The Therigatha, “Songs of the Elder Nuns,” is the earliest collection of poetry composed by women composed in India, and indeed one of the earliest such anthologies in any language. The poems of the Therigatha date from between the sixth and third centuries BCE. Their language is Pali, a language closely related to Sanskrit. They are an integral part of the Theravada Buddhist canon.
This is oral poetry, which accounts for some repetition and a certain homegeneity. Nonetheless, it is an rare and vivid record of women’s experiences and predicaments more than two thousand years ago, and fills in gaps in the map of women’s psychic topography.
1: 1
Sleep well, my little sister nun,
your day’s work done,
wrapped in the rough cloth you yourself wove;
you’ve cooked desire out of yourself
in the fires of meditation,
with the power of concentration,
and now you’re cooled and still within.
It’s like when one stir-fries vegetables
dry, in a pot, with spices,
steaming off their excess moisture
concentrating their flavor.
1: 2
O Mutta, your name means “freed”—
be free from the yoke of attachment,
like the moon when it slides from the shadowy grasp
of Rahu, the demon of eclipse.
With mind set free and debtless,
enjoy the alms-food given you,
owing nothing, beholden to none.
1: 3
Punna, your name means “fulfillment;”
may you be filled full
with all the best traits and mental states
and attain full perfection,
like the round, sound mid-month moon—
be filled like her with lackless light
scattering the blackness.|
But may yours be the light of insight
brightening to whiteness the night of the senses;
wake from the sluggish sleep-heavy weight
of the physical body and mind.
1: 4
Nun, train hard, bind yourself to the precepts
and be bound by them;
don’t let worldly attachments attach you to this world.
Free from the bonds that are bondage indeed,
travel the world at will, clean of the four contaminants
that infect one, life after suffering life,
with the chronic illness that is reincarnation:
these four are sensual pleasure,
the sheer momentum of existence,
willful ignorance and mistaken views.
1: 5
Nun, yoke yourself to the best mental traits and states,
don’t let this chance at true happiness pass you by;
those who’ve missed their moment have plenty of time
to grieve in hell, appreciating
just how urgent was their circumstance.
1: 6
Dira, your name means “constance.” Strive constantly;
gain the great end—the end of suffering;
attain the stilling of discursive thought,
experience perception without comment.
This is the real happiness and ease;
win Nirvana, the escape from endless
reincarnation in this mode of existence—
that’s the biggest win, yours forever once you get it.
1: 7
Vira, your name means “brave,”
and you’ve earned it,
being trained in brave mental traits and states,
a nun whose awareness is highly developed,
whose senses are honed!
See to it now that this body which embodies you
is the last dead weight you’ll ever have to bear.
A physical form is the horse death rides:
cut off your connection to this,
and death can never reach you.
1: 8
You went forth from your home, Mitta,
entered upon the homeless life of a seeker,
because you were convinced.
Mitta, your name means “friend;”
find new, true friends among the spiritual seekers,
develop wholesome patterns of thought.
That’s the way to gain safety.
1: 9
You went forth from your home, Bhadra,
entered upon the homeless life of a seeker,
because you were convinced.
Bhadra, your name means “happy;”
be happy in this fortunate outcome!
Develop wholesome patterns of thought.
that’s how you’ll get yourself true security
and hold fast to supreme happiness.
1: 10
Upasama, your name means “tranquil;”
go forward, calm and resolved,
cross the great flood, the mortal torrent
in which one drowns only to be reborn,
tossed up once more onto the shores
of physical existence.
See to it now that this body which embodies you
is the last dead weight you’ll ever have to bear.
A physical form is the horse death rides:
cut off your connection to this
and death can never reach you.
1: 11
I’m well and truly free now, through a true liberation:
spiritual release from material existence!
No more am I bent over the mortar and pestle,
crushing ginger, garlic, and chilies in the kitchen;
no more am I bent over in the bedroom
with a husband’s pestle grinding my mortar.
Disenchantment with these has set me free,
and I’m done with death and rebirth into this existence,
I left that when I ripped out by the roots
all my moorings in this world.
1: 12
A nun should be intrigued by,
should be resolved and intent on,
should be totally absorbed by—the path.
Such a one they call “not hindered by desires,”
“a stream-crosser stronger than the current.”
1: 13
Do the Buddha’s bidding, follow his rules:
these are actions one never regrets.
Be quick to show reverence
when you enter a Buddhist shrine,
be well-washed, respectful and quiet.
1: 14
You’ve seen that suffering is intrinsic to existence;
don’t return through rebirth!
Disenchanted with life, no longer anchored by hankering,
you’ll travel through peacefully, cool to it all.
1: 15
I’ve learned restraint in action, speech and thought,
tearing out desire by the root.
My passions have cooled, that fire’s put out.
1: 16
Sleep well, old woman, be happy,
wrapped in the simple cloth you yourself wove;|
your fire of desire’s gone out,
a long time it’s been since those coals glowed.
1: 17
I lived on alms, a religious mendicant;
I got so old and frail I needed a cane to walk,
my body was forever trembling. One day
I just collapsed where I stood,
and that was the moment I understood truly,
came to know in my very bones
that a physical body is nothing but trouble.
That was the moment my mind was set free;
let go the notion that my body was me.
1: 18
I became a nun. I left behind, at home,
children, property, husband,
I left behind the habit of loving this and hating that;
I cleared away my ignorance,
won clarity and understanding,
uprooted my craving for existence,
put out the fire of desire,
became calm.
2: 1
Look at the body, Nanda, see what it amounts to:
a home for diseases, secreting sweat till it stinks.
Apply an objective, focused mind
to considering its unloveliness,
see it for what it is, take no pride in it;
then, your way through the world will be smooth,
when you set aside conceit.
2: 2
Those seven mental qualities
which pave the path to enlightenment—
I’ve developed them all
just as the Buddha taught them.
I have truly found the Blessèd One.
This body which bears me,
and which I bear with,
is the last I’ll have to bear.
The momentum of being, which produces birth
then death then birth again—in me it is stilled.
For me, there will be no further return
to this mode of existence.
2: 3
Free, free from kitchen work, well and truly free,
no more do I pound cooking spices with a pestle.
I drop that life with an instinctive sickened shudder,
as you do when you pick up a water snake
and it slimes you with reeking musk
from its rear exit in skunky self-defense—
such is my revulsion from my husband
who thought himself a royal lord
over whom attendants hold the parasol,
both in and out of the bedroom—
such is my whole-hearted loathing
for all the pots and dishes
I’ve washed unnumbered times.
Emitting a hiss of disgust, abrupt
as that of a snake, sudden as a sizzle in a pan,
I strike down my loves and hates,
throw out my wants and dislikes,
betake myself to the base of a jungle tree
to meditate. “Wow, happiness!”
I think to myself, meditating happily.
2: 4
The price of a night with me
was the yearly tax revenue
of the entire province.
I was an urban luxury item,
and my high price was my only value.
I became disenchanted with my own bought beauty;
disenchanted, I gained detachment.
I didn’t want to keep on wandering through time,
birth after birth, eternally.
I earned for myself the three great understandings:
I remembered all my previous lives,
I saw for myself that all things arise
only to pass away, and that all the joys
of this existence are poisonous—
thus I learned in full what the Buddha taught.
2: 5
Although emaciated, sick, very frail,
I struggle to get up hills with the help of a cane—
I’m hot—I take off my patchwork robe;
I’m tired, I place my begging bowl
on the ground and sit myself on a rock—
suddenly I break through the dark thick mental fog
intrinsic to physical existence.
2: 6
Though my youth’s long gone, though I’m weak,
always aching, leaning on a cane,
I struggle to get up hills . . .
It was hot, I placed my begging bowl
on the ground, sat on a rock to rest,
then my mind was freed. I fully grasped
the Buddha’s teaching: recalled
all my past lives, saw that all things
arise just to pass away again,
that this existence offers only
poisonous joys.
2: 7
I observed all the lunar holidays:
the two days of the full moon, the first and final quarters,
even the new moon—the moon you can’t even see,
taking extreme care to observe all eight precepts
on those auspicious days, not just not killing or stealing,
but refraining from sex, lies, intoxicants,
eating little, avoiding fun, not taking it easy—
all this I did, hoping this would earn me
rebirth among the gods.
Now I take only one meal a day,
my head is shaved, I wear the patched robe.
I wouldn’t wish for any further birth,
not even in the heaven-realm. I’m no longer afraid
of losing, or not gaining, anything.
2: 8
Take a good look at these bodies of ours,
from the soles of our feet on up, dear girl,
from the top of our heads on down:
all they do is secrete and stink.
Abiding in this insight,
all the emotions that overheated
my already warm body cooled off—
like when a fever breaks,
like when a flame’s blown out.
2: 9
Abaya, your name means “fearless;”
here’s one less thing for you to fear.
I will one day discard this fragile body—
most people are so attached to their bodies!—
and I will do so with deliberate, careful
awareness of what is happening,
because all things and thoughts,
the very nature of existence,
are painful. I’ve come to take pleasure instead
in comprehension. My cravings have faded,
I don’t thirst for life,
|I’ve accomplished what the Buddha enjoined.
2: 10
Four or five times I gave up on the religious life,
left the nunnery for the world, having failed
to win peace of mind and stilling of thought—
somehow, now, to me, the least likely person,
came a real understanding that all things and thoughts,
the very nature of existence—they’re all painful.
I’ve come to find highest pleasure in comprehension.
It’s been eight nights since I stopped thirsting for life.
My cravings have faded. What the Buddha taught—
that, at last, I’ve learned.
It is part of our project to create a library of the greatest poetry by women from every time and land—a “great wall of girls” —a collection so imposing in scope that women’s genius will be visible even from outer space. Literary translation is the primary means for securing this end.
96th of October Editions has already published books by Anna Akhmatova, Marina Tsvetaeva (Russian); Mascha Kalèko (German); Renée Vivien (French); Anna Margolin (Yiddish) Rachel Blaustein (Hebrew); and Sappho (Greek). Ancient literature written by women, and attributed to men, will be found in O’Malley’s Woman in Chinese and Faintly’s Hebrew Hussies and Hellcats. Our fully annotated editions of books by Julia Vinograd and Emily Dickinson are important turrets on the “wall.” The Therigatha is a distinguished addition to this company.
We are actively interested in publishing new translations: do not hesitate to send us your work.
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We propose, as a literary magazine, to do our part to render great women audible. This we view as a necessary corollary to political feminism, but neither identical nor subordinate to the latter—just as securing women’s rights is a necessary corollary to securing universal human rights, but neither identical nor subordinate to that latter aim.