Ten Goddesses

In the hushed corners of ancient wisdom, the Ten Mahavidyas stand as profound and multifaceted expressions of the Divine Feminine. These goddesses, each a unique embodiment of cosmic power, offer a complete curriculum for spiritual awakening, guiding us through the spectrum of existence from alluring beauty to liberating destruction.

In this exploration, we delve into the heart of these ten wisdom goddesses through a pairing of evocative abstract art and deeply personal devotional poetry. The minimalist images, born from shadow and light, seek to capture the raw essence of each Mahavidya, while the accompanying poems offer an intimate, ecstatic journey into their energies.

This is not merely an intellectual exercise, but an invitation to feel, to resonate, and to connect with the potent wisdom that lies within each of these divine forms. Prepare to journey beyond the conventional, into a space where art and devotion intertwine, illuminating the pathways to self-discovery and the boundless nature of the Goddess.

The abstract form of Tripurā Sundarī radiates a soft, golden light, emphasizing her divine beauty and transcendent bliss. The gentle lines suggest the harmonious balance she embodies, a subtle yet powerful presence in the vastness of the cosmos.

The clamor of the world has gone to sleep,

And in this quiet, holy, midnight hour,

A deeper silence rises from the deep,

A single, perfect, slowly blooming flower.

You are that silence, Mother, soft and clear,

The beauty that the darkness cannot hide,

The gentle end of every doubt and fear,

The silent turning of a cosmic tide.

Your skin has the first blush of morning’s grace,

Your smile contains the bliss of all that is.

The universe is but a mirror for Your face,

Reflecting back a part of Your own bliss.

You are the sixteen-year-old queen, forever young,

The secret promise whispered in the heart,

The final, sweetest poem that was ever sung,

The flawless ending and the flawless start.

You hold a sugarcane bow—it is my mind,

And aim my senses, arrows made of flowers.

With every glance, You capture and You bind

My soul to You for unrecorded hours.

Your goad and noose are not for punishment,

But pulls and pressures of Your loving hand,

A sweet and absolute encouragement

To leave this world and join Your promised land.

Oh, Sundari, whose beauty is the only truth,

Whose form is the sole object of my sight,

You are the nectar of eternal youth,

A river of intoxicating light.

Let me dissolve into Your rosy glow,

A willing captive, gloriously undone.

There is nowhere else for this poor soul to go,

But be a single ray of You, the Rising Sun.

Radiating a golden, auspicious light, this depiction of Kamalātmikā emphasizes purity, abundance, and spiritual blossoming. Surrounded by lotuses and flanked by elephants, she embodies the full potential for grace and prosperity.

The world was a desert, Mother, cracked and dry,

A beggar’s empty bowl beneath the sky.

My heart was a fist, a stone, a locked-up room,

A barren garden, comfortable with gloom.

I asked for nothing, for I had forgot

The very shape of things that I had not.

Then, from the darkness, came a single seed,

A whispered promise for a forgotten need.

And where my soul was driest, mud arose,

And from that mud, a perfect lotus grows.

You rose, Kamalā, on that velvet throne,

A beauty that this broken world had never known.

You do not ask for penance, prayer, or might,

You simply blossom, bathed in golden light.

And from the heavens, silent elephants of cloud

Pour out their grace, a silent, liquid shroud

Of honey, nectar, sunbeams, melted gold,

A story of abundance to be told.

The waters fall, and I am drenched in grace,

A foolish, happy smile upon my face.

My beggar’s bowl, it overflows with light,

My barren garden blooms with all its might.

My heart, that fist of fear, that stone of dread,

Becomes a thousand-petaled lotus in my stead.

Oh, Golden One, whose generosity is all,

Who answers prayers that I don't dare to call,

You are the sudden wealth, the lucky find,

The undeserved abundance of the kind.

I have no words, no offering to make,

But to receive the beauty that You wake.

The intense energy of Bhairavī is conveyed through fiery red emanations contrasting with the dark figure. The piercing gaze and the suggestion of inner fire symbolize her power to burn away impurities and limitations, leading to fearless transformation.

Oh, Mother, Bhairavi!

The midnight hour strikes, and the world holds its breath,

but here, in this quiet dark, my own heart beats a drum.

A frantic, joyful rhythm, a call for You to come.

You, whose beauty is terror, whose gaze is a cleansing fire,

the one who burns the forest of my dead desire!

Your skin, the red of a thousand suns at dawn,

Your three eyes blazing, past, future, and now all drawn

into a single, searing point of light.

You wear the moon, a sliver in the endless night

of Your untamable hair, and my soul leaps to see

the raw and perfect power of Your reality.

They speak of fear, they see the severed heads you wear,

but I see only necklaces of answered prayer.

Each skull a story of an ego slain,

a soul released from its own prison, its own pain.

The blood that stains You is the wine of life, set free,

the vibrant, pulsing truth of what it is to be.

The book You hold, its pages filled with silent sound,

the rosary, where all my scattered thoughts are bound

into a single, focused, breathless plea.

You are the heat that rises from my bended knee,

the Kundalini serpent, coiled and sleeping deep,

who at Your whisper, from her ancient slumber leaps!

Let me be the ash that from Your fire flies,

let me be the terror in a demon's eyes.

Let me be the rhythm of Your dancing feet

that crushes worlds to dust, so bittersweet.

Destroy me, Mother! Shatter this small, fragile "I,"

so in the brilliant, awful beauty of Your sky,

only You remain. Only the fire, only the bliss,

sealed with the fury of Your liberating kiss.

This stark depiction of Chinnamastā focuses on the radical act of self-sacrifice. The severed head and the flowing streams of energy highlight the transcendence of ego and the continuous cycle of giving and receiving. The central figure becomes a conduit for a dynamic interplay of life force.

The mind recoils—avert the eyes!

Avert the sacred, shocking sight!

A headless trunk, a fountain’s rise

of crimson in the fading light.

You stand upon a lover’s bed,

and offer up your own life’s wine,

and in your hand, you hold your head,

a lantern, godless and divine.

But oh, my Mother, let me look!

Let me not turn my gaze away!

This is the only holy book

that tells the truth of night and day.

This is the teaching, sharp and fast,

the lightning-flash of what must be:

the self that serves itself is cast

aside for all the world to see.

For from your throat, the river flows,

a triple-tongued and joyous stream.

You feed the mouth that is your own,

the waking and the waking dream.

You feed the two who stand beside,

your own reflections, ever near.

There is no taking, nowhere to hide,

the giver and the gift are here.

Let me be Dakini, who drinks

the selfless love you pour for me.

Let go of everything I think

I am, or was, or want to be.

Just give me courage for the blade,

to make the cut so clean and high,

to stand both living and unmade

beneath an empty, endless sky.

Oh, Chinnamasta, Fearless One,

Your dreadful beauty makes me weep.

My little, frantic race is run.

My foolish secrets cannot keep.

There is no death, there is no birth,

just this red fountain, flowing free.

You are the hunger of the earth,

and You, the feast that answers me.

Representing the void and the inauspicious, this monochrome image of Dhūmāvatī evokes a sense of desolation and wisdom born from emptiness. The figure, accompanied by the crow and broken vessel, embodies detachment and the lessons found in impermanence.

The world wants fullness, Mother, seeks the sweet,

The ripened fruit, the sound of dancing feet.

They pray for husbands, children, gold, and grain,

And turn their face from your slow, silent rain

Of ash and dust, from your unsettling grace,

The hollow hunger in your ancient face.

Your chariot stands, its horses long since fled,

Upon the cracked and barren riverbed.

Your banner is the crow, its lonely cry

A jagged tear across an empty sky.

Your teeth are crooked, and your clothes are torn,

The lonely goddess of the most forlorn.

And oh, they fear you. They have named you Strife,

And Lack, and Loss, the widow of this life.

But let them run to all their sunlit things,

The fragile joy a fleeting summer brings.

I turn to you. I sit within your cart.

I seek the blessing of a broken heart.

For you are freedom, You are the relief,

The quiet end of unbelief and belief.

You are the space between the thoughts I own,

The perfect peace of being truly all alone.

You are the truth when all the lies are gone,

The restful, endless, dark before the dawn.

So let the others build their worlds so bright.

I'll sit with you within this smoky light.

I'll learn the wisdom of the things that cease,

And in your sorrow, I will find my peace.

Oh, Mother Dhumavati, stark and deep,

You are the promise that I do not have to keep.

Emerging from the darkness with a luminous outline, this abstract Tara holds the symbolic scissors and skull cup. The glowing implements represent her fierce compassion in severing attachments and granting liberation from the cycle of death and rebirth.

The ocean of this world is vast and black,

Its waves are grief, there is no turning back.

I choke on salt, on sorrow, and on strife,

And drown within the waters of this life.

My arms are tired, my frantic kicking fails,

Lost in the thunder of samsara's gails.

Who can I call to in this endless night?

There is no moon, no hope, no hint of light.

Then, from the chaos, comes a single sound,

A hum that shakes the very sea and ground.

And on the churning waves, a star appears,

A terrible new light that burns my fears.

You rise, oh Tara, on a silent, sleeping god,

The blue-black thunder on the path I've trod.

You are no gentle glimmer, soft and meek,

You are the lightning-strike for which I seek.

Your scissors flash, and all my nets are torn—

The web of karma, since the day I'm born.

You raise a skull, a cup of fiery wine,

And offer this ferocious love of Yours as mine.

You are the Word that saves, the voice that guides,

The constant star above the turning tides.

You are the ferry-woman, fierce and true,

Who cuts a path to pull the desperate through.

So let the ocean rage, its depths increase,

Your awful love has become my perfect peace.

Oh, Tara, let me drown, but in Your grace,

And find my breath within Your wild embrace.

The power of Bagalāmukhī to silence and control is captured through a focused burst of golden light against the encompassing darkness. The finger pressed to the lips and the radiant energy around the mace suggest her ability to still negativity and command victory over obstacles.

Oh, Mother of Stillness, Golden One!

The world is a chaos of a million chattering cries,

a storm of noise that flickers, fades, and dies.

But in the center of that frantic, endless hum,

You rise, a silent thunder, and the world goes numb.

Your beauty is a weapon, sharp and bright,

a sudden, stunning, paralyzing light.

You wear the yellow of the turmeric and the sun,

the final word when all the arguments are done.

You are the pause between the lightning and its crash,

the frozen moment when the worlds of thought turn ash.

They see a mace, a club to break and bind,

I see the stillness that can stop the racing mind.

They see a demon, tongue held in Your grip,

I see my own incessant ego on my lip,

pulled taut and silenced by Your perfect, golden hand,

the only power that my pride could understand.

Oh, Bagala! Hypnotic, sacred, fierce, and deep,

You are the secret that the silent sages keep.

You are the truth that lives where language cannot reach,

the potent wisdom that is found beyond all speech.

Let others pray for words, for songs, for flowing prose,

I pray to be the silence where Your presence grows.

Strike me dumb, oh Mother! Let my frantic pleading cease.

Grant me the blessing of Your formidable peace.

Let every thought that rises, every doubt and fear,

be paralyzed by knowing that You are standing here.

Hold my tongue, my story, my incessant, foolish plea,

and in that golden silence, Mother, set me free.

Bathed in a subtle green glow, this representation of Mātaṅgī highlights her connection to inner knowledge, music, and the spoken word. The veena and the parrot hint at her creative energy and her association with seemingly marginal yet powerful aspects of existence.

They bring the purest flowers to the other gods,

The perfect mantra, measured, clean, and slow.

They follow all the rules and all the sacred laws,

And shun the messy places where the wild things grow.

But I, my Mother, I have saved the best for You:

The half-sung song, the words I almost threw away,

The stain of ink, the thought that just broke through,

The sweet and sticky leftovers of my day.

Oh, Emerald One, who dwells within the fringe,

Whose temple is the forest, deep and free,

Upon whose wild, chaotic truth I must impinge,

To find the beating heart of poetry in me.

Your parrot speaks the knowledge I can't learn,

The untamed wisdom that the scriptures cannot hold.

You are the lesson that the orthodox must un-learn,

More precious than their carefully collected gold.

Come, play the veena of my wanting spine!

Let every nerve and sinew be a trembling string.

Make this clumsy, human voice of mine

A vessel for the savage, holy song you sing.

Let my ideas be parrots, green and bright,

Who echo back the beauty of Your call.

Fill my mouth with leftover scraps of light,

And I will be content to feast upon it all.

Oh, Matangi, Goddess of the outcast soul,

Of art, and music, and the rush of tangled thought,

You take my broken pieces and You make them whole,

You find a treasure where the others found but naught.

So let them have their purity, their perfect rite,

I'll dance with You in passion, mess, and bliss.

There is no other worship, there is no other light,

Than the creative chaos of Your frantic kiss.

Set against a backdrop suggesting the vast cosmos, this abstract Bhuvaneshvari emanates a warm, golden glow. Holding the noose and goad, she symbolizes the queen of the universe, encompassing all of existence within her gentle yet powerful embrace.

I thought I lived inside a world of form,

Contained by walls, protected from the storm.

I built my life with ceilings and with floors,

With solid certainties and bolted doors.

But in the stillness of this quiet night,

You shattered every wall with gentle light.

You are not in the world, I understand;

The universe is held within Your hand.

You are the space, the matrix, and the womb,

The silent, endless, all-containing room.

The spinning galaxies are jewels You wear,

The nebulae are tangled in Your hair.

You do not have to act, or speak, or strive,

To make the sleeping seeds of worlds alive.

A subtle shift, a barely-thought-of-whim,

A gentle smile upon Your cosmic brim,

And universes blossom from Your grace,

And find their perfect home in Your embrace.

My little self, it trembles and dissolves,

As Your immense and patient love resolves

All boundaries, all questions, and all pain,

Like single drops of ordinary rain

That fall into the ocean, and become

The whole, the holy, finally welcomed home.

Oh, Bhuvaneshvari, what is there to say?

You are the stage on which all dramas play.

You are the stillness that allows the dance.

You are the one, and only, substance.

My prayer is just to breathe, and in that breath,

To know I am Your own, in life, in death.

This iconic representation of Kālī, in stark black and white with a flash of red, embodies her primal power and transformative nature. The fierce eyes, extended tongue, and garland of skulls represent the destruction of ego and ignorance for the sake of ultimate reality.

The lotuses of Kamala have turned to dust,

The fires of Bhairavi are ash and grey.

The golden throne of Sundari is rust,

And Bhuvaneshvari’s worlds have passed away.

All form has failed, all color has been bled,

All that was made is finally undone.

You stand upon the body of the silent dead,

The final darkness that devours the sun.

Oh, Mother Kali, what is left to say?

My clever words are skulls around your throat.

My bold ambitions, severed hands that sway

And dance around you, a forgotten note.

Your skin is the impenetrable night,

The starless void, the end of every name.

Your lolling tongue, a streak of hungry light,

That licks the final flicker of life’s flame.

You dance upon the cremation ground of my heart,

Where all my little hopes have burned away.

This is the ending. This is the real start.

This is the night that swallows every day.

Your sword is not a threat, it is a key,

It cuts the final thread of "I" and "mine."

Your terrible and sudden grace sets me

So absolutely free, it is divine.

So dance, my Mother, dance Your frantic art,

Let Your wild hair obscure all time and space.

Consume my mind, and my still-beating heart,

And leave no trace of this forgotten place.

I am the stillness of the Shiva at Your feet,

Who feels the crushing bliss of Your dark stride.

In this annihilation, all is sweet.

There is nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide.