The Day I Wept

Krishna Prasai

Poet Krishna Prasai

Ripples of joy had gripped the world !

While many enjoyed in freedom

The festive hours with fire-crackers 

I was reclining, down with grief;

It was 29 May 1953, Wednesday.

A man from New Zealand stepped upon my head

Another man, who stood a top the hood

Was a porter from my own country 

Who, in the long run, became a foreigner too. 

The truth I know is single 

The Himalayas stand above us

And the nation above the Himalayas;

We exist because the Himalayas and the nation do.

The day Hilary placed his foot atop Sagarmatha

And Tenzing atop his own cap,

Someone rose above the nation.

That day

When Sagarmatha, the world's hood we revere as God

Shied away,

That day, when the crown of the world was vanquished 

That day, when grandeur withered 

Was the day I cried 

Seeing my height diminish,

Getting a stranger's footstep upon myself

Seeing you crown a man who downplayed my hood

How can I call a person great

Who crushed down my head

And is doing so, even now

Erecting a Pyramid of impurity?

I have a question for you, Motherland!

Which of your gods is appeased 

With cash offerings placed in a temple

By someone who places his feet 

Atop the idols enshrined therein?

I care not what you say;

I defy your old statute!

Say, where on earth the head can be crushed 

After paying a fee for it?

Under whose rules can the crown be trampled 

After some cash has been paid?

Which law allows anyone to mount atop the chest

Merely for some pelf paid thereof ?

Presently, I am soaked with indignation and hatred

On seeing the rules your country sets.

Translated by Mahesh Paudyal

Krishna Prasai is a poet, story writer and essayist. He has eight books to his credit. His works have been translated into Nepali, Korean, Bengali, Burmese, Thai, German, Hindi, Singhala and English. His poetry collection 'Never Say Goodbye' is one of the books available in English. 'The Day I Wept' is one of the poems from 'Never Say Goodbye'.

Fair Moon

Suman Barsha

Poet Suman Barsha

Sombre is the night 

Fair the moon lies 

That glowed serene land

Tearing the sovereign of darkness  

Oh dear look at the moon 

And this moon balanced land 

Hark ! the mourning of owl

Tuhoo ... tuhoo 

It may be yelling to the fair moon  

Obvious it is 

And common too 

Circumstances comes and goes 

Hurdles almost all 

It varies on degree 

So, dear come and live our life at full

Witnessing the fair moon 

Lovers 

Time and then till now too long 

Are facing ups and downs of social constraints 

As they suffer through 

Long lasting human misery 

In the name of 

Class  

Caste

Religion 

Culture 

Let us unlock the padlock 

Which preserve such worn out dogmas 

Shaping in faith from long ago 

To throw into the vast ocean 

The rule of falsehood 

Was corrupt too at its peak 

Tightly tied like belt round the waist 

And now it is high time to make human understand  

Freedom of Choice

Let our love be free to fly,

On its wing at the night wind .

Oh dear 

In this uncertain world 

Let us be true to each other

Let us be the role model 

As to spread the faith of pure love  

Let us comprehend disbeliever 

Lovers may see 

How beautiful the world around is 

So new it looks 

So lovely it seems

So magnificent it is

Let us be as firm as mountains  

And wait up to the full moon 

At that tear the sombre of night 

And make the land fairer enough. 

This Life a Poor Life

Haribhakta Katuwal

When the dancing paddies in the fields 

in between yellow and the green 

develop friendship with the bamboo leaves 

then it feels as if each moment of life 

is swinging likewise 

in the matchless jargon of love. 

What type of game is this? 

what type of meeting is this? 

somewhat different, 

some similarity, 

and among some dissimilarities 

like dusty soil 

and like a muddy path 

but in the middle of the same road 

like a full bloomed lotus 

difficult to define 

beyond understanding 

and hard to notice at a glance 

recognize not suddenly 

walks disguised 

this farcical life. 

Somewhere baseless doubt 

somewhere total belief 

somewhere anonymous thought 

something like about to open 

somewhat like dumb with anger 

hard to notice happy or sad 

might it be smile or a cry 

difficult to distinguish 

like a silk cotton tree across the hill 

this life a poor life. 

Like a rainfall without clouds 

like a rainbow sans colors 

like a word not spoken, yet willing to speak 

like a frozen thought during thinking 

like a two line poem composed lazily 

like a word hated to listen from others 

and the self could not utter 

really what a pageant like life it is. 

this life a poor life? 

Comic to talk to others 

but grows anger when you tell yourself- a fun, 

in an irregular pattern. 

Translated by Ishwor Kadel

The Mountain

Hem Bishwakarma

There is a mountain

Who always plays a green flute

She grooves the melody of trees

And sings a melancholic song for the valley

A powerful poem she recites

On his old-aged narration!

 

Sometimes, she wails

So melts the rock—as a heart

The more, while the night of rainfall

 

The laborers of life

Take a swim and douche

Quench the wrath of thirst

In a pond of mountain-tears

 

The weather flies for foreign

Ejaculating colorful semen

The mountain nurtures her daughters

With a lot of love and devotion

 

The seasons like rapist persistently

Assaults the daughters and destroys

Usually, the mountain endures

The landslide of her own heart broken

However, she retains the moon-fruiting sky

The green flute withstands, yet!

 

Somewhere,

The mountain remains plunged into pains

In fact, the mountain has a giant heart!

Weighing Life

Hemraj Neupane

Poet Hemraj Neupane

Darling! 

Since you started to be in isolation 

Our life has gained some consolation. 

We have learnt to love from at least two metres away, 

Look at opposite directions 

But maintain the serenity of love 

Under the authority guidelines. 

Masked ourselves, 

We have spoken millions of words 

Without speaking a single word 

Flown countless kisses without our lips locked, without our eyes closed 

But enlivened our love.

From the two metre distance 

We have learnt to measure our life 

And prove that the Salter machine that lies in one corner of our room 

Was always wrong to read the true weight of life. 

Those living thousands of miles, 

And those living attached 

Both have lost their loved ones, 

Those that are in prosperity 

And those in poverty 

Both have lost their loved ones 

And are suffering in agony. 

Fortunate we should feel at this juncture, 

From two metres apart 

We have maintained 

The dignity of our love 

The holiness of our souls 

Learnt the vanity of pride 

And meaningfully enlivened the purity of life.

Lesson From The Birds

Rajendra Shalabh

When stress deepens

and was hard to bear,
I started laughing.
The anxiety-shied away

I learnt the therapy of laughing in anxiety
from the birds.
When I laughed out of stress,
the greenery inside me
shined on my face with the smile.

I plucked the flower of happiness
from the jungle of thorns
and planted it
between the curls of the sad sky.

The crying lips
smiled with my shrewdness.
Darkness shied away
from the rising dawn
just like my anxiety
that flew away with my laughter.

Translated by: Sneha Sharma

(Courtesy: Himalayan Soul)

I Light a Candle

Kamala Sarup

Yesterday, today, tomorrow and always

I light a candle for me 

To warm up

I catch myself between my tears

Between my pain

Not really that far.

It's a constant in my life

Leaving me here all alone

Leave me blind now.

I picked up a candle and lit it,

To wake up my soul

To ensure the path in the darkness.

In the luminosity of my day.

How firm is my love,

How is my life different? 

Tonight,

Rain will come in its season

The wind will blow them out

Like a beautiful star in the night sky,

It grows up as high as it can go

Brings me to my life and 

I light a candle for myself solely 

Standing.

Still holding my hand,

I am simply about to sleep,

I see 

Sleepless at night,

Always a light in the darkness, 

I'm not willing to share

I am lost and I find myself again.

I light a candle for me again.

Filthy Eyes

Hem Bishwakarma

Why should you wipe off?

The spectacles frequently

Gripping between the fingers

The eyes are filthy, indeed!

The amity and humanity

So has been the perception

Rusted as frequently rubbed

With a filthy piece of cloth

Rather, watch through

The eyes of ethics

From a high knoll of postmodernism

Then inspect—

For what reason

People rise and fall

Laugh and weep

Rather, climb up

A tall green tree of liberty

And bawl at the diasporic birds

Then ask

How often the nests were knitted and collapsed

Rather, take a handful of air

And fetch it near to ears

Then, listen to

The common language of human

The most melodious tune!

Rather, rinse the eyes of philosophy

Gripping between the fingers of humanity

Wipe off not the spectacles

Gripping between the filthy fingers

The eyes are filthy, indeed!

The Guests

L B Chhetri

Poet L B Chhetri

Lets go then you and me
DAD
To inspect  our newly constructed house
Builder is handing over to us
Next week

A big house it was
In three floors
With all human needs
The terrace
The garage and
The swimming pool
all in a row
The balcony
The kitchen and
The theater
all in matching colors

A cozy living room with big sofa
TV and modern gadgets
A large bed room
with all attached facilities
certainly for the son and his wife
Two separate rooms for the kids
The builder had done a wonderful job  

Inspection was over, and
They returned
The blue Mercedes car  
ran smoothly on the road

‘How is the house dad ?’
Driving at hundred plus, the son was curious
‘Excellent’ first he said then added
‘You enjoy driving fast, son?’
The old man was pondering over
whether to ask or not
‘Where are we to stay son?’
But he didn’t
a small guest room behind the corridor
he had seen

At night, the frail woman asked
“How is our room, Chris?’
He thought for a moment and uttered -
“We have lived enough as parents, Marry
now, it’s time to live the guests, Darling”

(L B Chhetri, a story writer and poet from Nepal, has three books to his credit. Mr. Chhetri is a literary activist, who is actively engaged in the literary activities to promote Nepali literature from local to international level.)

Poet, Coffee and Water Footprints

Basu Sharma

Poet Basu Sharma

Deeply enjoying

The sips of exotic experience

In every sip of his coffee

The poet sat down

Contemplating

With his cup of coffee

In dire hope and desire of

Creating a good piece of poetry.

Alas!

Before a word 

In poetry or poetic expression 

Suddenly, well, all of a sudden 

He heard his cup of coffee addressing him

Yes, his own inner voice. 

Dear poet! 

Your conscience

Let’s talk about!

In every cup of coffee

And every sip you take 

How much water or gallons of water are there?

Can you imagine?

It’s one hundred and forty litres in every cup of coffee.

Did you know poet? 

Every sip, you taste

Equivalents so many litres of water

While

Growing,

Processing,

And, transporting

Reaching down your palate

Your enjoyment of aesthetics of taste

Your aesthetics of a sip

It means

You gentle poet! 

Just enjoying a cup of coffee

Depletes multitudes of litres of water

To your eternal joy

But equal amount of misery 

For others! 

And, in this entire journey of coffee

With water legs

Can you imagine dear poet?

About those water footprints left.

Poet!

Whether juicy tomatoes

Asparagus or potatoes

Fruits or foods 

Or, any other goods

You buy from the shop

Think how and how far

They have traveled 

Before reaching you

Of course leaving water footprints

At places

And, think the water footprints 

Where do they shine?

Where do they shudder?

Where do they cry?

Open your eyes poet!

Look around for those water footprints. 

Giving you tasty asparagus 

Peru’s water table is going down and down

Ripening up bananas for you

Cameroon’s land is drying up

Will you imagine poet?

When mother’s veins are dried up

How can a baby survive?

Dear poet!

Have you ever heard?

Environmental seminars’ working papers

And, research project’s research papers

Somewhere in a cage weeping

The chapters of global warming

And, the climate change warning

Somewhere in a page beeping

Just for those forgotten water footprints!

Hearing his cup of coffee

Speechless

Emotional

Fearful

The poet sees

In his cup of coffee

The water resources depleting

The animal habitats disappearing

The sky burning

The land drying-up

Oops!

A spinning cyclone 

A destructive typhoon!

And, taking his last sip of coffee

The poet stood up and said

Thank you coffee!

Let me start my journey

And, take my first step

Looking for the water footprints

Those forgotten water footprints.

When The Time Comes

Sarita Tiwari

Poet Sarita Tiwari

When the time comes
Weather
Will also sing new songs,
Leaves too
Will change their being.

Even the brooding clouds
Will start bursting

Lifeless river
Will too start flowing
Carrying with it
The melody of life.

Even an embryo
Smaller than a droplet
Goes through metamorphosis.

But when the time has not come,
Even the butterfly is crawling
Upon leaves, leaving behind
Vile sticky liquids.

Where does a flower bloom, where
Does the sun rise
When the time has not come ?

For sure! Difficult ...
Is Time’s delivery.

But when the time comes,
Hills will appear as plains—
Up-surging torrents of rivers
Will appear as bosom’s beat—
The stars of the sky will be
Felt like flowers of the garden.

When the time comes,
Dry up
Will the sweats on the forehead,
Calm down
Will the gnashing jaws, and settle down
For good
The easy sleep of
Repose in the eyes.

But where comes the time
Out of void ?
It demands my eyes.
Demands my heart.
Demands soles, arms
And a healthy mechanism of thoughts.
And I’m in need
Of a beautiful time
For sacrificing all these things !

Translated by: Haris Adhikari
Courtesy: Sangam, (Contemporary Nepali Poetry in Translation)

Sarita Tiwari, a poet, writer and social activist, was born in Pokhara. She holds an MA and an LLB from Tribhuvan University. She has authored three books of poetry, namely, Buddha ra Lavaharu (2000), Astitwako Ghosahnapatra (2010) and Prashnaharuko Karakhana (2016).

This is Kathmandu

Prakash Mani Dahal 

Poet Prakash Mani Dahal

O my tourist friend,

This is Kathmandu

that means a wooden building

a building,

built from the wood of a single tree.

Just so, imagine please--

How large might it have been

and just deduce again

how dense the forest might have been?

where trees are to be planted now

with the aid of foreign donation!

O my foreign friend,

This is Kathmandu

a valley in the beginning

was a huge lake,

the abode of innumerable serpents.

Now, of biped mammals

clad in suit and daura-sural

hissing and chanting their aspirations

of nationality and humanity

and who are as adorable as the nagas

with more fatal of their fangs!

O my friend from a far-off land,

this is Kathmandu

where every dawn would break

and dusk would make

with the playing of conches

and with the tinkling of bells

along with chants of 'twamewa mata …'.

Though rare now

You can enjoy pops, rocks, jazz, bass booster, remix…

or simply the news and commentary

from all over the world

whether long lasting or just momentary.

Don't hesitate my friend come so long way,

enjoy any dope or booze of any kind

 to your fill.

The eyes of Buddha have ceased to notice

that at His feet

poor and wretched girls are stripped

and often strangulated,

peoples are robbed and frequently slain

be it baba or babu

everything can get away with

if only it begets money

or it belongs to higher company!

No wonder if you wonder as

where

the orators, revolutionists and the gold medalists

have gone       

as to what the Bahadurs

have been subjected.

The ordinary of them have been busy

building roads and other infrastructures

for their friends in Arabia and other countries

despite their own shaky and leaky;

keeping peace for the nations of the world

despite their own frightful anarchy;

while the captains and the pilots are busy with

making equations today for lifting the nation

and making the same tomorrow;

reaching consensus today and withdrawing tomorrow

and above all

extolling as much revenue as the coffer can offer

and every day observing musical chair race

the best of all sports!

Ya, this is Kathmandu, my dear

that welcomes you with dust when dry

with mud when wet

swarms of mosquitoes when night,

swarms of street children when day.

Visit and enjoy this land of sangria-la

that looks healing from outside

but ever purulent from inside!

(Prakash Mani Dahal is a poet and essayist. He writes both in Nepali and English.) 

The Water Mill

Nabin K Chhetri

Poet Nabin K Chhetri

At Daunne, the road bends behind a row of hills.

The narrow iron bridge creaks,

stretching its rusty hinges,

and lets through, one vehicle at a time.

An old mill sits beside the stream, its roof

covered with green moss.

The mountain water rushes inside

turning the iron shaft, moving the grinding stone.

Towards evening, the air swells with mist.

Trucks carrying potatoes from Palung 

wheel back with dipped fog lights, 

shooting a tunnel through the haze.

Up on the hill top, the children wait in the wind

for their parents, who struggle uphill

carrying sacks of millet for a long winter.

Born in Nepal, Nabin Kumar Chhetri graduated with a degree of M.St in Creative Writing from Oxford University with a Distinction in Poetry. He also holds a degree of M.Litt in Novel from the University of Aberdeen. His awards include the St. Peter's Foundation Award (Oxford University) and awards from Italy, Israel and Nepal for his poems. In 2011, he received the Nosside International Poetry prize (UNESCO Heritage Award) for his poem ‘Memory’ from). His poems have been published in more than 70 national and international journals. He lives in Scotland with his wife and two children. He pens his thoughts in https://nabinkchhetri.wordpress.com