Friday, March 2, 2018

One poem by Ram Gopal Ashutosh


UNPLEASANT TUNE

I've my own heat
Sufficient to burn myself;
You keep your fire with you,
Please

Save your virtues
For yourself;
I'll die, counting my sins
In the death premise
Of my destiny, please

Look at the heat I have ! It's enough
To melt down
A volcano;
Stick to yourself
Your lava, please.   

I'll keep on bearing the pressure
Of the floods of
Celebration
Of my own grave;
You please
Live with your love and laughter.  

Look ! I've my own nature,
Colors,
I've my own measurement;
You please
Turn your appearance to yourself.   

(Translation: Haris Adhikari)


अप्रिय धुन

मसित
आफैँलाई जलाउन पुग्ने
मेरै राप छ
कृपया तिमी
आफ्नो आगो आफैँसित राख

म आफ्नै
नियतिको मृत्युपरिसरमा
पाप गन्दै मर्छु
कृपया तिमी
आफ्नो पुण्य आफैँसित साँच ।

हेर त
मभित्र ज्वालामुखी पगाल्न
पुग्ने ताप छ
कृपया तिमी
आफ्नो लावा आफैँसित टाँस ।

म आफ्नै
चिहानको बाढी उत्सवमा
चाप सही बस्छु
कृपया तिमी
आफ्नो प्रीति, हाँसोसित बाँच ।

हेर त
मेरो आफ्नै प्रकृति छ, रङहरु
आफ्नै नाप छ
कृपया तिमी
आफ्नो रुप आफैँसित गाँस ।

Saturday, January 6, 2018

A poem by Likhat Pandey

 THEY

They are like a sparkling fire.
Keep them inside your faith's bosom
And take them to cold hearths— where
People are awaiting them— for fire.
They are like the warm sun.
Keep them inside the bag of your belief
And carry them to places buried with snow— where
People are awaiting them, hoping to see the sun.

They are esteemed lives,
Assailing Botha*ism, living
Inside Nelson Mandela*.
They are inside Yasser Arafat*, too, and are
Fighting persistently for the Palestinians.
They are formidably great leagues of light,
Keep them inside your eyes, and take them
To dark huts and houses— where
People are awaiting them— for light.
They are new seeds of creation,
Keep them in your pouches, intersperse them
In slopes new and barren— where
People are desperately awaiting them
For beautiful veridescence. 

They are Sagarmathas* of self-esteem,
Keep them in the saga of bravery.
They are diyos* of freedom, light them
To burn the agonies of slavery.

They are like sweet tunes of music,
Keep them inside your musical instruments
And play along with the bugles of war.
People are awaiting them— for victory.
They are like sharp weapons. 
Keep them inside yourselves, and let go free
With the revolutionary processions— where
People are desperately awaiting them
To overturn the present. 

____________________________
P. W. Botha — leader, prime minister (1978 - 1984) of South Africa; Botha was an outspoken opponent of majority rule and international communism; though his administration did make concessions towards political reform, there were widespread human rights abuses at the hands of the government. He was fined and given a suspended jail sentence for crimes against human rights

Nelson Mandela — a South African anti-apartheid revolutionary politician and philanthropist (July 18, 1918 – December 5, 2013); ideologically an African nationalist and socialist, Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years by the South African apartheid government. His crime was standing up against a government that was committing egregious human rights abuses against black South Africans. He was released from prison in 1990 and went on to lead the way for the abolition of apartheid in 1994. He was elected as South Africa's first black president that same year, after he received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1993. His most astounding accomplishment after suffering years of abuse was to create the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which focused on healing the country's wounds from human rights abuses using truth-telling and forgiveness. 

Yasser Arafat — chairman of the Palestine Liberation Organization from 1969 until his death (by poisoning) in 2004; some international communities see him as the architect of countless gruesome acts of violence, and view with disdain (in Western and even some Arab capitals) for alleged diplomatic duplicity, but among his own people he has been lionized as nothing less than the father of the Palestinian national movement, a symbol of his people's drive for independence.

 Sagarmatha — Nepali name for Mt. Everest

Diyo — an oil lamp used in Nepal and India, usually made from clay, with a cotton wick dipped in ghee or vegetable oils. Clay diyos are often used temporarily as lighting for special occasions, while diyos made of brass are permanent fixtures in homes and temples. 


Translation: HARIS ADHIKARI


उनीहरु


उनीहरु झरिला आगो जस्तै छन्
विस्वासको छातीभित्र उनीहरुलाई राख
र लैजाऊ चिसा अँगेनाहरुमा
जहाँ आगोका लागि
मानिसहरु उनीहरुलाई पर्खिरहेछन्
उनीहरु न्यानो घाम जस्तै छन्
आस्थाको झोलाभित्र
उनीहरुलाई राख र लैजाऊ
हिँउले पुरिएका ठाउँहरुमा
जहाँ घामको लागि मानिसहरु
उनीहरुलाई पर्खिरहेछन् ।

उनीहरु समुन्नत जिन्दगीहरु हुन्
नेल्सन मण्डेलाभित्र रहेर
बोथावादका विरुद्ध धावा बोलिरहेछन्
उनीहरु यासिर आराफातभित्र पनि छन्
र प्यालेस्टाइनीहरुका लागि
निरन्तर लडिरहेछन्
उनीहरु उज्यालाका विशाल पुञ्जहरु हुन्
आ-आफ्ना आँखाभित्र उनीहरुलाई राख
र लैजाऊ अँध्यारा झुपडीहरुमा
जहाँ उज्यालाका लागि मानिसहरु
उनीहरुलाई पर्खिरहेछन्
उनीहरु सिर्जनाका नयाँ बिउहरु हुन्
आ-आफ्नो पोल्टाभित्र उनीहरुलाई राख
र छरिदेऊ वासन्ती पाटाहरूमा
जहाँ सुन्दर हरियालीका लागि
मानिसहरु उनीहरुलाई पर्खिरहेछन् ।

उनीहरु स्वाभिमानका सगरमाथाहरु हुन्
वीरताको गाथाभित्र उनीहरुलाई राख
उनीहरु स्वतन्त्रताका दियाहरु हुन्
दासताको व्यथा पोल्न
उनीहरुलाई बाल ।

उनीहरु सङ्गीतका मीठा धुन जस्तै छन्
बाजाहरुभित्र उनीहरुलाई राख
र बजाऊ युद्धका बिगुलहरुसँगै
जहाँ विजयका लागि मानिसहरु
उनीहरुलाई पर्खिरहेछन्
उनीहरु धारिला हतियार जस्तै छन्
आफूहरुभित्र उनीहरुलाई राख
र छोडिदेऊ इन्क्लाबी जुलुसहरुसँगै
जहाँ वर्तमानलाई पल्टाउँन
मानिसहरु उनीहरुलाई पर्खिरहेछन् ।

Saturday, May 20, 2017

One poem by Hangyug Agyat

DUST
___________________________

                             -- HANGYUG AGYAT

When soil makes love
To water
And becomes mud after impregnation,
Then in the radiance of the sun
Is born
'Dust'.

I played in the same dust,
I grew up in the same dust.
Dust is my friend, like Sudama* was.

The dust accumulated
In the middle of books and scriptures
Remind me of my standing
Every time I cast my eyes on them.  
Scribbled I had
My first 'A'
Also on a dhulaut*,
While playing on dusty roads, I had written
Even my name on dust.
I don't have to condemn dust
To look neat and clean. 

May they
They who have got to 'Singha Durbar*' or 'Red Carpet'
Not forget the particle of your existence.
Dear dust, you are the microcosm of soil of earth.

May those who live in the houses of concrete
Understand that
That house is erect
All because of the strong combination, strong uplifting
Of the dust.
And if the dust takes its hands off, being exhausted,
That house will of dust in just a matter of seconds.
If the dust takes its hands off, the palaces will of dust,
Bridges and hills will be of dust,
Walls and pyramids, villages and cities
All will of dust if the dust takes its hands off,
Even the earth will be of dust.

Dust is all-pervasive in my heart.
I will have to live my life with it,
With it,
I will have to take a journey of nirvana*.
I do not dust off the dust from myself
Just because I have moved to a house of concrete,
Just because I have read some bulky books
As I myself
Am balanced on dust.

Dust, the offspring of soil,
Is so dear to me!
__________________________________

Sudama the most loyal and beloved friend (also, a true devotee) of lord Krishna

Dhulaut A small wooden board used as a writing pad in the past; people would spread either soil-color or dust over it and then write.

Singha Durbar a palace built in 1908, during the Rana regime, by Chandra Shumsher. Later, many buildings were added to it, and now it is a national property being used to house different ministries and other offices

Nirvana In Hinduism and Buddhism, nirvana is taken as a state of enlightenment; a place of perfect peace and happiness, like heaven

(Translation: HARIS ADHIKARI)

*******


धुलो 
____________________

                       — हाङयुग अज्ञात

माटोले
जब पानीसँग सम्भोग गर्छ
र पेट बोकेर हिलो बन्छ
तब जन्मिन्छ घामको उज्यालोमा धुलो
मलाई धुलो प्यारो लाग्छ

तेहि धुलोसँग खेलें
तेहि धुलोमा हुर्कें
धुलो मेरो साथी हो सुदामाजस्तै

किताबको बीचमा बसेको धुलोले
हरेकचोटि मेरो हैसियत सम्झाइदिन्छ
धुलौटमै लेखें पहिलो अक्षर "अ"
धुलोको बाटोमा खेल्दाखेल्दै धुलोमै लेखें नाम पनि
सुकिलो हुन धुलोको निन्दा गर्नै पर्दैन मैले

धुलो टेकेर "सिंहदरबार" या "रेड कार्पेट" पुगेकाहरू
नबिर्सिउन् तिम्रो अस्तित्वको कण
प्रिय धुलो, तिमी माटोको कण हौ कण

क्रङ्क्रीटको घरमा बस्नेहरूले बुझुन्
कि धुलोको मजबुत हातेमालोले उभिएको हो त्यो घर
थाकें भनेर हात छोड्यो भने धुलोले
एकैछिनमा धुलोको हुनेछ त्यो घर
धुलोले हात छोड्यो भने दरबारहरू धुलोको हुनेछ
पुल र पहाडहरू धुलोको हुनेछ
पर्खाल र पिरामिडहरू धुलोको हुनेछ
गाउँ र शहर धुलोको हुनेछ
पृथ्वी धुलोको हुनेछ

धुलो मेरो मनभरि व्याप्त छ
धुलोसँगै बाँच्नु छ मैले जिन्दगी
धुलोसँगै गर्नु छ निर्वाण-यात्रा
कङ्क्रीटको घरमा सरें भन्दैमा
ठूल्ठूला किताब पढें भन्दैमा
आफूबाट म धुलो टक्टक्यादिनँ
किनभने धुलोमा अडिएको छु म

माटोको सन्तान धुलो
मलाई धुलो प्यारो लाग्छ ।


Thursday, November 24, 2016

A poem by BHISMA UPRETI

THE DOOR
                                               


'What could be behind this door?'
I open every new door
With this curiosity in me.

I reach another turn
Ahead from the one I've left behind,
Walking a road to another road,
Crossing a bridge to another river, and
To another age, too, stepping on
The age I'm in.

No matter how much
One walks, one finds another road ahead
Another turn
Another river
And a new petal of life, every time
One walks, being a new door.

'What could be behind this door?'
Oh! 
How I, only in this question,
Happen to meet myself,
Happen to see myself!

Nothing but my curiosity
Is my living.

*******                                 
(Translation: SHIKHAR GHIMIRE)



-----------------------------

ढोका 

             -- भीष्म उप्रेती 

'यो ढोका भन्दा उता के होला ?'
यही उत्सुकता बोकेर 
खोल्छु म हरेक नयाँ ढोका । 

म पुग्छु एउटा घुम्तीबाट अर्को घुम्ती 
एउटा बाटो हिँडेर अर्को बाटो 
एउटा पुल काटेर अर्को नदी 
र एउटा उमेर टेकेर अर्को उमेर पनि ।

जति हिँडे पनि भेटिन्छ फेरि अर्को बाटो 
अर्को घुम्ती 
अर्को नदी 
र उमेरको पालुवा पनि 
प्रत्तेक पल्ट नयाँ नयाँ ढोका भएर ।

'यो ढोका भन्दा उता के होला ?'
म त केवल यही प्रश्नमा मात्र 
आफूलाई भेट्तोरहेछु 
आफूलाई देख्तोरहेछु । 

मेरो उत्सुकता नै 
मेरो बाँच्नु ।


Thursday, May 19, 2016

A poem by ANIL NEMBANG

ADDRESSING THOSE WHO HAVE ACHIEVED HEIGHTS

 
You talk about the sky
You talk about the moon
And stars
Oh man— you
Who have achieved heights!
Any idea?
The pearls and diamonds
That you have worn on your neck and fingers
To show off your heights
Are found in the depth—

In the depth of earth
And ocean. 

*******
(Translation: HARIS ADHIKARI) 



-----------------------------

उचाइ हासिल गर्नेलाई सम्बोधन

आकाशको कुरा गर्छौ
जून-ताराको कुरा गर्छौ,
उचाइ हासिल गर्ने मान्छे !
थाहा तिमीलाई ?
तिमीले आफ्नो उचाइ झल्काउन
गला औँलामा लगाएका
हिरा-मोतिहरु गहिराइमा नै पाइन्छ

पृथीको समुन्द्रको गहिराइमा

Thursday, February 18, 2016

A poem by Bishwa Sigdel

SOCIOLOGY OF APPLAUSE

                                         
                                             — Bishwa Sigdel 

The continuation
Of hewing an idol on this rock
Was long in practice
When I was still a kid—
Theory of the evolution of organism,
Thousands of shankha-chakra*   
On the hidden-like, stratous rock
Are still clear  
In the densest jungle 
Of my memory!  

The first chisel on the rock
Was that of mother—
An image of the maternal uncle having arrived,
His image in ‘papa lyaye’* 
In that ‘Tarabaji lailai’*—
It was a meaningful clap
Of the delicate hands.
How can mother’s ploys 
Be cruel?
That was the first exposure to claps 
In the tingling sensation on my palms. 

The chisel was a bit blunt
In the second exposure,
A bit faster hammer
Sister taught me
to clap, to sing some
Bright songs of children,
In the welcome of the rising sun,
In which, like the leaves of the wind,
Continually flapped
Sister’s tongues, from which flowed
A powerful attraction
Like the jets of milk spurting out
From mother’s bosom.    

And with time,
When the walls of mother’s womb
Turned into a wider world,
The two delicate palms
Got trapped
In between two cruel system boulders
That were crawling
In the quake of the claps. Then started
The journey of slavery, and was born
The blind era—
Fixing ears in the hands
From the classes of kindergarten!

Along with the alphabets,
Your policy tied up— onto our lips—
The tradition of applause— hard
Like cane; attractive
Like the tune of bhajan* and sangini*; cruel—
The clapping of two hands—
Like the khukuri* sanctified
By the holy spirit of Durga*— is ever ready
To applaud.

Oh! We did transfer
Our rights to the clapping
Of our hands— long before we knew it, in childhood—
Reluctantly, going against ourselves.
Our claps, which go applauding after crowds,
Which continually reverberate 
In the Assembly House
In support of the government,
Which has become your weapon; and we
The unarmed! 

Our claps, better than
The Hare Rama* of a puja,
The rhythms of the soles of feet
At dhan naach*,
And chutka* and chatak*,
Are going louder together
With malls and multiplexes
That are playing the damaru*
By climbing up the shoulders
Of consumers
And the thriving market— something …
Not in our hands
Are our claps!

Blind,
Claps are completely blind;
And here the market
Is snugly sitting
Taking poetry
As just rounds of clapping!  


FOOTNOTES
-----------------------------------

Shankha— the conch-shell-like print/ sign on fingertips (In Hindu mythology, the protector god Vishnu’s conch shell, namely Panchajanya, represents (his) power to create and maintain the universe.)

Chakra— the whorls on fingertips (Lord Vishnu’s chakra, a sharp-spinning discus-like weapon, named Sudarshana, symbolizes the cyclic nature of existence.) 

Tarabaji lailai— one of the lullabies sung in Nepali language

Papa lyaye— Brought sweets

Bhajan— a devotional song, particularly in Hindu culture

Sangini—a kind of Nepali folk tune to which Nepali womenfolk sing and dance on special occasions like Teej or Tihar festivals 

Durga—Goddess Durga in Hindu mythology/ religion is taken as the re-manifestation of the primordial power. She was the one who relieved the mankind and the gods vanquished by the demon Mahishasura by slaying him in a battle that went for ten days, which was very fierce. 

Khukuri— the national weapon of Nepal (To mark the victory of Durga over the demon Mahishasura and to express the joy over it, people sacrifice goats and buffalos either using a khukuri or a sword on the 8th or 9th day of Dashain festival. And before they do so, the weapon has to be worshipped. There is this assumption that goddess Durga’s spirit comes and sanctifies the weapon for the sacrifice. Hence, the sanctified weapon should not be used for other purposes prior to making the sacrifice.)   

Hare Rama— a way of praying to Rama, one of the avatars of Lord Vishnu

Dhan naach— a type of dance which is popular in Rai and Limbu communities in the eastern parts of Nepal. Mainly, this dance is performed, while working in the fields during the times of rice harvesting or in fairs and festivals, by holding one another’s hands. The song which is sung along with this dance is called pallam. Youth take these rare occasions as an opportunity to express their love to their beloved ones.

Chudka— a type of Nepali folk song

Chatak— (a) Magic, black art; (b) a trick

Damaru— The damaru is a small drum with two sides (heads) separated from each other by a thin neck-like structure. It is usually used in public magic shows in the streets to attract the attention of people. (In Hinduism, the Damaru is known as one of the instruments of Lord Shiva which symbolizes the two utterly dissimilar states of existence, hidden and manifest. When the damaru is vibrated, it produces dissimilar sounds which are fused together by resonance to create one sound. The sound thus produced symbolizes Nada, the cosmic sound of AUM, which can be heard during deep meditation. According to Hindu scriptures, Nada is the source of creation.)  

*******

POET'S BIO --


BISHWA SIGDEL (August 15, 1980), a humble and burgeoning literary figure from Banepa, Nepal, writes poetry, songs, essays, stories, commentaries and criticism. He holds a master's degree in Nepali literature. He serves as a lecturer of Nepali, serving alongside as the editor of Akal Kusum, a quarterly literary magazine. A fervent fan of Marquez and Neruda, Sigdel believes that literature could change the worldinto a finer one if only people cared to read between the lines and implemented the message therein. He enjoys trekking, reading, watching historical and artistic movies, apart from savoring both native and foreign food. 

Sigdel's poetry have appeared in journals and magazines like Drunken Boat (USA), Garima (Nepal), Madhupark (Nepal), Of Nepalese Clay (Nepal), Misty Mountain Review (Nepal), Samakalin Sahitya (Nepal), Sanjaal Corps (Nepal) and Kreativ Nepa (Nepal), among others, and in anthologies like Divine madness (Volumes 3 & 5, Adrus Publications, Canada) and Eternal Snow (Nirala Publications, India). Obsession (2013, Red Ink, India), a joint anthology of stories, is his much appreciated contribution which reflects his versatility and brilliant knack for story telling as well.  



(Translation: HARIS ADHIKARI) 


तालीको समाजशास्त्र

                                — विश्व सिग्देल

जब बालकै थिएँ
यो ढुङ्गामा मूर्ति कप्ने सिलसिला
सुरू भैसकेको थियो
लुकेजस्तो पत्रे चट्टानमा
जीव विकासको सिद्धान्त
हजारौँ शङ्ख चक्र
यद्यपि स्पष्ट छन्
स्मृतिको आटप्पे जङ्गलमा !

पहिलो छिना ढुङ्गामा आमाको थियो
ताराबाजी लैलैसँगै मामा आएको तस्वीर
पापा ल्याएको तस्वीर
थियो त्यो सार्थक थपडी कलिला हातहरूको
कसरी हुन सक्छन् निर्मम 
आमाका ज्यावलहरू ?
त्यो थियो
हत्केलाको रम्र्रममा तालीको प्रथम परिचय !

दोस्रो परिचयमा
छिना केही बोधो थियो
केही तेज हथौडा
सिकाइन् दिदीले बजाउन ताली
उदाउँदो सूर्यको स्वागतमा
केही उज्याला बालगीत
जहाँ निरन्तर फर्फराउँथे
हावाका पातजस्तै दिदीका जिब्रा
जसबाट बगेको पाउँथेँ
आमाका छातीबाट बग्ने
दुधका धाराजस्तै
बलशाली आकर्षण !

उमेरसँगै,
आमाको गर्भको चौघेरो
जब भयो फराकिलो संसार
तालीको भैँचालो घस्रेका
दुई कठोर पद्धति पत्थरबीच
च्यापिए दुई कोमल हत्केला
सुरू भो दासत्व यात्रा
जन्मियो अन्धो युग
कान जडेर हातमा
शिशु कक्षाबाट !

कखरासँगै तिम्रा नीतिले
हाम्रा ओठमा बेतजस्तै चाम्रा
भजन सँगिनीका रागजस्तै आकर्षक
दुई हातको मार
दुर्गा चढेको खुकुरी समान
तालीको थिति गाँसिदिए
जो हर्दम
तम्तैयार रहन्छन् बज्न

हामीले ,
हाम्रो हातको ताली
नजान्दै बालखैमा नामसारी गरिदिएछौँ
नमान्दा नमान्दै मनले
जो भीडको पछिपछि बजिहिँड्छ
जो सत्ताको समर्थनमा
निरन्तर घन्किरहन्छ सदनमा
जो बनेको तिम्रो हतियार
निहत्था हामी !

पूजाको हरेराम,
धाननाचको पैतालाको ताल
चुड्काको चटकभन्दा उत्तरोत्तर
झाँगिएको बजार उपभोक्ताको काँध चढी
मल मल्टिकम्प्लेक्स
बजाइरहेछन् डमरु
सँगसँगै बजिरहेछन्
हाम्रा हातमा नभएका
तर हाम्रा ताली !

अन्धो,
बिल्कुलै अन्धो हुन्छ ताली
कवितालाई बजेको ताली गन्दै
बसिरहेछ बजार !