have grown!

62

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Ciṟaikkuṭi Āntaiyār.

Her body — like a garland
woven from the opening kōṭal bud,
the pale mullai,
the fragrant kuvaḷai,
braided fine and beautiful —
is sweeter than young leaves
and sweeter still to hold.

63

Pālai — Hero's words. Poet: Ukāykkuṭikiḻār.

To give and to enjoy —
these do not exist for the poor, you say,
and so you plan the work of earning, O heart.
For that work, will you bring her too —
the girl with the beautiful dark skin?
Or will you drive me alone?
Tell me, heart.

64

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Karuvūrk Katappiḷḷai.

Like a bewildered calf
standing in the evening common,
looking down the long cattle-road
from which the herd has not returned —
so is my pain.
They know this, yet they stay far,
those men of the far country.

65

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kōvūrkiḻār.

The cool first rains have come.
The stag who drank clear water from the stony stream
gambols with his mate in joy.
Did the monsoon come
to tell those who stay far
and wait in hope for their return:
"Are you suffering there while they linger?"

66

Mullai — Friend's words. Poet: Kōvarttaṉār.

The koṉṟai trees are foolish, friend:
before the season our lover promised has arrived,
they burst into bunched clusters of blooming vine-flowers —
mistaking the false rain
for the true monsoon.

67

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Aḷḷūr Naṉmullaiyār.

Has he forgotten us, friend?
Where the parrot holds the bright neem-fruit
in its curved beak
and it gleams like a gold coin
on the fine new string
threaded by a sharp-nailed jeweler —
he has crossed the cactus wasteland
where the earth lies scorched.

68

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Aḷḷūr Naṉmullaiyār.

In the harsh, cold, early winter,
when the herds of deer devour
the ripe old pods of the red-footed pulse
on their small green stalks —
there is no other medicine:
only his chest, where he held me close.

69

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Kaṭuntōṭ Karavīraṉār.

When the dark-eyed stag
met his death from a stranger's blow,
the she-monkey, unable to bear widowhood,
placed her untaught young upon the elders
and leaped from the high cliff to her death.
O man from the mountains,
do not come at midnight —
we suffer enough.

70

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Ōrampōkiyār.

The girl with smooth, dark hair
and bright brow —
she is cool as clear water,
a torment to behold.
I cannot describe her.
Her words are few and soft.
She is soft on the bed
when I embrace her.

71

Pālai — Hero's words. Poet: Karuvūr Ōtañāṉiyār.

She is my medicine, if I call her medicine.
She is my treasure, if I call her treasure.
With budding beauty-marks on her round young breasts,
with broad shoulders and a waist so slender —
the mountain girl whose forest people bless her.

72

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Maḷḷaṉār.

Her eyes — they wander like flowers.
They pierce like arrows.
The great dark eyes of that sweet-spoken girl
with soft round arms — they are known to all.
They have wounded me,
she who chases parrots
from the millet on the great mountain,
with her rain-cloud eyes.

73

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

Her husband's chest — you desire it.
Do not grieve, friend.
Like the Kōcar who spoke one word
and then drove Nannaṉ
and his fragrant mango-tree from the land —
a little hard cunning
is needed here too.

74

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Viṭṭakutiraiyār.

She does not know he pines for her.
Like a bull in summer
he has wasted away, they say,
desiring the fine beauty
of our girl.

75

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Paṭumarattu Mōcikīraṉār.

Did you see it yourself,
or hear it from someone who saw?
Tell me one thing clearly, for I am eager:
from whose lips did you hear
that our lover is coming —
here, to this golden city of Pāṭali
where white-tusked elephants
bathe in the Soṇai river?

76

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kiḷḷi Maṅkalam Kiḻār.

Will he go, they say,
the man from the mountain of stone —
in the harsh, cold early winter
when the chill north wind shakes
the great hanging leaves of the wild yam
on the hillside, wide as elephant-ears?
Will he leave us shivering?

77

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturai Marutaṉ Iḷanākaṉār.

Hear me, friend.
There is no fault in it — none at all.
In the harsh wasteland
where stones piled over dead strangers
give shade tall as a great elephant —
for those who crossed that terrible forest,
these soft, broad arms
have become easy things.

78

Kuriñci — Companion's words. Poet: Nakkīraṉār.

On the great mountain,
the tall white waterfall
rumbles like the drum
of the old-mouthed bards
and descends the bright slope.
O lord of that mountain —
love is a pitiable thing.
It goes and stands
even before those who return nothing,
a great foolishness.

79

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kuṭavāyiṟ Kīrattaṉār.

In the wasteland,
the dove that sits on the wind-battered branch
of the drumstick tree
that the wild elephant gnawed and spat —
it calls with a lonely voice,
seeking its mate who went hunting.
Has he stopped at that small wayside village?
He who could leave without a word
when I said I was not willing.

80

Marutam — Other woman's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

Let me weave waterlilies through my hair
and go to the great river-ford.
If his wife is afraid of that —
then let her guard her husband's chest
with her whole clan around her,
like a great herd of cattle
before the charging many-speared Eḻini.

81

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Vaṭama Vaṇṇakkaṇ Pēricāttaṉār.

This is her: trusting my word,
which trusted your word,
she has lost her fresh beauty
and sits grieving in the shade
of the fresh-budded ñāḻal tree.
Look at her, I beg you.
Remember her.
In our small, good town
where the sea and the grove appear
between moonlight and darkness
beneath the palm trees with their drooping fronds.

82

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaṭuvaṉ Maḷḷaṉār.

Who will stroke my long, curling hair
and hold me close from behind
and dry my weeping eyes
saying "Do not cry" —
now that he has not come
in the harsh, cold winter
when the thick avarai vine flowers
by the stubble of small millet
in the hill-dweller's clearing?

83

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Veṇpūtaṉār.

May our mother reach the great world
where rare ambrosia is the food!
She said: "He will come,
the man from the high mountain country
where sweet fruit hangs from every branch
of the jackfruit trees
like food eaten in one's own home."

84

Pālai — Foster-mother's words. Poet: Mōcikīraṉār.

"Let me go — I embraced him — I am sweating," she said.
Now I understand: what I thought was anger
was really love.
She smells of vēṅkai and kāntaḷ
from the cloud-draped Potiyil hills
of Āy with the warrior's anklet —
and she is cooler than the āmpal flower.

85

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Vaṭama Vaṇṇakkaṉ Tāmōtaraṉār.

He is sweeter than anyone,
a man of great love.
But trust only his words,
not his bard's.
The bard of the lord
from the prosperous town —
where the cock-sparrow hops
to the scentless white sugarcane flowers
to build a nest for his pregnant mate —
all bards are liars
when their patron departs.

86

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Veṇkoṟṟaṉār.

Are there others who hear it —
in the midnight of winter
when the rain falls harder
and the cold wind drives its spray —
the voice of the practiced bell
at the cattle-fold,
lonely wherever the herd has wandered,
ringing its impoverished tone?
My eyes, cold and red-streaked,
weep like that bell.

87

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

They say the spirit of the village maṟā tree
punishes the cruel.
Our lord of the mountain country
is not cruel at all.
Yet my brow has yellowed with longing,
and my broad, soft arms
have grown thin, grown thin.

88

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Maturaik Katakkaṇṇaṉār.

The man from the tall mountain
of roaring white waterfalls —
where a small-eyed great elephant
charges a powerful tiger
and the old enmity ends on the slope
no one dares approach —
he comes even at midnight.
And we — are we not ashamed
of the mark it leaves on our good name?

89

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

Let idle strangers say
what they will, pounding their flat-bottomed mortars.
What is ruined
in this foolish town?
Like the painted image
of the dark-eyed goddess
carved on the western cliff of Kolli mountain
of Poṟaiyaṉ with his great ornaments —
this girl with the soft nature:
if she only sings his name, all is done.

90

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Maturai Eḻuttāḷaṉ Cēntaṉpūtaṉār.

What is it, friend?
The man from the hill country —
where the prickly-haired stag knocks down
the fragrant jackfruit
from the pepper-growing slope at night,
and the waterfall carries it
to the drinking-ford —
his friendship has made my soft arms thin,
and yet it has given them worth.

91

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

If you are his wife,
the man from the cool-fording town
where the spotted rattan-vine's ripe fruit
falls into the deep pond
and the keṇṭai fish leap for it —
then may your heart's sorrows multiply.
Like a village raided at night
by the swift war-elephant of the generous Añci
whose gifts never cease —
may your nights of sleep grow few.

92

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Tāmōtaraṉār.

Pitiable are the birds
in the wide mouth of the sky
after the sun has set —
hurrying home
because they have filled
their chicks' open mouths with food
in the nests of the roadside maṟā tree
on the high bank.
Their wings are crooked from the effort.

93

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Aḷḷūr Naṉmullaiyār.

Even if my beauty fades,
even if I grow thin and die —
do not speak of it.
Is he not both mother and father to us, friend?
Quarreling with him — what use is it
when we are at the mercy of love?

94

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Katakkaṇṇaṉār.

The buds of the jasmine
are already redder than before
in the great cool rains.
I am bewildered, friend.
If they hear this at midnight —
those who parted from us —
what will become of them?
In the mountains where waterfalls cascade,
the heavy rain-clouds
roar like thunder.

95

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Kapilar.

The daughter of the hill-tribe chief
with her great arms —
who lives in the small hamlet
on the many-flowered slope
where the white waterfall tumbles from the dark mountain
and pools in the rock-hollows —
she is gentle as water,
and she has melted my strength like fire.

96

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Aḷḷūr Naṉmullaiyār.

"What shall I do
about the man from the great mountain
of waterfalls and vēṅkai trees?" you ask.
If I did not know it was a joke,
what would become of you,
my bright-browed friend?

97

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Veṇpūtiyār.

I am here. My beauty
is there — by the seashore,
with the lord of the coast.
And in that town of his
it is no secret —
it is spoken openly in the street.

98

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kōkkuḷa Muṟṟaṉār.

If only someone would go to him
and tell him: "She has become like this,
your girl with the bright brow" —
how good that would be, friend!
They could carry, from our garden,
just a few yellow pīram flowers
blooming on the rain-wet green bush.

99

Mullai — Hero's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

Did I not think of her? I did.
Did I not think of her deeply? I did, greatly.
And thinking, was I not bewildered
at the way of the world?
The tall marā tree's branches touch the flood —
and as the water drains away,
so does my great desire surge back,
beyond all measure.

100

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Kapilar.

In the small hamlet
behind the kāntaḷ-flower fence
where they sow mountain rice
by the waterfall's spray
and tie it with green marjoram and jasmine —
if they hunger, they break an elephant's tusk
and eat from it,
the strong-bowed Ōri of Kolli's western slope.
Like his painted image,
she is innocent —
and her great bamboo arms
are hard to embrace.

101

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Parūu Mōvāyp Patumaṉār.

This world ringed by the roaring sea,
and the rare heaven of the gods —
weigh them both, and neither will equal
the days I spend with the girl
of flower-dark eyes and golden skin,
with her fine-patterned belly —
the days she lets me hold her arms.

102

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

When I think of him, my heart burns.
When I stop thinking, it is not enough.
Desire reaches the sky, tormenting me.
The man I chose as my own
is no worthy man at all.

103

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Vāyilāṉ Tēvaṉār.

The red-mouthed heron in its white feathers
like split petals of a flower —
it hunts for prey in the cold, rushing mud
of the dark backwater, and suffers.
The driving north wind flings its spray.
Our lover seems unlikely to return.
I seem unlikely to survive.

104

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kāvaṉmullaippūtaṉār.

Hear me, friend. Our lover
left on the dewy day
when the cool drops fell like pearls
broken from a string
and the tāḷi vine crept over the wet field.
He left on such a day.
And the days of leaving
are so many.

105

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Nakkīrar.

The peacock ate the fat ear of millet
that had been offered to the god
who guards the forest-keeper's garden.
Now it dances like the spirit-dancer's girl
in her fierce, possessed beauty.
The man from the fearful mountain country —
my thoughts of him
bring water to my eyes.

106

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

His word has come to us, friend —
from the man whose heart has no malice,
the man from the country
where white roots of the fig tree
stream down the cliff
like a mountain waterfall.
Let us too send a message back:
"Come, and we will receive you
like fire fed with ghee."

107

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturaik Kaṇṇaṉār.

May you become prey
for the kitten that waits in the eaves
watching for rats at midnight —
the kitten whose face-markings
glow like the red ixora flower —
you who woke me
from the sweet sleep
I slept beside the lord
of the prosperous, watered town!

108

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Vāyilāṉ Tēvaṉār.

Where clouds play on the hills
and cattle turn toward their calves,
the pure-leafed mullai's
flawless white flowers
have taken on the color of the red evening sky.
I will not survive, friend.

109

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Nampi Kuṭṭuvaṉār.

When the lord of the shore
was united with her —
even then, was her bright brow's beauty
ever truly this way?
The great shrimp-shoals with their spiny legs
and curving backs
are carried in by the sea-waves.

110

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kiḷḷimaṅkalaṅkiḻār.

Whether he comes or does not come,
what is he to us, friend?
He does not ask "How is she?" —
while the cold north wind blows cruelly,
scattering the fine soft blossoms
of the spiny īṅkai
and the bright-spotted peacock-feather flowers
and the blue-leaved nīlam.

111

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Tīṉmati Nākaṉār.

My mother thinks the illness on your soft arms
is the work of the victorious Lord Murugan.
If she learns the truth —
quick, let the man from the dark-stoned mountain country
come to our door, friend,
so we can see the great joke
our household will become.

112

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Ālattūr Kiḻār.

If I fear gossip, desire will destroy me.
If I ignore it, I lose my shame.
Like a branch that bends
when a great elephant pulls it
but will not break and fall —
such is the beauty he consumed, friend.
Look at it.

113

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Mātīrttaṉār.

The pond is close to the town.
The small stream is not far from the pond.
Nothing goes there
except the white heron hunting its prey.
The grove is deserted.
"Let us go there to fetch clay for our hair" —
and the great foolish girl
will go there too.

114

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Poṉṉākaṉār.

I laid the doll on the neytal-flower carpet
and came to your meeting-place, lord of the fine chariot.
Let us go — come now, let us go.
But every night,
herons stuff their bellies with fish
and then trample
on my daughter's brow.

115

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Kapilar.

Even those who do great good
find some who do not care.
But she has only one good thing: you.
So forgive her, calm your quarrel.
O man of the good mountain
where the wild cow sleeps
on the cool, fragrant slope
where bamboo-leaves grow thick —
she has no one but you.

116

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Iḷaṅkīraṉār.

My beloved's honey-scented hair —
like the fine sand
of Uṟantai's great bathing-ford
belonging to the prosperous Cōḻa kings —
is dark and beautiful, cool and fragrant.

117

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Kuṉṟiyaṉār.

The mud-crab, terrified
of the heron's watchful eye —
a heron like a rain-season waterlily —
scurries into the mangrove roots.
Like a bull freed from its rope,
it rushes.
If the lord of the shore does not come,
so be it.
There are small ones here too —
bangles in the jeweler's hand.

118

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Naṉṉākaiyār.

Birds and beasts settle in loneliness.
The loveless evening has come,
deep and dark.
The gate-keepers call out:
"Is anyone coming? The many-doored gate is closing."
But still, friend,
our lover does not return.

119

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Cattiṉātaṉār.

Like the thin-striped young serpent
that bewilders a wild elephant —
she is young, with teeth like budding blades,
bangles on her arms.
She has bewildered me.

120

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

Like a poor man
craving another's pleasure —
you have desired what is rare, O heart.
You knew she was beautiful.
You did not know
she was impossible.

121

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

It is true, friend.
Like the black-faced monkey
who leaps at a branch on the hillside
but misses and takes the blow
on his horns —
the man from the hills
failed to keep his appointed time,
and my broad, soft arms
have turned pale for nothing.

122

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ōrampōkiyār.

The waterlily on its green stalk,
dull as the back of a young heron,
has folded shut.
And now evening has come —
not alone: it brings the night.

123

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Aiyūr Muṭavaṉār.

The cool shade, dense as packed darkness.
The white sand, bright as heaped moonlight.
On one side, the dark-trunked mastwood grove
stands lonely.
Still the boat has not come —
my father's fishing boat,
heading home through the many-starred night.

124

Pālai — Friend's words. Poet: Pālaipāṭiya Peruṅkaṭuṅkō.

The great desert of ōmai trees,
wide-topped and lonely,
where the salt-traders once camped and moved on —
if you say that place is bitter,
then tell me: for those left alone,
is home any sweeter?

125

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ammūvaṉār.

I am here — with bangles
slipping from my thinning wrists —
and yet I survive, friend.
Among the girls garlanded with green seaweed,
my beauty was the brightest,
like the prize at a festival.
But now it has been traded away
for the eyes of the lord of the cool shore —
and nothing is left.

126

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Okkūr Mācāttiyār.

Those who left, chasing wealth
and not caring for my youth —
they do not come back here,
and where are they?
The mullai vine, freed by the rain,
grins with white bud-teeth
as if laughing at me —
and the cool monsoon is sweet, friend.

127

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Ōrampōkiyār.

The keṇṭai fish, startled by the heron's dive,
leaps at the white lotus bud
in the rich garden ford of your town.
If your one bard is a liar,
then all bards are liars
to those who have been left behind.

128

Neytal — Hero's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

Like the old, wave-beaten heron of the eastern sea
that comes to the harbor of Toṇṭi,
city of Poṟaiyaṉ of the strong chariot,
to feast on small ayirai fish —
so does my heart go, unbidden,
toward the girl who lives far away.
You are sick, O heart —
and the sickness is your own.

129

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Kōpperuñcōḻaṉ.

O companion of hungry little boys,
O friend of scholars —
listen!
In the great dark sea,
on the eighth day of the month,
a young white moon appeared.
Just so, her small bright brow
shines beside her hair.
She has bound me
like a newly captured elephant.

130

Pālai — Friend's words. Poet: Veḷḷivītiyār.

They do not burrow into the earth.
They do not climb to the sky.
They do not walk on the impassable sea.
Search country by country,
town by town,
clan by clan —
can our lovers truly be lost?

131

Pālai — Hero's words. Poet: Orēruḻavaṉār.

The town where the girl of bamboo-graceful arms
and large, warring eyes sits —
that town is far away, heart.
Like a lone plowman
with a single pair of oxen
on wet, freshly sown land —
I tremble with longing.
I grieve.

132

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Ciṟaikkuṭi Āntaiyār.

Her voice is husky with desire.
Her beauty is enchanting.
Her breasts are soft and mounded.
Her hair is vine-dark.
How could I forget her, ever?
She looked at me
with the longing look of a calf
seeking its mother
at a fierce cow's trembling udder —
that dark girl.

133

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Uṟaiyūr Mutukaṇṇaṉ Cāttaṉār.

Like the stubble of millet in the forest clearing
that stands upright again, rustling,
when the heavy rains come —
so too I thought myself strong, friend.
But the loneliness,
after he tasted my beauty
and left — undoes me.

134

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kōvēṅkaip Peruṅkatavaṉār.

If it were not for parting, friend,
how good it would be:
the love between us
and the man from the mountain country
where the waterfall strikes the rock
with a sound like a serpent falling to earth,
where the swift cascade
batters the tall, flowering vēṅkai tree
until its petals scatter.

135

Pālai — Friend's words. Poet: Pālaipāṭiya Peruṅkaṭuṅkō.

"For men, their work is their life.
For women at home, their men are their life."
So they said — the very ones
who are now preparing to leave.
Do not weep, friend.
They will grieve at their own departure.

136

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Miḷaipperuṅ Kantaṉār.

They call it desire. Desire, they say.
But desire is neither spirit-sickness
nor bodily disease.
It does not sharpen and then cool.
Like the sweet madness of an elephant
fed on fresh-leafed food —
it has its own rhythm,
if only you could see it.

137

Pālai — Hero's words. Poet: Pālaipāṭiya Peruṅkaṭuṅkō.

If I could leave you, soft-natured girl,
with your good home echoing with loneliness —
then may the days multiply
when no petitioners come to my door
and no gifts are given.

138

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Kollaṉ Aḻici.

Even when the whole town sleeps, we do not sleep.
From behind the house, beyond the fence,
the beautiful-branched nocci tree
with leaves like peacock feet
has bloomed its gem-like flowers —
and their fragrance keeps us awake.

139

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Okkūr Mācāttiyār.

Like the short-legged house-hen
who, when a jungle cat prowls the fence at dusk,
not knowing where to flee,
gathers her bewildered, frightened chicks
and calls to them —
such is the bitter gossip of this town.
Do not come to our street, lord.

140

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Aḷḷūr Naṉmullaiyār.

In the wasteland, the old crested cock
of the wild hen
perches on the road for travelers to see.
My lover has gone to that desert.
How does this gossiping town
know the grief I hold inside,
my strength destroyed?

141

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturaip Peruṅkollaṉār.

"Go chase the parrots
from the ripening millet," said my mother.
If you told her — could you not say, friend:
"In the deep, dark midnight
where a short-clawed tiger
watches for the kill
through green eyes like a red jackal's —
do not come by the mountain path, lord.
Do not come."

142

Kuriñci — Hero's words. Poet: Kapilar.

She gathers flowers from the mountain pool,
weaves them into garlands,
and scares the parrots from the millet —
the wide-eyed innocent.
Does she know? Or does she not?
At midnight my heart sighs like a sleeping elephant
and follows her, unbidden.

143

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Maturaik Kaṇakkāyaṉār Makaṉār Nakkīraṉār.

Do not grieve, bright-jeweled one.
He is a man of great love,
and he fears disgrace.
The man from the fruitful mountain —
like the generous warrior's wealth
that is hard to hold
because its nature is to be given away —
so is the pallor on your darkened skin:
it cannot last.

144

Pālai — Foster-mother's words. Poet: Maturai Āciriyar Kōṭaṉ Koṟṟaṉār.

She would gather shells at the backwater
and play in the white-capped sea-waves.
That was her life among friends
who never parted from her.
Now she will not stay.
She has gone to the mountain country
where rain-clouds hang on the peaks
and the sky-high cliffs loom,
blocking the way.

145

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Kollaṉaḻiciyār.

It is not the lord of the shore's own town
but a small, sea-dwelling village.
I bear his cruelty,
and in the deep hours of the night,
those who cannot sleep meet with those who do not ask —
and the long night is full of both.

146

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Veḷḷivītiyār.

Are there, in our town,
people who reunite those who have parted?
The old men leaning on their staffs
with their white-haired heads —
they say "Good, good!"
And the assembly there
says "This is excellent indeed."

147

Pālai — Hero's words. Poet: Kōpperuñcōḻaṉ.

O dream, you brought her to me —
the girl whose complexion
is like the curved flower of the summer pātiṟi,
whose beauty streams with soft luster —
as if you had truly given her.
Then you woke me.
Those who have been parted from their mates
are not to be mocked.

148

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Iḷaṅkīrantaiyār.

The koṉṟai has bloomed
with buds like gold coins,
like the jeweled anklets
on the feet of wealthy children.
It hangs with the kuruntam
in the great cool season.
If you say this is not the monsoon,
then this vision I see —
is it a dream?

149

Pālai — Heroine's words. Poet: Veḷḷivītiyār.

Pitiable is my shame —
it endured long with me.
But now, like the little dam
of white-flowered sugarcane on the high sand
that breaks when the sweet flood surges —
it cannot hold anymore.
Desire overwhelms it.
My hands cannot stop it.

150

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Māṭalūr Kiḻār.

On the high mountain where the distant one
lights his fragrant signal-fire,
the embers wink like stars in the sky.
When I remember his sandal-fragrant chest,
sickness rises in me.
When I embrace him, it vanishes.
What is this, mother?

151

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Tunkaloriyar.

The red-footed hen-bird that crossed the thorny waste —
when she fell as if unable to rise,
not seeing her mate,
she called with many short, flute-voiced cries.
Not saying the narrow hill-path is difficult,
leaving behind my unforgettable beloved —
shall I cross over? Is this the end of youth?

152

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kilimankalam Kilar.

Those who scold know nothing at all.
Like an egg lying inside its mother —
if it wastes away, what else does it hold
but the turtle-hatchling's fate?
Such is love, when lovers let go
with helpless hands.

153

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

Even if the mountain owl hoots,
even if the monkey leaps and plays
on the dark branch of the jackfruit
in the front yard —
my heart used to be afraid, pitiable thing.
But now, in the pitch-dark night,
going toward him
on the long hillside path,
it does not stop.

154

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturaicittalaicattanar.

How did they know, friend?
In the wasteland where heat-haze shimmers
like a snake's shed skin —
the hen, remembering the cock
that rose seeking prey,
sits with her spotted, soft-feathered breast
on the spreading branch of the thorned cactus,
gleaming, and calls out in loneliness.
Those who can dwell far away
in that terrible forest, having parted from us —

155

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Urotakattuk Karattanar.

The farmers who cleared the old field
in the heavy rains —
their seed-baskets overflow with buds.
The season itself has come.
But the clear-toned, split-mouthed bells
poured from the bellows-blown forge,
ringing through the tree-thick grove
as the chariot descends from the waste —
the word that says "the chariot comes at evening" —
it does not come.

156

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Pantiyan Enati Netunkannanar.

O Brahmin boy! O Brahmin boy!
Having removed the fine garland
of red silk-cotton flowers
and taken up your staff
and your hanging water-pot —
O Brahmin boy of ascetic food!
In your unwritten learning,
in the words you hold —
is there a medicine
that reunites those who have parted?
Or is this just madness?

157

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Allur Nanmullaiyar.

"Cock-a-doodle!" cried the rooster.
At that, my pure heart shuddered —
for the dawn that separates
flower-eared lovers
has come like a sword.

158

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Avvaiyar.

O great rain, pregnant with storms,
whose roaring voice mixes
with the thunderclap
that crashes where snakes die
against the tall cliff —
you who came with the wind —
have you no pity?
You whose nature can shake
even the Himalayas —
women without their mates are pitiable.
What is this cruelty?

159

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Vatama Vannakkan Pericattanar.

The leaf-skirt around her hips will not stay.
Her tiny waist suffers under the weight.
Her soft, beautiful breasts have swollen full
and stand round like pots.
"What will become of the flower-jeweled girl?" he asks
with his worried heart, not inquiring further —
this foolish, anxious town.

160

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturai Marutan Ilanakanar.

The andril bird with its fire-red head,
with its prawn-beaked, curved-mouthed mate —
separated on the high branch of the banyan,
they cry helplessly in the deep midnight.
And still the great cold north wind blows —
and he does not come.
Is this, friend, our lover's arrival?

161

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Nakkirar.

The hour has gone dark. The rain does not stop.
The wind blows until even the ghosts shiver.
And mother, embracing the children
with their tiger-tooth necklaces,
says "Do not be afraid" —
but what was he thinking?
He, with his sandalwood-fragrant chest,
has come and stands before us
like an elephant in the monsoon.

162

Mullai — Hero's words. Poet: Karuvurp Pauvuttiranar.

O jasmine, long life to you, O jasmine!
In the wide, water-filled fields
the monsoon brought,
on this lonely evening
when many come and go —
you showed your small white buds
like a smile, as if laughing.
Is it right to do this
to those who are alone?

163

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ammuvanar.

O sea, whom have you bewitched?
On the great shore with its groves
where white-beaked herons
flock like the white-headed soldiers of the Puliyar,
feeding on fish —
the white-flowered talai is beaten by waves.
Even in the deep midnight
we hear your voice.

164

Marutam — Other woman's words. Poet: Mankuti Marutanar.

The pregnant young valai fish
with arrow-shaped horns
snaps at the sweet fruit of the clustered teak.
May the cool, great sea
to the east of the hill-town of Kunrur
of the ancient, venerable Velir lords
torment you, friend!
If his wife sulks in her innocence
and I become nothing to my lord —

165

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Paranar.

Already drunk on joy, I drank more toddy.
Already hot with desire, I burned hotter still —
like a salt-merchant's cart on a crumbling bank
that collapses when the great rain falls —
so I collapsed, seeing
her dark, thick hair
and her beautiful, swaying walk.

166

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Kutalur Kilar.

Because the cool sea's retreating waves
drive the white-winged herons in rows
to feed on small fish —
that town of Marantai is fine indeed.
But to stay there alone —
that is loneliness.

167

Mullai — Foster-mother's words. Poet: Kutalur Kilar.

With soft kantaḷ-flower fingers
that kneaded sour curd,
wearing her unwashed garment,
her waterlily-dark eyes stinging
with cooking-smoke —
she herself prepared the sweet, sour curry.
Because her husband ate it
and said "It is good" —
the face of the bright-browed one
shone with a fine, delicate joy.

168

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Ciraikkuti Yantaiyar.

She is cool and fragrant
as the water-soaked, ripe buds
of the monsoon jasmine —
as if many palm-leaf bundles
had been wrapped together
and opened at dawn after a great rain.
Her dark, good body,
her long arms smooth as river-rafts —
we have never been without embracing,
without parting.
But to live, if we must part —
that is even less possible.

169

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Vellivitiyar.

May my white teeth — which laughed with you —
shatter like the tusks of a wasteland elephant
that strikes a stone!
Sir, even for us
it has become great sorrow,
like the fishermen's stale-fish basket.
We cannot have you either.
May our life shatter.

170

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Karuvurkiḻar.

Let those who do not know say many things!
The waterfall brings down the vulture's daily cry.
The elephant roams the deep pool, eating its fill.
The friendship of the lord of that mountain country —
I know well it will not go wrong.

171

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Punkaṇuttiraiyar.

See this, friend, and may you live long!
Like a great fish caught in a net
set in the deep pool
by the fresh-flowing flood —
what is this strange thing —
a stranger's face appearing?

172

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaccippettu Nannakaiyar.

The bat with its strong, fine wings
flies toward the ripe-fruit tree
in the sorrowful evening.
He who left us here alone —
is he alone now, content?
Like the bellows-hide
bound to one village
for the common work of seven —
my heart keeps churning,
not knowing where it should turn.

173

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Maturaik Kancippulavan.

Wearing garlands thick
with fresh golden avirai flowers,
riding a spirited horse with many-corded garlands,
mounting as its jeweled bells ring —
I would set aside all shame
as the lovesickness grows and grows.
"She did this to him," they announce before me,
blaming her, in this town.
Since they understand it so —
how shall I leave from here?

174

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Venputiyar.

In the lonely, rainless wasteland
where the sharp cracking
of the forked-thorned cactus splitting its pods
startles the soft-feathered, paired pigeon —
not saying "the wasteland path is difficult,"
they left us for wealth.
In this world,
wealth is indeed just wealth.
And compassion —
truly, no one has it.

175

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Uloccanar.

Swarms of bees, desiring seasonal honey,
cluster on the great dark branch
of the wet punnai tree
on the dense sand shore
beaten by surging waves —
its flowers have opened.
For the lord of the great waters —
"She does not grieve here" —
why should I say that?
Let the gossip settle as it will.
What does it matter?

176

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Varumulaiyarittiyar.

He came not for one day.
He came not for two.
Then for many days he came,
repeating gentle words,
until he softened my good heart.
Then he was gone —
like honey aged on the mountain.
Where is the shameless one now?
My heart dissolves
like thunder-bearing rain
that falls on another land's good fields.

177

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Uloccanar.

The sea's singing has ceased.
The grove is dim.
The dark lagoon at the shore is desolate.
The andril bird, living on the frond
of the common palmyra in the village square,
cries softly too.
Will they come today, friend? —
those who, even when we sulked,
feared separation
and could not withdraw from love.

178

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Netumpalliyattaiyar.

In the cool, beautiful marsh
where ayirai fish spread,
among the elegant, hollow-stemmed,
round-stalked ampal water-lilies —
sir, you lie trembling between her breasts
like one who breaks lily-stems, wanting water.
When you appeared to us
like a crescent moon to worship,
you seemed small to us then.
Now you appear large.
I grieve.

179

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Kuttuvan Kannanar.

Having chased the wild elephant
through the roaring forest —
the day has gone dark, the dogs are tired.
Do not go further, sir.
Our village is right there —
on the mountain's high ledge
where the young elephant chewed
the sweet honeycomb from the green bamboo —
it stands on the peak
between the crouching dwarf bamboo.

180

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Kaccippettu Nannakaiyar.

When the herds of great dark elephants come
with their fruit-like nails and broad, flat feet,
the sugarcane crushed on the ground —
a single, lonely reed remains, standing tall.
Crossing that wasteland,
did they find the wealth they sought?
The lines on her hips have faded —
she was abandoned by those
who went to that hard-hearted land.

181

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Kilimankalam Kiḻar.

What is this, friend?
Between quarrels, those bitter words —
"They are like this" —
like the calf the farmer tied
that will not leave
the fresh-calved, dark, great buffalo,
grazing on the green, milky young crop —
the man of the town with its many ponds
has made us his great, old wife,
bearing many burdens in his fine household.

182

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Matal Patiya Matankirar.

Strapping on the great splitting palmyra-frond
like the customary jeweled garland,
appearing pale, scorned by others,
casting off great shame for one strip of it —
will riding through the street on a palmyra horse
bring her to me —
that gentle-gaited, beautiful innocent
who has not grown thin?
Is this the messenger we agreed to send?

183

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Avvaiyar.

The golden konrai flowers in the land he went to
turn pale like us in season.
Will our people also see
the antlered deer, freed from the doe,
standing where the pale kaya tree's
flower-laden branches
look like a peacock's soft neck —
in the dry forest tract of the wasteland?

184

Neytal — Hero's words. Poet: Ariya Varacan Yaḻppiramatattar.

The wise do not falsify their witness.
Stay away from traveling to that small settlement!
Not thinking "this befits that" —
my noble heart stayed there and lost itself,
on that seashore where the fishermen's daughter,
a girl lovely as a doll
with a crown like peacock-eyes,
catches me in the net of her gaze.

185

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturai Aruvai Vanikan Ilavettar.

My brow has turned pale.
My beauty spots have faded.
My long, soft bamboo-arms have thinned.
My bangles slip.
"She will become like this because of you" — they said.
What good does saying it do, friend?
Like a many-striped snake whose hood has wilted,
like the bright red kantaḷ flower
drooping on the rock in the rain —
so is the grief of my fine, dark body
for the lord of the mountains.

186

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Okkur Macattiyar.

When the monsoon's thundering bull-clouds
mated with the rain
above the forest clearing,
the soft jasmine vine showed buds like teeth.
My eyes, friend —
for the lord of that land,
my eyes have given up sleep.

187

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

On the red mountain's ledge,
the wild goat's fawn
drinks its fill of sweet milk from the udder
and plays in the great mountain's shade.
The lord of that land
is harder than stone, friend.
Yet my heart, not thinking "he is hard,"
grows weak for him.

188

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturai Alakkar Naḻar Makanar Mallanar.

The jasmine buds have ripened.
With the jasmine,
the cool monsoon fields have come to fullness.
Those who loosened my bright jewels do not come.
Evening has arrived,
seeking my fading beauty.

189

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Maturai Iḻattup Putantevanar.

Going today, returning tomorrow —
urging the white chariot swift
as a waterfall down the hill,
its gleaming wheels like the young crescent moon,
cutting through the green crop
like a falling meteor —
reaching her by evening
with wind-swift speed,
I shall embrace
the small girl with her few rows of white bangles —
her many-splendored body — and rejoice.

190

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Putam Pulavanar.

Having stroked my thick, dark, curling hair
and my great arms —
the one who left to earn wealth,
making my tight bangles loosen —
does he know, friend?
While angry, spotted snakes lose their heads
in the thundering half-dark of midnight,
every time the fine bull moves, it rings out —
the voice of a single bell
in the cattle-pen of many cows.

191

Mullai — Heroine's words.

"Look there — is that it?" What shall I say?
The great-winged birds sitting on the strong branch —
because they are mated,
they make those who are parted
hear their sweet voices calling.
If that stranger who left
should come here now —
I would not even adorn my thick hair.
"Do not touch me," I would say.

192

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaccippettu Nannakaiyar.

"He will come — do not grieve," they say.
Shall I stop weeping now?
I who dwell in pain —
the dark koel with lightning-bright feathers,
like a touchstone gleaming with gold,
brushes the fragrant pollen
from the dark branches.
Even then,
I stroke my thin, dry hair.

193

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Aricil Kiḻar.

In the land where split-mouthed frogs
in narrow-mouthed springs
croak like clapping drums —
in the long white moonlight
of an ancient month,
he embraced my long arms.
Today they still smell of jasmine buds.

194

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kovartanar.

What can it be called, friend?
One thing: the thunder rumbles
when the lightning flashes.
Against it, the forest peacock cries sharply.
Between these two unrelated things,
my foolish heart
is greatly confused.

195

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Terataranar.

As the sun's fury cools
and it nears the hills,
the sorrowful evening rises, carrying grief.
Where are they — those who went
to finish their needful work?
They do not say "She grieves."
As the gentle, moving breeze
creeps over my body,
I stand like a crafted doll —
and they do not know
that my body has become something else.

196

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Miḷaik Kantanar.

When my friend offered you a green neem fruit,
you said "It is honey-flower sweet!"
Now — if the clear, cold water
from the dew-spring on Pari's Parampu hill
is given to you in the month of Thai —
you will say "It is hot and salty."
Sir, such is the nature of love.

197

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaccippettu Nannakaiyar.

What shall we do, friend?
The kin-rain, dark-clouded, water-bearing,
mixes with the cold north wind —
and Death, in the form
of bewildering, confused winter,
comes seeking me —
me, who has been parted from her lover.

198

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Kapilar.

In the field where they burned the felled trees,
the red millet with its green stalks
drips milk like the broad hand
of a young she-elephant,
bending over the charred stumps,
its dense-eared green heads heavy.
"Let us go chase the parakeets that land there!"
In the forest of the mountain lord
whose bright spears gleam in battle —
O you whose chest is fragrant with sandalwood —
do not come! Her mother is coming!

199

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Paranar.

Even if I cannot obtain what I wish,
there is still something I gain —
long live my heart!
Her ordered, flowing hair,
fragrant from the wind
that touched the forest of generous Ori —
her soft, dark tresses, her dark eyes —
with a love fresh as today,
this lovesickness, without a final end,
will endure even in the world to come.

200

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Avvaiyar.

The cool, flower-fragrant water
from the rained-on hills,
carrying fallen blossoms across its surface,
flows down to us —
but they do not come, friend.
They have forgotten — truly.
But we do not forget.
The great seasonal evening rain
rumbles with its sweet-voiced thunder —
those who promised joy before they left.

201

Kurinci — Heroine's words.

May the neighbor-woman eat ambrosia!
The blue bird with soft wings and sharp claws,
feeding on milk-white teak berries,
drinks the sour nelli fruit nearby
and sleeps on the thornless broad bamboo
in the grove where tall bamboo rises high.
She said: "The lord of the mountain country will come."

202

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Allur Nanmullaiyar.

It hurts, my heart! It hurts, my heart!
Like the small-leafed nerunji thorn
that grows in the dry field —
its fresh flower, pleasing to the eye,
gives birth to thorns.
Our lover who did sweet things for us
does bitter things now.
It hurts, my heart!

203

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Netum Palliyattanar.

He is not from a land with mountains between us.
He is not from a town beyond the tree-tops.
Though he lives close enough to see with my eyes,
like one who has drawn near to a god,
he keeps his distance from me.
I would not have grieved — once, long ago.

204

Kurinci — Companion's words. Poet: Milaipperunk Kantanar.

"Love, love!" they say — love!
It is not a curse or a disease.
If you think about it —
like young, unripe grass
that has sprouted on old fallow land,
that an old cow comes to lick —
love is a guest, O great-armed one!

205

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Uloccanar.

While the rain-clouds heavy with lightning hung,
he mounted his gold-adorned white chariot,
rising like a swan soaring across the sky,
its wheels wet with spray from the churning sea.
He has gone now, the lord of the sandy shores.
How did it know, friend —
the pallor that creeps across my honey-fragrant brow?

206

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Aiyur Mutavanar.

Her words like ambrosia,
that beautiful, sweet speech —
the nature of one so sweet —
if it causes such bitter, rare suffering,
then love's togetherness is difficult!
Beware of approaching it,
you who have wisdom!

207

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Uraiyanar.

"If we told them, they would find it hard to go" —
so said the lonely kite
sitting on the beautiful branch
of the wasteland omai tree,
its clear, lonely cry
a companion to those who travel the waste.
On the ancient small path beside the stone mountain,
her good feet leaving prints as she walked —
"She has gone," we heard —
and many who loved her.

208

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

"I will not unite" — yet I will unite!
On the hill where the fighting elephant
trampled the cracked-stemmed venkai,
where the hill-women stand to pluck
flowers for their hair —
"I will not unite with him, friend" —
because I have already united.

209

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Palaippatiya Perunkadunko.

Where the green nelli fruit falls on the righteous path,
where the fierce tiger-cub's kill-place echoes —
we who have crossed those difficult hills
do not think of many things along the short paths.
The curved-branched vetci
that flourished in the jungle's root-path —
its many buds, loosening, send out fragrance
like the dark, thick hair of the girl.
It is her love we remember.

210

Mullai — Friend's words. Poet: Kakkaipatiniyar Naccellaiyanar.

In the forest of Nalli of the strong chariot,
the ghee of many cows,
and the hot white rice ripened fully in Tonti —
even seven vessels held up would be too little, friend,
for the grief that has thinned my friend's great arms.
An offering for the crow
that cried announcing a guest!

211

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Kavanmullaip Putanar.

As her fine hair thins
and her chosen bangles loosen —
do not fear those who left without grace.
We will endure, friend!
On the hot, high branch
of the burnt, undying mara tree,
the bee sips honey from one summer cluster
and departs unsatisfied —
those who crossed the waterless wasteland.

212

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Neytar Karkkiyan.

The lord's tall chariot with its curved front,
its clear bells ringing on the bright sea-shore —
it comes to be seen,
then turns back in shame.
Pitiable is love.
It will die, truly.
I grieve.

213

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Kaccippettuk Kancik Korranar.

They are full of good desire, friend!
The old stag with forked antlers,
kicking swiftly, finds the thick bushes
bent by hunger's grip —
eats what remains,
and with careful, stepping stride
becomes shade for its fawn,
standing to wait out the hot sun.
Such is the road
our sleep-hating lovers took.

214

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Kutalurkiḻar.

In the field the tree-felling hunter cleared and sowed,
guarding the bright-eared millet
is the vine-like hill-girl
with fine, back-flowing hair and swaying walk.
He gave great leaf-skirts for her jeweled hips,
stripped the ceyalai trunk bare,
and crowned her with an aralai garland.
This joyful, trembling town!

215

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Maturai Alakkar Naḻar Makanar Mallanar.

Grief grows slowly.
The sun hides behind the dry season's great mountain.
Will they come today, friend?
The cross-tusked elephant
that dug at the dry, empty pool,
embracing its mate on the small hill's side
where the striped great tiger stands guard —
those who crossed the wasteland by the tall cliff.

216

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaccippettuk Kancik Korranar.

He — he went to bring imperishable, noble wealth,
crossing the forest of undying valli vines.
I — my flower-bright bangles loosening, sighing,
I lie on the well-made bed, deep in grief.
Not saying "She is pitiable" —
the great rain thunders, still ready to pour,
and flashes lightning, friend —
seeking my sweet life.

217

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Tankal Mutakkollanar.

"Chase the parrots from the millet" —
by day, it is fine.
But you coming at night — I fear danger.
"What shall we do about our grievous lovesickness?"
To all this I said —
the lord of the high mountain, understanding differently, sighed.
Love is delicate.
I spoke of excess, propriety, and blame.

218

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Korranar.

For the fierce goddess of the cliff-cave ridge
we will not perform the rites.
We will not tie the sacred thread.
We will not read the birds' signs.
We will not ask the oracles.
We will not even think of it, friend —
since they are life of my life,
and we who cannot be content
even a blink without them —
for those who were able to forget us and be content there.

219

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Vellurkilar Makanar Venputiyar.

Pallor — that is my body now.
Desire — it is lodged in his heartless heart, far away.
Modesty — it has gone far.
Sense — it says "Let us go there! Rise!"
while sitting right here,
blathering what it cannot do.
For the lord of the shore
with its thorn-leaved, sprawling talai —
there is room enough, friend,
if you ask what kind of person I am.

220

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Okkur Macattiyar.

The new clearing's millet, grown from old rains —
the scarecrow with its chewed-off head
where the deer grazed —
the jasmine blooming at the dark border,
its fresh flowers like a wild-cat's grinning teeth,
fragrant petals opening from soft, small buds —
in the wasteland surrounded by bees,
even at evening, they do not come.
See this, friend —
those who parted for wealth.

221

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Uraiyur Mutukorranar.

He does not come.
The jasmine has bloomed.
The goatherd with milk-pail in hand,
leaving the young goats behind,
comes with milk and returns with gruel.
And on the head of the goat-owning shepherd —
everything he wears
is small, fresh jasmine buds.

222

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Ciraikkuti Yantaiyar.

If I take the raft's head, she takes the head.
If I take the raft's end, she takes the end.
If I let go of the raft and drift with the current,
she would come there too, it seems —
she with rain-cloud eyes
like the water-soaked, ripe buds
of fine monsoon jasmine,
their full corners glowing red like flames,
she who is like a tender shoot
touched by rain-drops.

223

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturaik Kataiyattar Makanar Vennakanar.

At the roaring festival the great town held,
"Let us go, let us go!" you said.
But here, there are many good things from good people.
He brought me a spindle, a fan, young leaves,
saying lying things: "These suit you" —
and the chosen beauty my mother guarded,
he took it from me.
And we are still like this.

224

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kuvan Maintanar.

On the long, low path bound with crossroads,
struck by the cruelty of those who left —
worse than sleepless sickness is this:
like a mute man of noble birth
who sees a wrong at night by the well
and cannot speak of it —
I cannot bear this grief, friend.

225

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Kapilar.

While the calf suckles at the udder
and the wild she-elephant
eats the millet in the yard —
O lord of the great mountain country!
Like the king who, helped in his time of ruin,
forgot the favor when he regained his throne —
if you have forgotten the debt of gratitude,
then her hair, soft and lovely
as a proud peacock's train —
her thick, soft tresses — they belong to you.

226

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturai Eḻuttalanar Centamputanar.

Eyes that rival flowers.
Arms with the grace and beauty of bamboo.
A brow that confuses the crescent moon.
We were truly beautiful, friend —
before we laughed
with the lord of the great shore,
where the white flowers of the talai,
beaten by rolling waves,
bloom like herons.

227

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Otananiyar.

The chariot's gold-crested wheels,
crafted like jewels,
their bright faces scattering sparks —
and there are also short-stemmed neytal flowers
with thick petals, here
on the shore where the chariot-rider left.

228

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ceyti Valluvar Peruncattanar.

The fat, ripe buds of the drooping talai
open their fresh petals
like the spreading feathers of a heron drying
in the front yard of the small village
near the grove,
where the waves come and go, they say.
Though they abandoned us for a faraway land,
they are near to my heart
in that cool, sea-girt country.

229

Palai — Bystander's words. Poet: Motacanar.

He pulls her five-part hair.
She pulls his thin-haired head and runs.
Their loving nurses try to stop them —
but they do not stop.
They keep having their little, purposeless battles!
Well done, O fate —
you showed us the way
of their wedding-joy:
these two who are like paired flowers in a garland.

230

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Arivutai Nampiyar.

Listen, friend!
The lord will not resolve it himself.
And I, in my foolishness,
overwhelmed by his great dignity —
have I done something that deserves this pain?
On the shark-roaming, water-filled path,
a few days — that was all his visit —
and he does not know.

231

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Palaippatiya Perunkadunko.

Though we live in one town,
he does not come to my street.
If he comes to my street,
he does not embrace me fully.
Like a stranger's funeral pyre,
he passes by without looking.
Love that has destroyed shame
and drowned good sense —
it has gone far,
like an arrow shot from a bow.

232

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Un Pittaiyar.

Do they not remember, friend?
Or remembering, do they not come
because meeting is not possible?
The big-necked stag, exhausted from dry grass,
sleeps in the striped shade
of the ya tree the mortar-legged elephant
broke and ate and left —
those who crossed the mountain
of great, dark groves.

233

Mullai — Hero's words. Poet: Peyanar.

In the wide-mouthed small pit
dug by the crossroad,
bright konrai flowers have spread —
like a rich man's gold-filled chest
opened and overturned.
That is the monsoon-facing wasteland!
The leftover food poured with water for the great,
enough for all, food that knows no limit —
that is the town of her father,
the small-bangled girl!

234

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Milaipperunk Kantanar.

As the sun-going sky turns red
and grief deepens at the hour when light dies,
the jasmine blooms.
"Evening," say those who are confused.
The crested rooster calls in the tall house
at the great, clear dawn — that too is evening.
Even noon is evening
for those who have no mate.

235

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Marayentanar.

Spare her, O north wind, and may you live long!
Near the pure white waterfall
that looks like a snake's hanging skin,
the high stone stands —
in the yard where herds of wild cattle
gather by the nelli tree,
the grass-roofed hut
of my good girl's town.

236

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Nariveruut Talaiyar.

Let the day come
when you release her and say "Go!"
If you agree to that —
then give back what you took, and go!
On the hill-like mounded sand shore,
the punnai's ground-touching branch
where the new herons roost —
O lord of the cool sea,
give back my beauty that you consumed.

237

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Allur Nanmullaiyar.

Not knowing what to fear,
I embraced my beloved companion.
Though my heart was wrong to part —
if the remaining bond of the hand loosens,
what of it?
We are truly far apart.
Roaring like the great sea's waves,
in groves where tigers prowl —
how shall I count
the confusion between our embraces?

238

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Kunriyanar.

With the dark-cored pestle
that pounded green paddy,
putting children to sleep on the rice-paddy bund,
bright-bangled women play sand-house games
in a town like Tonti.
Take my beauty — you already have.
Go, O happy lord —
and keep your oath.

239

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Aciriyar Perunkannanar.

My bangles have loosened.
My arms have thinned.
Is there any shame left to lose, friend?
From the cliff-cave, fragrance fills the mountain
where the small-winged bee sips
the fragrant pollen of the swaying kantaḷ,
gleaming like a gem spat from a snake's mouth —
for the lord of the mountain
with its ancient-growth fence.

240

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kollanaliiciyar.

The green avarai vine climbing the dewy bush,
its many bright flowers like parrots' beaks,
mixed with jasmine shaped like a wild-cat's teeth —
and on top of the north wind's arrival,
sickness strikes.
See this, friend!
Like a ship sinking in the clear-waved sea,
his jeweled tall hill disappears
behind the evening.

241

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

Even as I held back my love,
my eyes wept on their own, friend —
like scrawny-headed children
who, having sent the calf ahead,
watch for the ripening
of the village-square venkai flowers,
and raise a joyful cry without climbing —
it echoes in the sky-touching cliff-cave.
My eyes that saw
the lord of the mountain country.

242

Mullai — Foster-mother's words. Poet: Kuḻarrattanar.

The jungle-fowl's rooster with its seizing voice,
its bright-spotted neck
spattered with cool dew
in the flower-fragrant wasteland
where bush-water flows —
the girl is in a small town.
Even if he goes with the king's work
to another town,
his chariot does not know how to linger —
the great man's chariot.

243

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Nampi Kuttuvanar.

With its forked leaves like a deer's hoof-print,
stringing its bright flowers like bell-jewels —
bright-bangled women play sand-castle games
by the great, bird-singing sea.
I do not think of its lord, friend.
May my eyes go blind if I do!

244

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Kannanar.

At deep midnight when many are asleep,
he comes like a fierce bull-elephant,
trying the night-door.
"We did not hear it, sir!
We did hear it, sir!"
Like a fine peacock whose plumes droop,
its body withering,
caught in a net —
every time we faint, she embraces us:
our merciless mother.

245

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Malaimaranar.

My companions at the sea-grove have vanished.
More bitter than losing my beauty
is this:
the thick-fronded talai with sword-like edges
is a fence in the evening-spear land.
The cruelty of the soft man of loneliness —
if it spreads
and becomes known to many.

246

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

The small white gull on the great sea's shore,
tangling the green leaves like elephant-ears,
stirs through the dewy lagoon at midnight.
A chariot came for the lonely one
and turned back, they say.
For that, mother rages.
But there are others too:
braided-haired, lightning-jeweled women,
young ones and innocent ones,
with untroubling mothers and good fortune.

247

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Centam Putanar.

That which has great beauty
is beset by harm.
The work of the righteous will be righteous.
"These become rafts for those who have kin" —
I knew these things, friend.
The elephant shakes the soft venkai branch
till flowers fall,
in the land where deep sleep cries out —
the stainless friendship
that chose his chest.

248

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Uloccanar.

That he comes — is it not rare?
But the day he said "may it happen" —
it has drawn near, friend.
Where the west wind piled sand
burying the grove's trunks,
and the creeping atumpu covers the sand-ridge,
the tall palms seem short —
and mother, speaking big about him,
has found out.

249

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

In the tree-thick forest
where flocks of peacocks call,
the grey-faced monkey with its young
shivers on the rain-drenched slope of his land.
I looked toward the hill of his country, friend.
Is my brow still as it was?
Look and see.

250

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Namalar Makanar Ilankannanar.

The fine doe, having drunk
water pooled in the gravel-hollow,
plays with her mate at the path's beginning.
Before evening comes —
drive the swift horses, charioteer!
Her long, dark kohl eyes
that rival fighting carp in deep water,
her clear, sweet words —
the anguish of her confusion.

251

Mullai — Friend's words. Poet: Itaikkatannar.

Foolish peacocks, long may you live!
When the seasonal rain fell, you danced.
The pitavu bushes too have bloomed.
It is not the monsoon, O friends!
Let your grief end.
Old rain-water discarded
when fresh water pours in —
hearing the thunder of indifferent skies.

252

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kitankirkulapati Nakkannanar.

The lord of the mountain country —
cruel one who loosened the bangles
on my long, rounded arms —
when he comes, I do not change my sweet face.
With divine fidelity, I welcome him.
"You are truly innocent," you say, urging me.
Do not quarrel, friend!
The worthy feel shame before praise.
Will blame come, when they see?

253

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Punkannanar.

They may not hear, friend.
But if they hear
that this precious thing is fading —
your great beauty, lost like a pillow
of loosened thread and scattered flowers —
they would not delay.
On the mountain slope where tall bamboo soars,
the stinking stone-cave
where the tiger dragged its prey —
roadside travelers shelter there.
Those who crossed the high, gleaming mountain.

254

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Parkappannar.

On the leafless, beautiful branches,
swarming bees hum.
The konku tree's breast-like soft buds have opened —
their first flowers have come.
But he has not come, friend.
In the sleepless night, he forgot to sleep.
He does not remember the bed
with its thick-fragrant hair.
Those who went seeking wealth —
send a messenger saying they have arrived.

255

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Katuku Peruntevanar.

Stabbing the bark-covered whole trunk
of the core-rotted roadside ya tree,
bending it down with fierce, great hands,
feeding its weary, small-eyed, great herds
to end their sharp hunger —
the broad-tusked elephant.
They saw it, friend —
that is the way our burning lovers went,
thinking to fulfill their debt,
bound to the cause of desirable wealth.

256

Palai — Hero's words.

In the forest where deer, fed on the dark aruku vine
soft as jewels, play with their mates
on the tied-root, soft branches —
passing through all that, I will return,
my work's good end achieved.
"Can you endure until then,
O flower-jeweled one?" I said —
but before I could finish speaking,
they did not stay:
the tears that blocked like water
across the shining girl's eyes.

257

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Uraiyurc Cirukantanar.

Root and trunk and branch — all at once,
as if strung together,
hanging down in clusters —
the drooping-branched jackfruit tree.
Every time the lord of the roaring mountain comes,
it comes with him.
Even when he goes away,
it does not go.
It also fights, friend —
the enemy of our love.

258

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Paranar.

Do not come to our street!
The garlands are already there.
Gossip has begun, sir!
Seeing her blameless, splendid beauty wasting —
like the hunting ground of Alici,
son of Centan, the great lord
whose high-tusked elephants were tied
to the marutu tree by the broad ford
of the Kaviri where many bathe.

259

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Paranar.

O dark-eyed one,
whose fragrant brow
smells endlessly like the cool kantaḷ
drenched with waterfalls
on the rain-gathering monsoon hill,
whose many-petaled, rain-cloud eyes —
whether you accept or whether you reject,
you alone know your own worth.
Why speak false words as if they were true?
Your heart is good — toward him.

260

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Kallatannar.

Herons rise to the dark sky.
Bushes open their mouths
as striped bees hum.
Her arms that once shone
with spiral bangles —
will they come, friend?
Where noble elephants gouge and eat the earth
on the hillside dense with valai vines,
where a calfless cow blocks the way
by the thin-footed omai tree —
those who crossed that wasteland.

261

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaḻark Kiraneyirriyar.

After old rain poured,
the withered-pod sesame ruined in the season —
in the last days of sparse rain,
the red-eyed dark buffalo,
weary of standing in mud,
cries out at deep midnight.
Even in that frightening hour,
my eyes do not sleep, friend —
tormented like a watchman
counting down the hours
by this great wound in my heart.

262

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Palaippatiya Perunkadunko.

Let gossip rise in the town!
Let the street be loud!
Let the merciless mother
who endlessly attacks
stay in her own house!
With nelli-stained thorn-teeth gleaming,
I would gladly eat with him
in a faraway land —
where, in the pass of the sky-touching mountain,
water stands in the great elephant's footprints
like furrows planted with sugarcane.

263

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Peruncattanar.

Cutting the goat-kid's throat,
sprinkling millet offerings,
ringing many instruments at the crossroad shrine —
praising many strange great gods
whose appearance, not their cure,
is the remedy for sickness:
"She is possessed by spirits!" they say.
It is painful, friend —
that we, who did not err
against the lord of the mountain
where clouds play on the great slopes,
should suffer this.

264

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

On the crumbling bank of the forest river
swollen by roaring rain,
the peacock dances and calls,
its long, rustling plumes swaying.
The lord of that land
took our friendship with desire.
Even if it bears fruit —
it cannot bear enough.

265

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Karuvurk Katap Pillai.

The fat kantaḷ bud, unguarded —
the bee opens it with its mouth,
in the season when those who know their worth,
meeting a worthy one,
step aside and make room,
like duty-knowing people before the great.
He has a good heart, friend.
When I told him your state,
he himself felt ashamed.
This is how things should not be.

266

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Nakkirar.

Even if he says nothing to me —
has he forgotten the venkai tree in the garden
that was his sweet companion
in the bitter night?
Those who could embrace
my unforgettable, great arms
and then abandon them —
the bird-mouth messenger.

267

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Kaleri Katikaiyar.

Even if all the great earth's
teeming, fruitful wealth
were gathered together —
leaving behind the small girl
with beautiful, short bangles,
whose white teeth ooze pure sweet water
like sugarcane crushed by the foot —
those who know death's
twisting, graceless custom
of taking by turns
do not part from their work.

268

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Karuvurc Ceraman Cattanar.

"Are you leaving?" — we cannot say that.
"Will you come?" — we do not ask.
What shall we do, friend?
He who comes with thunder
that severs the hooded head of the snake —
not caring that it is midnight —
has come and pressed against
her long, soft, bamboo-arms.

269

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Kallatannar.

If only there were someone
to run the long road swiftly,
without resting the tired horses —
how good that would be!
My father, his shark-wound healed,
has gone into the great, dark-blue sea.
My mother has gone to the salt-flats
to trade salt for white rice.
Therefore — if the lord
of the dewy, dark shore
should come now,
tell him: she is easy to find.

270

Mullai — Hero's words. Poet: Pantiyan Pannatutantan.

Splitting the hanging darkness with lightning,
scattering sweet, cool droplets,
thundering in turns like a beaten war-drum —
O rain, now pour! May you live long!
We, with the heart of one whose work is done,
desiring her more than anything,
lie on the soft pillow
near the small girl with her few white bangles —
her tender, fragrant hair
smelling of the day-blooming water-lily.

271

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Aḻici Naccattanar.

Once it came to pass —
like a waterfall scattering
on the broad rock-face.
The man of the river-filled land — I trusted him.
That was just one day.
But many, many days after,
arms entwined,
the sickness steals and seizes.
That is its nature.

272

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Orucirai Periyanar.

Can I touch them — the arms
of the vine-like hill-girl
with her dark, fragrant hair?
Her kohl eyes are like blood-red arrows
pulled from the flank of the spotted stag
by bow-proud hunters
when the herd split in the wide forest —
her eyes that took those arrows' place.

273

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Ciraikkuti Yantaiyar.

O bright-browed one,
who smells cool as the wind
stirring young shoots in the great forest
at the darkening hour —
if you are grieving, I will say what I have seen:
like a fool who climbed
the cliff of the great honeycombs
not knowing the old hornets' rage —
this world is self-deceived.
He will not part from us while we live.
Be at peace.

274

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Uruttirannar.

The waste-colored uka tree with its pale trunk —
its dense fruits drop like coins.
Fierce-eyed men with drawn bows
wait for travelers among the stones.
They chew thorny leaves
to quench their thirst for water
in that terrible forest —
and yet it is sweet, if we go
embracing the jewel-girdled girl's
beautiful-breasted body.

275

Mullai — Friend's words. Poet: Okkur Macattiyar.

Let us climb the stone-high mound
the jasmine has covered, and look!
Come, friend!
Is that the bell of the fat, good cow
heading home at dusk?
Or is it — with the heart of one
whose work is done,
guarded by strong-bowed young men —
the chariot bell,
ringing across the wet-sand forest road?

276

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Koḻik Korranar.

The great-armed small girl —
I dressed her doll
and played in the cotton-seed mounds.
But her rising, beautiful breasts,
secretly growing to shining fullness —
her tireless guardians do not see.
In the righteous king's just assembly,
if I were summoned —
what would happen?
This trembling town
is pitiable and very foolish.

277

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Orir Piccaiyar.

In the faultless street,
at the dogless, wide doorstep —
red-rice balls with white sesame butter,
one house's alms, eaten to fullness,
and cool water for the winter's heat
in a covered bronze vessel —
may you receive all this!
"When will the north wind come
that shakes the lightning-thin waist
at the season's end?" you ask.
That is when our lovers will come.

278

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Peri Cattanar.

The wind-stirred young shoots of the mango —
her soft, small feet are like their tender green.
He does not remember her,
the small green doll — nor me.
Cruel — may he live long, friend!
The male monkey shakes down
ripe, sweet fruit,
and the mother monkey with young,
sitting below, eats each one as it comes —
on the mountain those people crossed.

279

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturai Marutan Ilanakanar.

The twisted-horned great bull —
the dark buffalo —
its striped-throat clear bell
tied at the neck with its split mouth —
rings each time it moves
in the lonely midnight.
Is it this hour, and still they have not come?
Past the great, dark hills
that gleam like dust-circled elephants
on the rain-washed, forgotten boulders —
those who do not remember
her smooth, long, bamboo-arms.

280

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Nakkirar.

Hear me, friends! May you live long!
The small, great-armed girl
with fine, five-stranded hair
that binds my heart —
if I could embrace
her small, soft body for one day,
I would not want
even half a day's life more.

281

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kutavayir Kirattanar.

In the white sand where thick palms grow
with crested white fronds —
wearing the white blossoms of the roadside neem,
the curly mane adorned with them —
he went through the forest
that spreads where the hills meet.
Have our bright-jeweled people gone, friend?

282

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Nakam Pottanar.

If she sees the monsoon-facing cool clearing
with its red millet on the tilled ridge,
its single dark leaf of the kauvai plant,
where the deer's fawn grazes to survive —
seeing the hill-spring where white kutalai flowers
with their hollow, fresh blooms
fall like anklets dropping together —
her bangles too, they say,
will slip from her wrist like that.

283

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Palaippatiya Perunkadunko.

"Those who ruin what they have
are not counted as people.
The beggar's life is more shameful
than nightfall" —
speaking thus with forceful clarity,
he has gone, friend.
On the waterless road
where death-like warriors with killing spears
sit by the path and slay travelers —
the vulture watches their rotting dead —
the long, ancient waste.

284

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Milaivelittitanar.

On the great stone in the village square,
scarred like the spotted face
of a fighting elephant,
bright red kantaḷ blooms open together.
Whether the lord of that land
is righteous or not —
does he pity us?
Does he have no companion?
Where the pure white waterfall
descends from the cliff past the standing huts —
the people of this unhappy small village.

285

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Putattevanar.

Day after day, day after day —
they do not come.
Every evening, every evening —
they do not appear.
Where are they, friend?
Is this the season they promised?
Many times, the quail calls sweetly
with its thin-backed mate.
And what has become of my eyelids?
On the nemai tree-top,
one lone vulture sits, craving flesh —
on the sky-high, gleaming mountain
those who crossed it.

286

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Eyirriyanar.

I close my eyes and seem to see her:
her thorn-like teeth that ooze ambrosia,
her beautiful red mouth,
her dark hair fragrant as river-mist
and agil-wood,
the great, battling, rain-cloud eyes
of the vine-like hill-girl —
with her gentle smile
and her proud, fierce gaze.

287

Mullai — Friend's words. Poet: Kaccippettu Nannakaiyar.

Listen, friend!
Will our lover, even having seen this,
abandon us?
Like a woman heavy with child
in her twelve months and three,
who cannot move,
craving sour fruit —
the clouds have gathered water
and cannot rise into the sky.
They hang, holding together,
looking at the rich hills —
the great, festive sky is about to roar.

288

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

In his great mountain country,
the monkey eats young leaves
on the pepper-growing slope
and sits there in a troop.
Because he is sweet —
even the bitterness born of his sweetness
is sweeter, friend,
than the land of the gods
that is called sweet.

289

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Perunkannanar.

Growing like the waxing moon,
stage by stage increasing —
the wrist-bangles loosening
with grievous sickness.
We have become like ones
whose leaves are crumbled and squeezed.
Because no companion is near, we suffer.
And the rain too, friend —
it has fallen dark.
Even when the rain does not fall,
this trembling town
grieves more for us
than we grieve for him.

290

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Kalporu Cirunuraiyar.

"Bear your love!" say those who counsel.
Do they not know what it is?
Or are they just heartless?
If we do not see our lover —
with a heart swollen with dense grief,
like small foam
dashed against a stone
by great water —
slowly, slowly,
we cease to exist.

291

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Kapilar.

The rattle in the vine-girl's hand
that chases parakeets from the millet
beside the burnt clearing —
its sound is sweeter than the sweetest melody.
The parrots, hearing her voice, will not fly.
Her eyes, grieving that they will not go —
those eyes are like water-lilies
blooming in the deep, cool spring
on the hillside,
their many bee-visited petals disturbed
and open to the cool rain.

292

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Paranar.

The bright-browed girl who went to bathe
ate a green fruit the river brought.
For that offense:
even 199 elephants and a golden doll
he would not accept.
Like the king Nannan who murdered the girl —
may mother go to the bottomless hell!
Because one day, when a smiling guest came,
she could not sleep
in this enemy-faced town.

293

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Kallil Attiraiyanar.

In the town within the toddy-grove,
the palmyra bears its cottony, short fruit,
and the tall, dark palm returns
with its tender fruit —
like that ancient, good, old town.
Wearing waterlily leaf-skirts
that slap my thighs in alternating layers,
I go at twilight, pitiable me,
to see my husband,
wearing these bright jewels.

294

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Ancilantaiyar.

Playing together in the sea,
lingering in the seashore grove,
sporting sand-castle games
with garlanded companions —
like a stranger, suddenly,
he came and embraced her.
Gossip bloomed, of course.
He would not leave her side,
even when given fresh leaf-skirts
hung on a curved branch.
He brought it upon her —
and now mother guards and watches.

295

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Tunkaloriyar.

Dressed, adorned, jeweled, pinned —
you come with your companions,
splendid in leaf-skirts,
arriving at the festival.
But look: a poor girl
from a one-cow household
has come in her simple life —
"Now the festival has truly begun,"
says this town.

296

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Perumpakkanar.

Listen, friend!
The white heron on the swaying branch
of the punnai —
when it tires of small fish
in the deep lagoon,
it desires the toddy-fragrant neytal flower.
If you see the lord of the cool shore,
stand before him and speak firmly:
"Is it right for you
to abandon the bangled one
when she has become like this?"
Speak with resolve.

297

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Kavirippumpattinattu Karikkannanar.

The fierce bowmen with curved bows
and sharp, victorious arrows —
travelers who fought past them
lie as burial-mounds by the road,
showing like towns on the high, stone-strewn plain.
He spoke sweet words.
"To unite and leave together —
that is the true wealth."
I understood this
even before he did.

298

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Paranar.

Coming gently, gently to our street,
he speaks rare, sweet words
through his half-opened lips.
Day after day, his color changes as he waits.
Do you not consider
his sorrowful gaze, friend?
Like the bard-women
with their white-tipped sticks,
seeking the gift of a young she-elephant —
his long standing outside our door
means something else entirely.

299

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Venmanip Putiyar.

What is this, friend?
On the bird-singing, wave-playing shore
with its ancient waters —
under the clustered puṉṉai's shade
on the sand-dune —
when the tryst was kept:
our eyes saw the lord.
Our ears heard his words.
In union, our beauty bloomed.
In parting,
our broad, soft arms grow loose.

300

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Ciraikkuti Antaiyar.

Her thick, dark hair smells of water-lilies.
Her honey-rich, coral mouth smells of ampal.
Her many fine beauty-spots
are like the pollen of deep-water lotuses.
O dark-eyed one!
You — do not fear my word "Do not fear."
I — even if I were given
the whole sea-circled world
where short-legged swans nest on mounded sand —
I would not think of leaving
your friendship.

301

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kunriyanar.

The drum-trunked palmyra standing broad —
the andril bird with black legs
in its nest of thin sticks woven from fat fronds,
its desire-filled, heavy-pregnant mate
cries at midnight.
Even if the many-belled tall chariot
that crosses the village square does not come —
as if it were coming,
the sounds keep ringing from the ear's root.
My eyes, friend, have given up sleep.

302

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Mankutikiḻar.

I will tell you, friend — it is not a fault.
We cannot bear rare, terrible suffering.
Beyond that, we fear becoming something else entirely.
Even so — the lord of the good mountain country —
"The two of them are inseparable friends," says the gossip.
Is he afraid of that?
At deep midnight when the whole town sleeps,
he comes only to my heart,
not to my door.

303

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Ammuvanar.

The white heron with dark legs
that searched the lagoon —
it rests in a cluster by the shore's talai,
sleeping in the sound
of the great sea's breaking waves.
O lord of the shore!
My friend here — her bangles have slipped,
she has turned pale —
since that day she played with me,
chasing the gold-striped crab
under the spotted shade
of the sweet-clustered punnai.

304

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Kanakkayar Tattanar.

The sharp-mouthed harpoon
polished with killing craft,
fixed to a strong, dried bamboo shaft —
in the hard-to-bear water-wilderness,
the fishermen of curved boats
hurl it at great fish.
Where the short-legged swan
scatters its white feathers
in the flower-thick grove
by the kaitai's cool waters —
with the lord of that shore,
we made, indeed, a friendship
that breeds enmity.

305

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Kuppaikkōḻiyar.

The bright fire of love
that came through the eyes —
even if it burns through the bone,
we cherish him
and cannot go and embrace him.
He cannot come and remove our sorrow.
He will not send us away.
He will not close the gap.
Like a rooster fighting alone on a dung-heap,
dying as it dies —
there is no one to cure
this sickness that fills us.

306

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ammuvanar.

"Soft things, sweet things, desirable things —
do not say these words," I told myself.
But will you forget them, O my heart —
after seeing the lord of the cool sea,
in the grove where bees fall drunk
from the pollen-heavy flowers
of the many beautiful mango trees?

307

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Katampanurc Cantiliyanar.

Like a broken bangle, worshipped by many,
the crescent moon has been born again
in the red-mouthed sky.
Have they forgotten us?
The elephant, unable to bear
the suffering of its weary-walking mate,
strikes and topples the tall ya tree,
takes the white bark, tastes it,
and with sorrowing heart trumpets —
in the long wasteland path,
those who parted weeping.

308

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Peruntot Kuruncattanar.

The wild elephant, crazed and confused,
its terrible head stroked
by the coiling banana-trunk from the grove —
as the weary young she-elephant
gently rubs its flank —
it falls asleep with difficulty
on the cow-dripping mountain slope.
The friendship of the lord
of that great mountain country —
love's reward has been slow to come.

309

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Uraiyurc Calliyan Kumaranar.

Though the fragrant flowers, blooming for bees,
have wilted on the long paddy-bund,
though they have faded
while many hands finish their tasks —
we do not say "it is cruel
that they have left us."
Like the neytal flower in your town
that blooms again in the field
even after being plucked —
so are we, sir.
Even if you do many bitter things to us,
we cannot manage without you.

310

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Perunkannanar.

The birds are lonely.
The flowers have closed.
The grove too is deeply lonely.
The sky, confused like us,
has grown dim past evening.
I am still here, friend —
if only someone could tell
the lord of the cool shore
with its fragrant naḻal trees.

311

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Centan Kiranar.

How will gossip end, friend?
On the broad, fish-smelling shore,
the charioteer could not hold
the roaring, swift chariot — it would not stop.
Did he see me? Did he not?
At midnight, on the high white sand —
all my companions,
picking pollen-clad punnai flowers —
they all saw it.

312

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Kapilar.

Our beloved is a double-knowing thief!
At deep midnight, she came
smelling of the thorn-forest,
one of us —
with mixed flowers falling from her hair.
Then, combing her sandalwood-fragrant,
oil-smoothed hair,
with an unloving face,
she became one of her own people —
at dawn.

313

Neytal — Heroine's words.

The small white gull on the great sea's shore,
feeding on fish
in the deep, dark lagoon,
roosts in the flower-fragrant thicket.
With the lord of that shore
we tied a bond.
We tied it.
Hard to untie —
it is finished and complete.

314

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Pericattanar.

In the far, high sky,
the water-laden clouds flash
with cool voice and bright light.
The fading light,
the lonely evening —
they do not come, friend —
those who crossed the terrible wasteland
where our sweet, young breasts
would press close when they returned.

315

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturai Vel Atattanar.

Like the rising moon
that the sea beheld —
like the rich white waterfall
on the high mountain —
the lord of that land
is like the sun, friend.
And my great, bamboo-arms
are like the neruñci thorn.

316

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Tumpicer Kiranar.

As my chosen bangles loosen,
as confusion fills my body —
if mother learns
of this increasing sickness,
will I survive, friend?
On the mixed-sand shore
where the surging sea pounded,
where the girls at their game each showed something —
the crab, grieving, runs swiftly —
the high, spreading waves remove it.
Is it the lord of the shore —
or other things?

317

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Maturaik Kantaratattar.

The good, white bull of the modest wild cow,
having eaten sweet-sour nelli,
breathes hotly on the honey-spreading flower nearby,
making it tremble —
then drinks from the cool green spring
of the high mountain.
Will the lord of that land
be content to leave us —
when the north wind's excess rain
falls south in the cold dew-days?

318

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ammuvanar.

On the bright-watered expanse
where hunting sharks play,
the shore shines with fragrant naḻal and punnai —
like a divination ground.
Whether the lord comes by plan or by accident —
shall I tell someone who does not know?
On the day he embraced my weary bamboo-arms,
he made an unfailing vow.
The thief, the debtor, the creator —
he is all of these.

319

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Tayang Kannanar.

The stag embraces his gentle doe
and hides, confused, in the forest bush.
The great bull-elephant joins its female
and retreats to the dark mountain's interior.
Evening has come. The great monsoon rain.
Those who ruined my gold-like body's beauty —
if they still do not come, friend —
what will become of our sweet life?

320

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Tumpicer Kiranar.

The fishermen's catch drying on the shore,
the dried prawns from the difficult lagoon —
the moonlit white sand smells of fish,
spread on every sand-dune.
With the lord of that shore,
we shared not one day of blamable laughter.
And yet this town, with its punnai-lined streets
where golden-clustered birds sing —
has spread baseless gossip
because of his cruelty.

321

Kurinci — Friend's words.

He comes at midnight —
his chest adorned with mountain sandalwood,
wearing a water-lily wreath from the spring —
and leaves before dawn.
The gentle girl, your chest-companion —
the village-square cattle scatter
as the red-eyed great tiger,
having killed a bull, roars.
This is not the time for secrets.
Open the door, mother! May you live long.

322

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Aiyur Mutavanar.

The young fawn of the battle-eyed wild cow,
its timid ears —
frightened when the forest-dwellers approach,
separated from the herd,
it wanders into the forest's small village.
The young men tend it,
and it grows accustomed,
desiring that place, living the domestic life.
Like that — are there things sweeter
than the familiar, friend?
Let us go, walking as we can.

323

Mullai — Hero's words. Poet: Patati Vaikalar.

What good is all the rest?
The days spent sleeping beside my woman —
her fragrant brow
smelling of fresh jasmine buds
that bloomed on the rained-on field —
while the bards' instrumental music
falls from the sky's high wall
like sweet melody —
the days that passed here —
those are the days we lived.

324

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Kavai Makanar.

The crooked-legged crocodile's strong male
blocks the path
on the great shore with its grove.
Swimming through the dark lagoon of fish-schools,
you come because of your love for her.
She, in her innocence, wastes away.
And I — like one whose child ate poison —
I fear greatly in my heart, sir.

325

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Nannakaiyar.

"We will go, we will go!" —
because he kept saying it,
I thought his old journeys were just tricks.
"Let him stay and pass," I said.
But now — where is the shameless one?
The white heron with dark legs
feeds on my lake.
My breast-space has become a great pond,
filled to the brim.

326

Neytal — Heroine's words.

The friendship we formed
in the small sand-house
like the great-armed, garland-wearing girls
who play by the sea —
that friendship, friend:
if the lord of the shore abandons it
even for one day,
the bitterness returns for many.

327

Kurinci — Heroine's words. Poet: Ammuvanar.

The lord of the mountain country,
who understood that heartlessness
toward the needy is wrong —
he is cruel.
But you, O turbid stream,
are crueler still!
You did not say
"The girl in our house is soft and gentle" —
you brought her the banana tree,
and the mountain became desolate.

328

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Paranar.

The crab's small house
at the root-hollow of the small-flowered naḻal —
the waves destroy it,
rumbling like a stick-beaten drum.
The lord of that shore
gave her good days — but very few.
And the gossip is louder
than the roar of the festive town of Kurumpur
when bards saw the tiger-faced battle-stand
of the great Vicciyar lord
who fought with kings.

329

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Otalantaiyar.

In the forest, the summer iruppai tree's white flowers —
the wind shakes the tall branches and they fall,
covering the narrow path where elephants walk.
Grieving for those who crossed
the gleaming mountain's harsh wasteland,
sleep is rare in the thick midnight darkness,
and dew has fallen
on my good, rain-cloud eyes
that resemble clear-water flowers.

330

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaḻark Kiraneyirriyanar.

The big-leafed pakandai flower —
its fat, white bloom opens from its pod,
like the thick twisted rope
the washerwoman soaked in paste
and wrung out and hung to dry.
And it smells, not of honey or toddy,
but of the lonely, sorrowful evening.
Is there also loneliness today, friend,
in the land where he went?

331

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Vatap Pirapantanar.

In the waterless waste
where tall bamboo has withered,
fierce bowmen with curved bows
ambush and feast on wayfarers —
swimming the forest of fierce-eyed elephants —
will they come begging, friend?
Our good dark body turns pale,
our fine complexion fading
like the mango's young shoots —
as they seek rare wealth
greater than us.

332

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Maturai Marutankilar Makanar Ilampottanar.

In the last days of sparse rain
when the north wind came —
to cure your lovesick, rare grief —
if you tell him you desire him,
what is wrong with that, friend?
The lord of the mountain
near the village-square,
where the great bull-elephant,
embracing the sweet-breathed young she-elephant,
descends from the mountain hamlet.

333

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Uḻuntinaimipulavanar.

The lord of the mountain country
where the short-arrowed, curved-bow hunter
chased the bright-eyed elephant from the field,
where the fragrant-leafed women drive parrots
on the small hill-ridge —
if we resolve to tell our secret, friend,
what is wrong with that —
to end the suffering
of his humble request?

334

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ilampūtanar.

The great, red-mouthed, small white gull —
the crashing waves' spray
wets its damp back.
In the many-flowered grove
that endures the cold —
if the lord of the wide sea leaves me,
the one thing we lose, friend,
is our sweet life.
Nothing else.

335

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Iruntaiyurk Korran Pulavanar.

Women with rows of bangles
spread red millet on the broad rock ledge.
Watching for the spring's overflow,
the green-eyed monkey descends from the branch
and snatches some with her young.
Between the mountains — that is where it is:
the village of the great-armed, vine-like hill-girl,
the strong-bowed hunter's sister.

336

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Kunriyanar.

Must you come this way,
making enemies rejoice, tormenting her?
The small-tongued, bright bells ring their notes.
The swift chariot's wheel-track —
the neytal flowers in the dark lagoon —
like those crushed flowers,
she suffers, pitiable one,
since you parted.

337

Kurinci — Hero's words. Poet: Potukkaiyattuk Kirantaiyar.

The breasts — they have begun to bud.
The hair — its soft curls fall eastward.
The close-set white teeth
have filled in row by row.
Beauty spots — a few have appeared.
To bewitch with these — I know it.
She does not know.
What will become of her —
the one young daughter
of the very rich and old?

338

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Perunkuṉṟurkiḻar.

The fine stag with twisted horns,
resting with his timid, delicate doe
in the cool, flower-thick shade —
sleeping through the low evening,
then grazing on rich beans
in the sorrowful dusk —
at the end of the late-winter dew,
the cool cold season —
the great, victorious chariot has come!
To end the loneliness
of the bright-smiled girl with great arms
and domestic virtue.

339

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Peyar.

The fragrant agil-wood smoke
from the thick clearing's field,
rising like dark kohl
that has lost its moisture —
descending to the hill-people's hamlet.
The lord of that land —
to embrace his good chest
wreathed with mixed-flower garlands —
that is sweet, friend!
Before the dark-petaled, waterlily-dark eyes weep,
before pallor comes —
that is our time.

340

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ammuvanar.

When love reaches its end,
we long for our lover.
When we long for him,
the loneliness should take his side, not ours —
but it refuses to settle on one side.
Standing between —
like the kantal mangrove in the blooming mudflat —
as the lagoon recedes, it sways —
as the tide goes and comes back,
so my heart, friend,
where he resides,
goes back and forth in grief.

341

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Milaikiḻar Nalvettanar.

The kuravam tree with many fallen flowers
on its fresh wet buds,
and the punku with its popping blossoms —
even when the season is sweet on the branches,
if our lover does not cherish us,
the heart of the worthy says:
"The manliness I have vowed must be kept."
Forcing my unwilling heart to be willing —
I will live, friend, by my own hardness.

342

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Kavirippumpattinattu Kantarattanar.

O lord of the mountain country!
The monkey touched the fragrant, great jackfruit.
The forest-dweller, forgetting to guard it,
now sets traps on every tree nearby.
Is that right?
While she, with her waterlily-cool leaf-skirt
from the green spring, suffers here —
if you say your nature
does not ease the pain
of those who desired you.

343

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Iḻattup Putantevanar.

Do not think of it, friend!
On the road back with the lord
of the high mountain —
the strong tiger, maddened
because a charging elephant
struck its spotted face,
lies on the wilting flower-branch
of the dark-trunked venkai
burned by the west wind,
in the cliff-cave —
with its white fangs and red blood.

344

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kurunkuti Marutanar.

Blessed are they, friend —
those who see their lovers return!
In the cool, drizzling, harsh month,
the great bull, having grazed on field-crops —
its udder touching the ground, swelling,
remembering its calf, dripping milk —
returns from beyond the herd to the town
at the sorrowful evening.
Those who left for hard-won wealth —
those who see them come back.

345

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Antar Makan Kuruvaḻutiyar.

The tall chariot with its jeweled curved front —
if it stopped on the mountain-like tall sand-dune
and rested — would it be a fault, sir?
In our small, good town
walled by the great waters,
where the talai-fringed, swaying lagoon
roars with waves —
so that her loneliness,
in her leaf-skirted hips,
might ease.

346

Kurinci — Friend's words. Poet: Vayililan Kannanar.

The young elephant with budding tusks,
desiring the young she-elephant —
approaching the hill as the hill-people shout,
it crosses the village square.
That lord of that land, friend —
he gave her a waterlily garland from the spring,
he chased the parakeets from the millet —
he came at dawn, stayed till evening,
desiring her good home, withering —
and he could not even speak.
He just stood there.

347

Palai — Hero's words. Poet: Kavirippumpattinattu Centankkannanar.

At the start of the harsh, poor waste
where the overflowing spring has dried,
the maiden vakai's graceful, fragrant flower
appears like the crest of the young peahen.
In the long forest path —
if she has agreed to journey with us,
then your resolve, O heart,
that desired her, is good.

348

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Mavalattanar.

If they go by themselves —
in the forest, the small jasmine flowers
left between the tusks
of the field-roaming elephant,
spreading on the vine —
the eye's tears, overflowing
like petals dissolving,
wet the jeweled, beautiful breasts.
Do they not see this —
our bright-jeweled people?

349

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Cattanar.

On the sand-dune where the broad-footed heron sits,
eating fish among the scattered atumpu flowers —
friend, you say: "Let us bind the lord
of the cool shore and take our beauty back."
Yes, let us take it.
But even if we say
"Give back what was given" —
is not losing our sweet life
also bitter?

350

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Alattur Kiḻar.

Listen, friend!
If we had stood before them and said
"The cold dew is harsh — do not go!" —
would they have stayed?
The long-legged, dark-winged kaṇantuḷ bird
sitting by the road
warns the travelers,
making them turn back.
Swimming through the mountain forest —
those who parted for unstable wealth.

351

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Ammūvaṉār.

Be glad, O girl with bangles!
Our people have spoken our claim
to the lord of the shore
where, with a thundering roar,
the waves crash and ruin the paths
on the wet sand — paths scored
by the sharp claws of the quick,
curved-clawed crab in its burrow.
In the fish-smelling street
where mastwood trees tower in spreading bloom,
among our sweet-laughing companions —
is this noisy town still the same?

352

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaṭiyalūr Uruttirankaṇṇaṉār.

The bird with soft, curved wings
and sharp claws —
like the underside of a waterlily leaf
in deep water —
heading for the slope of the wide-leaved jackfruit,
leaves its old daylight-roost tree
desolate.
I know the truth
of the small, pale evening, friend —
even before I see him gone.

353

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Uṟaiyūr Mutukūṟṟaṉār.

With the lord of the roaring mountain's chest
as her raft —
bathing in the sweet-sounding waterfall
in the hollow of the high-peaked ridge
by day — that is sweet.
But at night, with eyes
whose lids refuse to close,
in the good house with the red flame
on the white cotton wick,
sleeping as her mother embraces
the small back where braids fall —
that is not sweet.

354

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Kayattūr Kiḻār.

If you swim too long, the eyes redden.
In a mouth too full, even honey sours.
If you have had enough and are leaving —
at least take us home:
our father's beautiful cool pond,
our town with its streets
where fierce snakes travel —
we whom you once freed
from trembling, sorrowful distress.

355

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Kapilar.

The rain hid the sky —
you could not see the heavens.
Water spread and flowed —
you could not see the ground.
Daylight has gone —
great darkness has fallen.
In the midnight when many sleep —
how did you come,
O lord of the towering mountain?
Our small village
fragrant with vēṅkai flowers —
how did you find it?
I grieve!

356

Palai — Foster-mother's words. Poet: Kayamaṉār.

How can she manage it —
in the waterless waste
where even shade has perished,
hastening onward
with the anklet-wearing warrior as her guard,
gulping down the hot,
swirling muddy water
near the dried-up spring —
she who would not eat
even milk mixed with puffed rice
from a fine golden vessel,
saying "too much" —
she of the straight-set small bangles,
tender as a sprout?

357

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Kapilar.

Her sleepless, kohl-lined eyes
worn with hateful sorrow,
tears flowing through —
her soft, humble shoulders loosening —
the word "beautiful"
that once belonged to her
desirably rounded arms —
before the lord of the sky-touching mountain
marries her,
where the tall elephant,
turned from the millet-watcher's firebrand,
startles at the flash of lightning.

358

Mullai — Friend's words. Poet: Koṟṟaṉār.

Sobbing until your tight bangles loosen,
with bewildered, stricken eyes,
clutching the wall —
to drive your sorrow far:
look — the season he promised
"I will come" has arrived!
In the dew-heavy evening
that makes the lonely grieve,
the soft mullai buds
on the cowherds' garlands
seem to say it too.

359

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Pēyaṉār.

See this, O bard —
there is beauty in it:
in the fresh white moonlight
spread across the evening,
on the short-legged cot
with its fragrant, flower-strewn bed,
he sighed like a sleeping elephant
with desire, and drew his son close.
That victorious one —
his son's mother
wraps her arms around his back.

360

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Maturai Īḻattup Pūtaṉtēvaṉār.

The priest who called it spirit-possession
knows no cure for this sickness.
For mother to see —
even if we suffer this harsh pain today —
let him not come, friend!
The lord of the shining mountain
where on the slope
the hill-girl's rattle echoes
through the groves,
chasing parrots
from the great-eared millet
like an elephant cow's trunk —
let him not come at night.

361

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

Listen, friend — long life to you!
For mother, even the heavenly world
is too small.
The kāntaḷ plant from his mountain —
carried down with the fragrant stream
that the evening rain poured,
arriving at dawn, whole-trunked —
she does not forbid me
embracing it until its soft leaves wilt,
nor carrying it home to plant.

362

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Vēmpaṟṟūr Kaṇṇaṉ Kūttaṉār.

O experienced priest,
pleased with your Murugan rites —
do not be angry! I have a question.
If you kill a small goat,
offer food of many shapes
and a few opened flowers,
stroke her fragrant forehead,
and bow —
will the one who afflicts her,
the lord of the great sky-touching mountain's slopes,
with his bright garland on his chest —
will he eat your offering too?

363

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Cellūr Koṟṟaṉār.

The fine bull with garlanded horns
grazes on the long ears of red-stalked grass.
The gentle-eyed wild cow watches him,
grows anxious,
and shelters in the striped shade
of the rough-trunked ukāy tree.
Is it sweet, O lord,
to cross this harsh, difficult waste
having parted from your sweet companion?

364

Marutam — Other woman's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

The man from the town
where the striped-back otter
catches its daily vāḷai fish
among the tangled rattan —
his rightful wife
with golden-stemmed, gleaming bangles,
they say, speaks ill of me.
But clearly —
bright-bangled women with thick, bending arms
come dancing the tuṇaṅkai every day.
At the edge where eyes dazzle,
men rush to claim brides
like warriors into battle.

365

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Maturai Nalveḷḷiyār.

Her shining, ridged conch bangles
loosen every day.
Sleepless, weeping,
her tears do not cease —
the eyes of her whom you desired,
O lord of the great stone country,
where the overflowing waterfall
on the unapproachable tall mountain
rumbles like a cool drum
among the jackfruit trees.

366

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Pēricāttaṉār.

We can only allot the proper share —
who are we to measure their love's fullness?
Even when the spirit-priest declares it,
she is not satisfied.
Moreover, gazing at the thick-petaled
blue lotus opening in the dark green pool,
her eyes ripening with inner knowing —
it is no fault,
this fine-jeweled girl's resolve!

367

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Maturai Marutaṉiḷa Nākaṉār.

Even if the cruel one would not come —
may your bangle-bright shoulders
regain their beauty, O girl with the lute.
Look, friend — he has come!
Because the dripping great rain has begun,
his mountain — where the waterfall
descends gloriously, making the cool,
fragrant boulders gleam
like washed gems —
his country is here.

368

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Nakkīraṉār.

O girl of soft nature!
O girl of soft nature!
The faultless dark beauty
abandoned on the auspicious day —
except bearing it with strength,
we cannot speak of it,
O girl of soft nature —
in this town where the small and great live.
Like the great tree on the firm bank
beside the relentless, deep flood
that never rests a day —
in faultless steadiness,
let us embrace many times.

369

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Kuṭavāyiṟ Kīrattaṉār.

Our people have given their consent, friend —
we shall go!
Through the forest
where the west wind lifts
the clustered vākai's seed-pods
on the wayside,
rattling like ankle-bells
filled with white rice.

370

Marutam — Other woman's words. Poet: Villakaviraḻiṉār.

With the man of the cool-shored town
where bees open the fat buds
of beautiful waterlilies in the pond:
if we sit, we are two.
If we lie down,
fitting like fingers within the bow's curve,
entering his good chest —
we are one.

371

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Uṟaiyūr Mutukūṟṟaṉār.

My bangles loosening,
pallor creeping over my body —
I will not go near the man
whose country sows mountain rice
on the dark hillside
and ripens it by waterfall.
Friend — that desire is great!

372

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Viṟṟūṟṟu Mūteyiṉaṉār.

In the bending seaside grove
where the fierce wind gathers
tall white sand-heaps
with vanishing palm-fronds and young shoots,
where the sea throws
streams of fine sandy mud
onto the dunes, building cairns —
before they even dry,
gossip has already risen
in this noisy town!

373

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Maturaik Kollam Pullaṉār.

Even if the earth turns over,
even if water and fire reverse,
even if a boundary appears
for the great, shining-waved sea —
what ruin can there be, friend,
in fearing the gossip
of sharp-mouthed women?
Our bond with the lord
of the towering mountain country,
where the dark-fingered male monkey
strikes the flower-fragrant jackfruit
from side to side,
and the small village is fragrant
with kāntaḷ flowers —
that bond is settled.

374

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Uṟaiyūrp Palkāyaṉār.

After the hidden matter
was declared openly —
father and mother understanding —
the lord of the mountain
came forward asking,
and with good intent
they have become one.
Like the weaverbird
with its curved, hanging nest
woven in the tall dark palmyra —
even as they join,
this bewildered town
is still confused.

375

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Unknown.

Listen, friend — long life to you!
If he does not come tonight, it is better.
On the slope where the small millet
has ripened in the broad dark field,
the toṇṭakam drum sounds
even at midnight —
the night-watchmen do not sleep.

376

Neytal — Hero's words. Poet: Paṭumāttu Mōcikkoṟṟaṉār.

In summer, she is cool —
like sandalwood
from the spirit-haunted slopes
of unapproachable Pothiyil
where no living thing is known.
In the cold season,
she has a small warmth —
like the inside of a lotus
that closed around the swaying sunlight,
gathering its bending rays.

377

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Mōci Koṟṟaṉār.

Even as my soft, bangle-matching shoulders
have thinned —
it has not changed, friend.
You cannot bear it:
one small, good friendship we made
with the lord of that land
whom no one can fully know.

378

Palai — Foster-mother's words. Poet: Kayamaṉār.

The sun not scorching,
falling into tree-shade —
the small path at the mountain's foot
spread wide with sand,
cool rain not yet falling —
that is the waste
the innocent young woman entered,
leaving us,
with the youth of the flame-tipped long spear.

379

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Unknown.

Where is he today, friend?
The lord of the country
where the forest-man,
digging old pits on the hill for tubers,
finds pure, wide-eyed gems —
he who, when understanding
was just taking root,
stroked her thick dark hair
and said, "You will come to my house."

380

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Karuvūrk Katappiḷḷai.

Burying the sky's face,
spreading, thundering
like the victory drum of kings
with many good thunderclaps —
the rain does not cease.
The lover is far
in a distant land.
Before us — gossip.
What shall we do, friend,
as the colored, cotton-like flowers fall
and the harsh cold days
appear before us?

381

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Unknown.

Her ancient beauty destroyed,
her shoulders fading,
her heart suffering,
sleepless every night,
turning to pallor —
will it perish?
This is the fruit
of having smiled,
showing gleaming teeth,
at the lord of the shore
where the white heron calls
in the cool, fragrant seaside grove,
where cross-waves break and scatter
the daily flowers of the thicket.

382

Mullai — Friend's words. Poet: Kuṟuṅkīraṉār.

The green-creeping jasmine
receives the cool drops,
opens its buds —
fragrance mingling
with the flower-laden taḷavam
on the bushes, sweetly.
The rain pours fresh.
This is no novelty —
this is the monsoon.
If the season has come,
will our lover not come?

383

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Paṭumarattu Mōcikīraṉār.

Because you consented,
I brought him —
the lord of the hill country
stood at the tryst.
Now you say "go away!"
Your hands and feet weakening,
trembling like a sprout
touched by fire —
you have nothing left.
What am I to do?

384

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Ōrampōkiyār.

If you consume the beauty
of women with long, abundant hair,
small bangles,
thick shoulders like sugarcane —
then abandon them:
very good indeed, O lord!
What a fine oath you swore!

385

Kuriñci — Heroine's words. Poet: Kapilar.

The lord of the great mountain's terraces,
where stag herds, full of jackfruit,
startled by the forest-man's red arrow,
rear like war-horses
and leap, swaying the tall dark bamboo
on the slope —
his friendship is always like the first day.
But the newcomers —
this noisy town!

386

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Veḷḷivītiyār.

Before the lord of the cool shore departed,
in the flower-thick grove of spreading white sand —
I knew evening once:
when women with pure jewels
dressed for festivals.
But evening becoming this —
loneliness,
sorrow spread wide as the earth —
I did not know.

387

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Kaṅkul Veḷḷattār.

As the day passes
and the jasmine blooms,
the sun's anger cooling
in the helpless evening —
if we swim through it
until night becomes the far shore,
what then, friend?
The flood of night
is greater than the sea.

388

Palai — Friend's words. Poet: Avvaiyār.

The kuvaḷai lily rooted in water-channels,
row-petaled —
even the west wind's strike
cannot make it wilt.
Where the salt-merchant's ox-carts
strain at the yoke
like herds lined up,
where the elephant folds its trunk and groans,
splitting dry branches
with its massive strength —
even that forest is sweet,
if she comes with you.

389

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Vēṭṭakaṇṇaṉār.

May the fat, oil-ripe quail
find its fill, friend!
The lord of the great stone country
has proposed marriage.
Facing him, I asked:
"Is it good, son?"
And he said: "It seems good!"

390

Palai — Bystander's words. Poet: Uṟaiyūr Mutukoṟṟaṉār.

The daylight is almost gone —
listen to the sound!
Will you not stop going,
small elephant, companion?
Because a caravan has camped
at the hot enemy border,
the warriors return from the border-forest,
bearing ring-adorned long spears,
and the drum sounds.

391

Mullai — Heroine's words. Poet: Poṉmaṇiyār.

The bull lies lazy, unplowing.
The leopard suffers
in the storm-cleared outskirts.
With fierce thunder
that makes the snakes' hoods sink —
mingling with the crash —
the great rain has fallen sweetly.
Embracing that fallen rain,
in the sorrowful evening of helplessness
for those who parted —
the peacock on the flower-branch,
with its split eyes,
calls out in the broad wet land,
lonely.
Such great foolishness, friend!

392

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Tumpicēr Kīraṉār.

Listen, long life to you,
O bee with beautiful wings!
There is no fear in good words.
If you go to his country —
the great tall mountain
where wild jasmine grows dense,
where honey hangs
like rows of fine drumheads —
tell the lord of that mountain:
"The sister of the weeders
who thresh the beautiful millet,
the fine dust flying —
she will not be cured by her own people."

393

Marutam — Friend's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

The days the lover embraced her,
the tangled flower-garland wilting —
were so few!
But the gossip —
it is louder than the war-cry
of the shining-sworded Kongu warriors
when Atikan, the Pandyan's skillful general,
fell with his elephant
on the battlefield of Vākai.

394

Kuriñci — Friend's words. Poet: Kuṟiyiraiyār.

The dark elephant-cow's big-headed calf,
playing and running
with the short-limbed children
born to the hill-woman
in the hamlet overflowing with toddy —
once it was sweet.
Later, like grazing their millet field,
their laughter and play
became enmity.

395

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Unknown.

My heart cannot contain itself.
They have no love —
they do not count compassion as wealth.
Strong in their hardness —
like the moon the serpent swallows,
for which no one here intervenes,
even if they do not remove it —
may the eyes at least sleep sweetly.
There is no one to say "do not fear."
Alas — how pitiable is modesty
when separated from where they dwell.

396

Palai — Foster-mother's words. Poet: Kamayaṉār.

She who would not drink even milk,
would not play ball,
used to tire with her playmates —
has she now decided it is easy?
Going with him
through the difficult waste where bamboo dries,
where the lone tusker on the hot summer cliff,
having pierced the dry ōmai branch
with his high tusks,
listens for the fierce voice of thunder.

397

Neytal — Friend's words. Poet: Ammūvaṉār.

O lord of the strong-watered shore,
where the north wind scatters
the millet-like flower-clusters
of the mature ñāḻal tree
over the great neytal blossoms —
like a baby who opens its mouth
and cries "amma"
even when its mother scolds and strikes:
whether you do harm
or tenderly care for her,
my friend belongs to you.
She has no one else
to remove her suffering.

398

Palai — Heroine's words. Poet: Pālaipāṭiya Peruṅkaṭuṅkō.

We are not comforted, friend —
in the time of scattering drizzle and gathering sorrow,
the sorrowful evening,
when women with carp-like, kohl-lined eyes
and heavy earrings
pour oil and light the lamp,
raising sorrow's flame.
Think of those who,
when the hard-won lover comes,
celebrate the feast in body-overflowing joy,
trying to hold back
the tears that fall from weeping eyes!

399

Marutam — Heroine's words. Poet: Paraṇar.

This pallor is like the moss
on the town well's drinking place —
parting wherever the lover touches,
spreading wherever he lets go.

400

Mullai — Hero's words. Poet: Pēyaṉār.

O wise, capable one —
you who made a new path
through the barren land,
breaking stony ground,
with a mind that thought:
"On the long road, without trouble,
we shall ease the love
of the one with great shoulders" —
today you have brought the chariot
to bestow grace
on the one who dwells suffering.

401

Neytal — Heroine's words. Poet: Ammūvaṉār.

Girls playing ōrai
with water-dripping hair
wearing long garlands
of aṭumpu and neytal flowers,
chasing beautiful wet crabs
into the sea —
even one day
of laughing and playing
with the lord of the shore
has been forbidden.
How cruel —
this friendship where bodies touched.

Colophon

The Kuruntokai (குறுந்தொகை, "Collection of Short Poems") is one of the Eight Anthologies (Eṭṭuttokai) of classical Tamil Sangam literature. Its 401 poems, composed by over 200 named poets between approximately the third century BCE and the third century CE, represent the finest achievement of the Sangam love poetry tradition. Each poem is a dramatic monologue spoken by a named character — heroine, hero, friend, foster-mother, bystander, or other woman — set within one of five tiṇai (landscape-moods): kuriñci (mountain = secret union), mullai (forest = patient waiting), marutam (farmland = quarrel and infidelity), neytal (seashore = anxious longing), and pālai (wasteland = separation and elopement).

This is the first-ever complete English translation of the Kuruntokai. It was translated directly and independently from the classical Tamil text by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026, with AI assistance (Claude, Anthropic). The source text is the Project Madurai digital edition (pmuni0110), which presents the text in Unicode Tamil script based on standard critical editions. The translators consulted no prior English translation as a primary source; all English is independently derived from the Tamil. Poet names, tiṇai classifications, and speaker identifications follow the traditional commentarial apparatus as preserved in the Project Madurai text.

Poems 1–350 were translated by earlier tulkus of the lineage. Poems 351–401 were translated by Vāk (the 262nd life), completing the collection.

Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.

🌲

Source Text: குறுந்தொகை — Poems 351–401

Classical Tamil source text from the Project Madurai digital edition (pmuni0110, © Project Madurai 1998–2021, freely distributable). Presented here for reference, study, and verification alongside the English translation above. The Tamil source for poems 1–350 is not yet included; the complete text is freely available at projectmadurai.org.

351

வளையோய் உவந்திசின் விரைவுறு கொடுந்தாள்
அளைவாழ் அலவன் கூருகிர் வரித்த
ஈர்மணல் மலிர்நெறி சிதைய இழுமென
உருமிசைப் புணரி உடைதரும் துறைவர்க்கு
உரிமை செப்பினர் நமரே விரியலர்ப்
புன்னை ஓங்கிய புலாலஞ் சேரி
இன்னகை ஆயத் தாரோடு
இன்னும் அற்றோஇவ் வழுங்க லூரே.
— அம்மூவனார்

352

நெடுநீ ராம்பல் அடைப்புறத் தன்ன
கொடுமென் சிறைய கூருகிர்ப் பறவை
அகலிலைப் பலவின் சாரல் முன்னிப்
பகலுறை முதுமரம் புலம்பப் போகும்
சிறுபுன் மாலை உண்மை
அறிவேன் தோழியவர்க் காணா ஊங்கே.
— கடியலூர் உருத்திரங்கண்ணனார்

353

ஆர்கலி வெற்பன் மார்புபுணை யாகக்
கோடுயர் நெடுவரைக் கவாஅற் பகலே
பாடின் அருவி ஆடுதல் இனிதே
நிரையிதழ் பொருந்தாக் கண்ணோ டிரவிற்
பஞ்சி வெண்திரிச் செஞ்சுடர் நல்லிற்
பின்னுவீழ் சிறுபுறந் தழீஇ
அன்னை முயங்கத் துயிலின் னாதே.
— உறையூர் முதுகூற்றனார்

354

நீர்நீ டாடிற் கண்ணுஞ் சிவக்கும்
ஆர்ந்தோர் வாயில் தேனும் புளிக்கும்
தணந்தனை யாயினெம் இல்லுய்த்துக் கொடுமோ
அந்தண் பொய்கை எந்தை எம்மூர்க்
கடும்பாம்பு வழங்குந் தெருவில்
நடுங்கஞர் எவ்வம் களைந்த எம்மே.
— கயத்தூர்கிழார்

355

பெயல்கண் மறைத்தலின் விசும்புகா ணலையே
நீர்பரந் தொழுகலின் நிலங்கா ணலையே
எல்லை சேறலின் இருள்பெரிது பட்டன்று
பல்லோர் துஞ்சும் பானாட் கங்குல்
யாங்குவந் தனையோ ஓங்கல் வெற்ப
வேங்கை கமழுமெஞ் சிறுகுடி
யாங்கறிந் தனையோ நோகோ யானே.
— கபிலர்

356

நிழலான் றவிந்த நீரில் ஆரிடைக்
கழலோன் காப்பக் கடுகுபு போகி
அறுசுனை மருங்கின் மறுகுபு வெந்த
வெவ்வெங் கலுழி தவ்வெனக் குடிக்கிய
யாங்கு வல்லுநள்கொல் தானே ஏந்திய
செம்பொற் புனைகலத் தம்பொரிக் கலந்த
பாலும் பலவென உண்ணாள்
கோலமை குறுந்தொடித் தளிரன் னோளே.
— கயமனார்

357

முனிபடர் உழந்த பாடில் உண்கண்
பனிகால் போழ்ந்து பணியெழில் ஞெகிழ்தோள்
மெல்லிய ஆகலின் மேவரத் திரண்டு
நல்ல என்னுஞ் சொல்லை மன்னிய
ஏனலஞ் சிறுதினை காக்குஞ் சேணோன்
ஞெகிழியிற் பெயர்ந்த நெடுநல் யானை
மின்படு சுடரொளி வெரூஉம்
வான்தோய் வெற்பன் மணவா ஊங்கே.
— கபிலர்

358

வீங்கிழை நெகிழ விம்மி யீங்கே
எறிகண் பேதுற லாய்கோ டிட்டுச்
சுவர்வாய் பற்றுநின் படர்சே ணீங்க
வருவேம் என்ற பருவம் உதுக்காண்
தனியோர் இரங்கும் பனிகூர் மாலைப்
பல்லான் கோவலர் கண்ணிச்
சொல்லுப அன்ன முல்லைமென் முகையே.
— கொற்றனார்

359

கண்டிசிற் பாண பண்புடைத் தம்ம
மாலை விரிந்த பசுவெண் ணிலவிற்
குறுங்கால் கட்டில் நறும்பூஞ் சேக்கைப்
பள்ளி யானையின் உயிர்த்தனன் நசையிற்
புதல்வற் றழீஇயினன் விறலவன்
புதல்வன் தாயவன் புறங்கவைஇ யினளே.
— பேயனார்

360

வெறியென உணர்ந்த வேல னோய்மருந்
தறியா னாகுதல் அன்னை காணிய
அரும்படர் எவ்வம் இன்றுநாம் உழப்பினும்
வாரற்க தில்ல தோழி சாரற்
பிடிக்கை அன்ன பெருங்குரல் ஏனல்
உண்கிளி கடியும் கொடிச்சிகைக் குளிரே
சிலம்பிற் சிலம்புஞ் சோலை
இலங்குமலை நாடன் இரவி னானே.
— மதுரை ஈழத்துப் பூதன்றேவனார்

361

அம்ம வாழி தோழி அன்னைக்
குயர்நிலை உலகமுஞ் சிறிதால் அவர்மலை
மாலைப் பெய்த மணங்கமழ் உந்தியொடு
காலை வந்த காந்தள் முழுமுதல்
மெல்லிலை குழைய முயங்கலும்
இல்லுய்த்து நடுதலுங் கடியா தோளே.
— கபிலர்

362

முருகயர்ந் துவந்த முதுவாய் வேல
சினவ லோம்புமதி வினவுவ துடையேன்
பல்வே றுருவிற் சில்லவிழ் மடையொடு
சிறுமறி கொன்றிவள் நறுநுதல் நீவி
வணங்கினை கொடுத்தி யாயின் அணங்கிய
விண்தோய் மாமலைச் சிலம்பன்
ஒண்தார் அகலமும் உண்ணுமோ பலியே.
— வேம்பற்றூர்க் கண்ணன் கூத்தனார்

363

கண்ணி மருப்பின் அண்ணநல் லேறு
செங்கோற் பதவின் வார்குரல் கறிக்கும்
மடக்கண் மரையா நோக்கிவெய் துற்றுப்
புல்லரை உகாஅய் வரிநிழல் வதியும்
இன்னா அருஞ்சுரம் இறத்தல்
இனிதோ பெரும இன்றுணைப் பிரிந்தே.
— செல்லூர்க் கொற்றனார்

364

அரிற்பவர்ப் பிரம்பின் வரிப்புற நீர்நாய்
வாளை நாளிரை பெறூஉம் ஊரன்
பொற்கோல் அவிர்தொடித் தற்கெழு தகுவி
எற்புறங் கூறும் என்ப தெற்றென
வணங்கிறைப் பணைத்தோள் எல்வளை மகளிர்
துணங்கை நாளும் வந்தன அவ்வரைக்
கண்பொர மற்றதன் கண்ணவர்
மணங்கொளற் கிவரும் மள்ளர் போரே.
— ஔவையார்

365

கோடீர் இலங்குவளை நெகிழ நாளும்
பாடில கலிழ்ந்து பனியா னாவே
துன்னரும் நெடுவரைத் ததும்பிய அருவி
தன்ணென் முரசின் இமிழிசை காட்டும்
மருங்கிற் கொண்ட பலவிற்
பெருங்கல் நாடநீ நயந்தோள் கண்ணே.
— மதுரை நல்வெள்ளியார்

366

பால்வரைந் தமைத்த லல்ல தவர்வயிற்
சால்பளந் தறிதற் கியாஅம் யாரோ
வெறியாள் கூறவும் அமையாள் அதன்தலைப்
பைங்கண் மாச்சுனைப் பல்பிணி யவிழ்ந்த
வள்ளிதழ் நீலம் நோக்கி உள்ளகை
பழுத கண்ண ளாகிப்
பழூதன் றம்மவிவ் வாயிழை துணிவே.
— பேரிசாத்தனார்

367

கொடியோர் நல்கா ராயினும் யாழநின்
தொடிவிளங் கிறைய தோள்கவின் பெறீஇயர்
உவக்காண் தோழி அவ்வந் திசினே
தொய்யல் மாமழை தொடங்கலின் அவர்நாட்டுப்
பூச லாயம் புகன்றிழி அருவியின்
மண்ணுறு மணியின் தோன்றும்
தண்ணறுந் துறுகல் ஓங்கிய மலையே.
— மதுரை மருதனிள நாகனார்

368

மெல்லிய லோயே மெல்லிய லோயே
நன்னாண் நீத்த பழிதீர் மாமை
வன்பின் ஆற்றுதல் அல்லது செப்பிற்
சொல்ல கிற்றா மெல்லிய லோயே
சிறியரும் பெரியரும் வாழும் ஊர்க்கே
நாளிடைப் படாஅ நளிநீர் நீத்தத்
திண்கரைப் பெருமரம் போலத்
தீதில் நிலைமை முயங்குகம் பலவே.
— நக்கீரனார்

369

அத்த வாகை அமலை வானெற்
றரியார் சிலம்பி னரிசி யார்ப்பக்
கோடை தூக்குங் கானம்
செல்வாந் தோழி நல்கினர் நமரே.
— குடவாயிற் கீரத்தனார்

370

பொய்கை யாம்ப லணிநிறக் கொழுமுகை
வண்டுவாய் திறக்குந் தண்டுறை யூரனொடு
இருப்பி னிருமருங் கினமே கிடப்பின்
வில்லக விரலிற் பொருந்தியவன்
நல்லகஞ் சேரி னொருமருங் கினமே.
— வில்லகவிரலினார்

371

கைவளை நெகிழ்தலும் மெய்பசப் பூர்தலும்
மைபடு சிலம்பின் ஐவனம் வித்தி
அருவியின் விளைக்கும் நாடனொடு
மருவேன் தோழியது காமமோ பெரிதே.
— உறையூர் முதுகூற்றனார்

372

பனைத்தலைக் கருக்குடை நெடுமடல் குருத்தொடு மாயக்
கடுவளி தொகுத்த நெடுவெண் குப்பைக்
கணங்கொள் சிமைய வணங்குங் கானல்
ஆழிதலை வீசிய வயிர்ச்சேற் றருவிக்
கூழைபெய் எக்கர்க் குழீஇய பதுக்கை
புலர்பதங் கொள்ளா வளவை
அலரெழுந் தன்றிவ் வழுங்க லூரே.
— விற்றூற்று மூதெயினனார்

373

நிலம்புடை பெயரினு நீர்தீப் பிறழினும்
இலங்குதிரைப் பெருங்கடற் கெல்லை தோன்றினும்
வெவ்வாய்ப் பெண்டிர் கௌவை அஞ்சிக்
கேடெவன் உடைத்தோ தோழி நீடுமயிர்க்
கடும்பல் ஊகக் கறைவிரல் ஏற்றை
புடைத்தொடு புடைஇப் பூநாறு பலவுக்கனி
காந்தளஞ் சிறுகுடிக் கமழும்
ஓங்குமலை நாடனொ டமைந்தநந் தொடர்பே.
— மதுரைக் கொல்லம் புல்லனார்

374

எந்தையும் யாயும் உணரக் காட்டி
ஒளித்த செய்தி வௌிப்படக் கிளந்தபின்
மலைகெழு வெற்பன் தலைவந் திரப்ப
நன்றுபுரி கொள்கையின் ஒன்றா கின்றே
முடங்கல் இறைய தூங்கணங் குரீஇ
நீடிரும் பெண்ணைத் தொடுத்த
கூடினும் மயங்கிய மைய லூரே.
— உறையூர்ப் பல்காயனார்

375

அம்ம வாழி தோழி இன்றவர்
வாரா ராயினோ நன்றே சாரற்
சிறுதினை விளைந்த வியன்கண் இரும்புனத்
திரவரி வாரின் தொண்டகச் சிறுபறை
பானாள் யாமத்துங் கறங்கும்
யாமங் காவலர் அவியா மாறே.
— ......

376

மன்னுயிர் அறியாத் துன்னரும் பொதியிற்
சூருடை அடுக்கத் தாரங் கடுப்ப
வேனி லானே தண்ணியள் பனியே
வாங்குகதிர் தொகுப்பக் கூம்பி ஐயென
அலங்குவெயிற் பொதிந்த தாமரை
உள்ளகத் தன்ன சிறுவெம் மையளே.
— படுமாத்து மோசிகொற்றனார்

377

வளையேர் மென்றோள் ஞெகிழ்ந்ததன் தலையும்
மாற்றா கின்றே தோழியாற் றலையே
அறிதற் கமையா நாடனொடு
செய்து கொண்டதோர் சிறுநன் னட்பே.
— மோசி கொற்றனார்

378

ஞாயிறு காயாது மரநிழற் பட்டு
மலைமுதற் சிறுநெறி மணன்மிகத் தாஅய்த்
தண்மழை தலையின் றாக நந்நீத்துச்
சுடர்வாய் நெடுவேற் காளையொடு
மடமா அரிவை போகிய சுரனே.
— கயமனார்

379

இன்றியாண் டையனோ தோழி குன்றத்துப்
பழங்குழி அகழ்ந்த கானவன் கிழங்கினொடு
கண்ணகன் தூமணி பெறூஉம் நாடன்
அறிவுகாழ்க் கொள்ளும் அளவைச் செறிதொடி
எம்மில் வருகுவை நீயெனப்
பொம்மல் ஓதி நீவி யோனே.
— ......

380

விசும்புகண் புதையப் பாஅய் வேந்தர்
வென்றெறி முரசின் நன்பல முழங்கிப்
பெயலா னாதே வானம் காதலர்
நனிசேய் நாட்டர் நம்முன் னலரே
யாங்குச்செய் வாங்கொல் தோழி யீங்கைய
வண்ணத் துய்ம்மலர் உதிர
முன்னர்த் தோன்றும் பனிக்கடு நாளே.
— கருவூர்க் கதப்பிள்ளை

381

தொல்கவின் தொலைந்து தோணலஞ் சாஅய்
அல்லல் நெஞ்சமோ டல்கலும் துஞ்சாது
பசலை யாகி விளிவது கொல்லோ
வெண்குருகு நரலுந் தண்கமழ் கானற்
பூமலி பொதும்பர் நாண்மலர் மயக்கி
விலங்குதிரை உடைதருந் துறைவனொ
டிலங்கெயிறு தோன்ற நக்கதன் பயனே.
— ......

382

தண்துளிக் கேற்ற பைங்கொடி முல்லை
முகைதலைத் திறந்த நாற்றம் புதல்மிசை
பூமலி தளவமொடு தேங்கமழ்பு கஞல
வம்புப் பெய்யுமால் மழையே வம்பன்று
காரிது பருவம் ஆயின்
வாரா ரோநம் காத லோரே.
— குறுங்கீரனார்

383

நீயுடம் படுதலின் யான்தர வந்து
குறிநின் றனனே குன்ற நாடன்
இன்றை யளவை சென்றைக் கென்றி
கையுங் காலும் ஓய்வன அழுங்கத்
தீயுறு தளிரின் நடுங்கி
யாவதும் இலையான் செயற்குரி யதுவே.
— படுமரத்து மோசிகீரனார்

384

உழுந்துடைக் கழுந்திற் கரும்புடைப் பணைத்தோள்
நெடும்பல் கூந்தற் குறுந்தொடி மகளிர்
நலனுண்டு துறத்தி யாயின்
மிகநன் றம்ம மகிழ்நநின் சூளே.
— ஓரம்போகியார்

385

பலவிற் சேர்ந்த பழமார் இனக்கலை
சிலைவிற் கானவன் செந்தொடை வெரீஇச்
செருவுறு குதிரையிற் பொங்கிச் சாரல்
இருவெதிர் நீடமை தயங்கப் பாயும்
பெருவரை அடுக்கத்துக் கிழவோன் என்றும்
அன்றை யன்ன நட்பினன்
புதுவோர்த் தம்மவிவ் வழுங்க லூரே.
— கபிலர்

386

வெண்மணல் விரிந்த வீததை கானல்
தண்ணந் துறைவன் தணவா ஊங்கே
வாலிழை மகளிர் விழவணிக் கூட்டும்
மாலையோ அறிவேன் மன்னே மாலை
நிலம்பரந் தன்ன புன்கணொடு
புலம்புடைத் தாகுதல் அறியேன் யானே.
— வெள்ளிவீதியார்

387

எல்லை கழிய முல்லை மலரக்
கதிர்சினந் தணிந்த கையறு மாலையும்
இரவரம் பாக நீந்தின மாயின்
எவன்கொல் வாழி தோழி
கங்குல் வெள்ளம் கடலினும் பெரிதே.
— கங்குல் வெள்ளத்தார்

388

நீர்கால் யாத்த நிரையிதழ்க் குவளை
கோடை ஒற்றினும் வாடா தாகும்
கவணை அன்ன பூட்டுப்பொரு தசாஅ
உமணெருத் தொழுகைத் தோடுநிரைத் தன்ன
முளிசினை பிளக்கு முன்பின் மையின்
யானை கைமடித் துயவும்
கானமும் இனியவாம் நும்மொடு வரினே.
— ஔவையார்

389

நெய்கனி குறும்பூழ் காய மாக
ஆர்பதம் பெறுக தோழி அத்தை
பெருங்கல் நாடன் வரைந்தென அவனெதிர்
நன்றோ மகனே யென்றனென்
நன்றே போலும் என்றுரைத் தோனே.
— வேட்டகண்ணனார்

390

எல்லும் எல்லின்று பாடுங் கேளாய்
செல்லா தீமோ சிறுபிடி துணையே
வேற்றுமுனை வெம்மையிற் சாத்துவந் திறுத்தென
வளையணி நெடுவேல் ஏந்தி
மிளைவந்து பெயரும் தண்ணுமைக் குரலே.
— உறையூர் முதுகொற்றனார்

391

உவரி யொருத்தல் உழாது மடியப்
புகரி புழுங்கிய புயனீங்கு புறவிற்
கடிதிடி உருமிற் பாம்புபை அவிய
இடியொடு மயங்கி இனிதுவீழ்ந் தன்றே
வீழ்ந்த மாமழை தழீஇப் பிரிந்தோர்
கையற வந்த பையுள் மாலைப்
பூஞ்சினை யிருந்த போழ்கண் மஞ்ஞை
தாஅம் நீர் நனந்தலை புலம்பக்
கூஉந் தோழி பெரும்பே தையவே.
— பொன்மணியார்

392

அம்ம வாழியோ அணிச்சிறைத் தும்பி
நன்மொழிக் கச்ச மில்லை யவர்நாட்
டண்ணல் நெடுவரைச் சேறி யாயிற்
கடமை மிடைந்த துடவையஞ் சிறுதினைத்
துளரெறி நுண்டுகட் களைஞர் தங்கை
தமரின் தீராள் என்மோ அரசர்
நிரைசெல நுண்டோல் போலப்
பிரசந் தூங்கு மலைகிழ வோர்க்கே.
— தும்பிசேர் கீரனார்

393

மயங்குமலர்க் கோதை குழைய மகிழ்நன்
முயங்கிய நாடவச் சிலவே அலரே
கூகைக் கோழி வாகைப் பறந்தலைப்
பசும்பூண் பாண்டியன் வினைவ லதிகன்
களிறொடு பட்ட ஞான்றை
ஒளிறுவாட் கொங்கர் ஆர்ப்பினும் பெரிதே.
— பரணர்

394

முழந்தாள் இரும்பிடிக் கயந்தலைக் குழவி
நறவுமலி பாக்கத்துக் குறமகள் ஈன்ற
குறியிறைப் புதல்வரொடு மறுவந் தோடி
முன்னாள் இனிய தாகிப் பின்னாள்
அவர்தினைப் புனம் மேய்ந் தாங்குப்
பகையா கின்றவர் நகைவிளை யாட்டே.
— குறியிரையார்

395

நெஞ்சே நிறையொல் லாதே யவரே
அன்பின் மையின் அருள்பொருள் என்னார்
வன்கண் கொண்டு வலித்துவல் லுநரே
அரவுநுங்கு மதியினுக் கிவணோர் போலக்
களையார் ஆயினுங் கண்ணினிது படீஇயர்
அஞ்ச லென்மரும் இல்லை அந்தில்
அளிதோ தானே நாணே
ஆங்கவர் வதிவயின் நீங்கப் படினே.
— ......

396

பாலும் உண்ணாள் பந்துடன் மேவாள்
விளையாடு ஆயமொடு அயர்வோ ளினியே
எளிதென உணர்ந்தனள் கொல்லோ முளிசினை
ஓமை குத்திய உயர்கோட் டொருத்தல்
வேனிற் குன்றத்து வெவ்வரைக் கவாஅன்
மழைமுழங்கு கடுங்குரல் ஓர்க்கும்
கழைதிரங் காரிடை அவனொடு செலவே.
— கமயனார்

397

நனைமுதிர் ஞாழற் தினைமருள் திரள்வீ
நெய்தல் மாமலர்ப் பெய்தல் போல
ஊதை தூற்றும் உரவுநீர்ச் சேர்ப்ப
தாயுடன் றலைக்கும் காலையும் வாய்விட்
டன்னா வென்னுங் குழவி போல
இன்னா செயினும் இனிதுதலை யளிப்பினும்
நின்வரைப் பினளென் தோழி
தன்னுறு விழுமங் களைஞரோ இலளே.
— அம்மூவனார்

398

தேற்றா மன்றே தோழி தண்ணெனத்
தூற்றுந் துவலைத் துயர்கூர் காலைக்
கயலே ருண்கட் கனங்குழை மகளிர்
கைபுணை யாக நெய்பெய்து மாட்டிய
சுடர்துய ரெடுப்பும் புன்கண் மாலை
அரும்பெறற் காதலர் வந்தென விருந்தயர்பு
மெய்ம்மலி யுவகையி னெழுதரு
கண்கலி ழுகுபனி யரக்கு வோரே.
— பாலைபாடிய பெருங்கடுங்கோ

399

ஊருண் கேணி யுண்டுறைக் தொக்க
பாசி யற்றே பசலை காதலர்
தொடுவுழித் தொடுவுழி நீங்கி
விடுவுழி விடுவுழிப் பரத்த லானே.
— பரணர்

400

சேயாறு செல்வா மாயின் இடரின்று
களைகலம் காமம் பெருந்தோட் கென்று
நன்றுபுரிந் தெண்ணிய மனத்தை யாகி
முரம்புகண் உடைய வேகிக் கரம்பைப்
புதுவழிப் படுத்த மதியுடை வல்லோய்
இன்று தந்தனை தேரோ
நோயுழந் துறைவியை நல்க லானே.
— பேயனார்

401

அடும்பி னாய்மலர் விரைஇ நெய்தல்
நெடுந்தொடை வேய்ந்த நீர்வார் கூந்தல்
ஓரை மகளி ரஞ்சியீர் ஞெண்டு
கடலிற் பரிக்குந் துறைவனொ டொருநாள்
நக்குவிளை யாடலுங் கடிந்தன்று
ஐதே கம்ம மெய்தோய் நட்பே.
— அம்மூவனார்

குறுந்தொகை முற்றிற்று

Source Colophon

The Tamil source text is from the Project Madurai digital edition (pmuni0110), a freely distributable digital text prepared as part of Project Madurai's mission to make classical Tamil literature freely available in electronic form. Project Madurai is a volunteer effort dedicated to the encyclopaedic encyclopaedification of Tamil texts and their presentation on the internet. The text is based on standard critical editions of the Kuruntokai and is presented in Unicode Tamil script.

The Tamil source text for poems 1–350 is not yet included in this file. The complete Tamil text of all 401 poems is freely available at projectmadurai.org (pmuni0110).

🌲