THE
POEMS OF WILLIAM OXLEY
Vital
twilights, Torbay
Over
shut water and over hot rocks
The all-gold of evening streams
Into the heart and into the loins
The passionate life of the going sun.
Twilight water, subdued gulls,
And the air aflame with love
As hands touch on stilled stones
Salty with the dried up tears of heaven.
And as love wakens at day’s end
Beside a quiescent bay, I think
It cannot be but life itself
Begins like this, begins at death.
Feline
metamorphosis
Our
cat who’s fat
and black as a bush
with snow on it
spends all day thinking
about filling his belly:
it’s disgraceful really,
disgusting
the way he’s becoming
quite human.
Weeping
willow
by Braz Vaidya
passed by a tree near a creek
by the moss ridden bank
while
clouds covered a bright sphere
while
monsoon smoldered a pyre
and in the interlude
in the height of ecstasy
during
rhapsody of love in darkness
I see
dance of a tree
pending the faint breeze of change
change for change’s sake
and
for dreams to come true
a celestial game of roulette
in a quiet place
sits a willow tree
larger than life
as a token from destiny
After
work
by Chirag Bangdel
He
steps
into the silence
and the darkness engulfs him.
An evening —
frowning men after work
and drunk men claiming the world.
A half smoked cigarette
and he stumbles further.
The roars of shop shutters rolling down
oh sweet retirement!
He walks.
A glare of headlights
from a car blinds him temporarily
but he walks.
He knows the road so well.
The familiar squeak
of a door.
He is home —
amongst his wife, his children —
the morning’s left over delicious chicken curry,
and the flicker
of the black and white television set.
Childhood
days
by Isha Acharya
In the far horizon,
in the far snow-clad mountains,
in the far green fields beneath white clouds,
My childhood days!
That forest of rhododendrons,
that forest of pine,
that serpentine mountain road
One small child of eight
climbing the mountains to reach the temple
the determination of childhood
the dreams of childhood
My childhood days!
Like every morning’s sun-rays,
like every spring flower,
like each winter's snow on high mountains,
they come to my mind, the joys of childhood,
My childhood days.
Instinct
by Prabhakar Chettri
There! He barks again,
chained to the wall-side,
my dog has become an alien
to other dogs
and other dogs to him the same.
He’s a monster and he’s strong,
he’s a fighter, yes, he is young.
But a lover boy? Nopes!
He’s been tied to the wall for too long,
the feminine does not turn him on,
He’s as pure as a nun.
You’ve got the wrong head, son.
There’s nothing that can be done,
instinct will take you along.
Bark on boy! Bark on!
Someday, I know, you will learn.
Mother
by Praveen Uprety
I have tortured you
all my life.
You planted dreams and ideas
for me.
You made a wall for me to lean on
which I broke.
Your ideas of making something of me
have gone down the drain.
Many years passed before
I realized
the hopes and desires that you
planted in my mind.
I have tried through every means to
be back.
I am guilty,
I have shattered dreams.
I am ashamed.
But I will always be here
for you
No one can break the bonds
between you and me.
I did not keep my promises,
forgive
me.
Transient
by Priya Joshi
Silence
Complete darkness
Words fail me as I am blinded by the splendor of the
eep
spectacular
blackness around me
The dense wall of air strangles me
suffocates me
I gasp for air
No one is there to help me
no one to care
I spot a dim piercing faraway
light
I run
I run to grasp it before it disappears
The light
The only thing alive
The only thing with a spirit to
urn
I run towards it
I run
I run
I run
I’m tired
I need a rest
But the light is slipping away from me
to uncertainty and beyond
I’m nearing
I’m nearing the light
the eternal flame of truth
I can feel the warmth
the love
the brightness of it
I reach
but
but the flickering light of hope
of
life
disappears
to uncertainty and beyond
Silence
Complete darkness
The
day we landed
by Pritam S. Rana
It
was six in the morning
as we climbed down the nets
to the old wooden boats rolling fiercely
huddled together in groups of eights.
Our hopes were high for all of us expected
the Turks would simply turn and run
at the sight of our mighty fleet which had blasted
beaches, forts, man and gun.
We went forward to the beaches and the rocks
of Achi Baba and Kilid Bahr defiant and proud
crushing the silence of many peaceful nights.
Black and white smoke obscured beaches, explosions
were loud.
Thunderclaps, machine guns, and whizzing bullets,
the Turks had prepared a nasty welcome.
Men fell screaming as bullets hit chests and limbs
even before they had stepped on the beaches.
Chanting ‘Hail Mary!’ the men went ahead,
jumping out and running forward,
carrying rifle and rucksack, holding on to the helmet,
desperate for cover.
Men may have lost hope as they lay prone on the round
pinned down by enemy fire, shellshocked.
The wounded and the dead littered the ground.
The enemy was well dug-in
while our fellows were scattered about,
Oh, how much we wished for the days in Dublin,
the officers barked to keep our hearts stout.
We prayed for the day to die soon
for the darkness would shield us for the night.
In the cool light of the waxing moon
we began to dig for the next day’s fight.
Imperfect
illusions
by Raji Dhittal
Sometimes I have the illusion that I myself…
an untamed heart and an isolated soul
am a distant observer –
of my own life.
I always know what I should do
but just don’t know what I am going to.
What has to be continued, continues,
a life, a dream….
And I am the misfit, the stranger….
But then at times I have an illusion, I know myself….
Voices elude me.
It is just the silence that I have,
then in that silence I hear your soft voice,
that is silent too.
Then for a fleeting moment I have the illusion, I know
myself.
Expressions always seem inadequate
but at times a look speaks volumes.
Now and then, when I look into your eyes
I have an illusion that I find myself…
Uncertainties linger in the sleepless night,
tired eyes want to shun morning light.
Then in the rays of a newborn sun
the thought of you strike me with sweet longing.
At such times, I am alone no more….
This
- reading between the lines on your forehead
- filling up the pauses of your speech
- finding myself snug within your closed eyelids
Maybe
they are what they are – just illusions.
So be it then,
for what am I in reality?
Unsure of the ways of heart,
unsure of the universe to which I belong.
Let me exist in these illusions then –
For I can do without this universe, this life,
but I just cannot do without that furrow in your forehead
where, I have an illusion sometimes, I fit in perfectly.
Untitled
by Sameer Singh
Thus Runs Dry This Fountain Of Life
Scoured by The Burning Sun In Those Eyes
This Voiceless Child; Like Some Early Winter Bird
Caged Within His Own
Flutters His Wings And Screams
Thus It Brusts. This Bubble Of Life
For It is A Dream, Not A Vision
Maa
by Sanjeevani Yonzon
We love her,
my two siblings and I.
We quarrel
and she screams.
Words bubble forth,
I say – close your ears,
our private fun,
no flying dishes though,
too expensive,
and she’s sensible, even in her anger.
She understands
my private grief,
but do I understand hers?
To me, she’s the epitome of strength,
I feel strength,
in her kajoled eyes,
in her red tikka,
in her soft pallon.
Upon her breast
lie secrets and stories,
perhaps, one thousand and one.
I wish I could hear them all,
but she doesn’t have time,
cause ah! it’s khaza time.
I’m no poet,
but I want to write this,
it’s my own way of saying,
I love her, my Maa,
but before I loved her,
I know she loved me.
Imprint
by Saurava Pradhan
Remember
Sister Angelica
and her smile.
Her soft irritating voice.
Remember
the rocking horse, Romila
and her broken tooth.
Riva and Prime Minister Uncle.
Remember friends
The UFO, Kalpu
and her astronaut dreams.
Sister Lidwina
and her admonitions.
Aren’t these memories enough
to gather
and forget our present fates?
And laugh
Freely?
Words
never spoken
by Shradha Mukhiya
“I love the way mother laughs”
“Of course, you are so used to it”
“It makes my memories stir”
“But hey, she is a stepmother…”
“No, she is just – mother, okay?”
“Okay, whatever you say”
I hear echoes inside my head
I know them right away:
they start in silence,
they end mutely too.
Now, I’ve accepted them,
after all, they are my thoughts,
a part of me.
Every time, I hear myself think,
there is nobody else but me.
Picking
berries
by Sudarshan Guruacharya
Clouds puff into fingers like columnar stuff.
Spinach green meadows
with mellow butter tinge
lay sleeping soundly in the laps
of rhododendron hills,
gaping at the sky
with mouth open wide.
And all the while
under bushes, shrubs, and trees
children pick
orange berries.
Blackbirds sing
along with buzzing, bumble bees:
berries, sweet berries, orange berries.
Twenty
five
by Suman Subba
I killed that first bird
at twenty five. Consciously.
I drew back the catapault
and fired as it settled
on a guava tree. It dropped like a stone.
I imagined like a feathered stone
through a green water of branches and leaves.
But that was later —
as I saw again
what I had imagined.
I stood there astounded
as a new memory was born
and I had no memory
of killing one before.
Hitesh picked it up
and spread its wings as far as it could go.
I remember then
how I felt in my pockets
the rounded edges of other stones.
They were not warmed by my hands
they stayed cold. I had not thought
I could ever feel so cold
and alone as I did
when that bird dropped
through a green water of leaves
to the ground. In that instant
something more gentle had been drawn
back and broken. A knowledge
that should have lain dormant
and clean like the heart
of a memory in June.
Drawn back as if
from a distance far
to walk it spreads in my art
dulled, as ever,
by the rounded edges of other stones.
Life,
a game
by Upasana Shrestha
A pawn in the game called life
lead to every step.
Freedom, a word with weight,
no conception, or notion.
The desire lingers on.
But in vain.
The desire to be born again
with no debts to pay.
The debt of a mother’s womb.
Paid the freedom for the life she gave.
Like the cold moon,
I beam every night.
A sadness of heart and madness of mind.
I live my life
Not knowing what’s wrong or what’s right.
I was born under a bad sign,
People took me to the grave beyond the blue line,
never learned.
Faith, I have no more faith.
For it gave me life with a price.
For it gave me wings with no sky.
Dreams, I can no more believe in them
for they gave me hopes with disappointments,
for they gave me beliefs, that have no existence.
Just when I think I’ve learned the ways of life,
life changes, I am what I started with – a reason.
Constant irony of maturity and regression,
progress a thing based on illusion,
I am all that will be left, when it's all over.
Wish for the deathbed,
well who else but you.
For I have known no other
who can make happy
a soul so dead.
Me
and my friendship
by Samridhi Shrestha
I have built strong walls around me,
it took me many years to do so.
Years of struggle and silence
with happiness and tears.
The walls are strong,
strong enough to support me.
It is not a mixture of bricks and cement,
but of love, care, anger, and arguments.
I have put hopes into my walls,
they surround me and call to me.
Yes, this is the wall of friendship
that promises to be with me throughout eternity.
I
never knew I had a daughter
by Anuj Guruacharya
You never asked me how to cook.
We never had the time to watch autumn leaves,
how they danced and shook.
Remember,
Remember,
You’d say, “Let go my wrists,”
Your wrinkles will crack
my soft flesh too soon.
I must’ve been dissolving
with every breath you blew
so today,
when only an inch of me remains,
I crawl with naked hands and feet
down the last avenue
to the corner florist
and buy
not an orchid or a rose
that wither soon after they bloom
but
“A fern or a cactus”
Yes, that’ll do.
Friendship
by Bibhushan Shakya
It is blue,
blue like the clear, lively sea.
It is white,
clear white, without a speck or stain.
A smells sweet, it tastes sweet,
but it can be sour, or bitter.
At times, you don’t want it.
You think you can live without it.
But your life has no value, no meaning without it.
It reminds me of silence of peace.
Nothing you don’t like,
nothing of what you don’t want in your life,
nothing that you can do without,
it is just silence.
Silence symbolizing the presence of someone besides you
Someone who will help you, support you throughout life.
It gives you a great feeling
a feeling of warmth inside
it makes you feel special, feel precious.
And until the very end of your life
when the whole world has deserted you
when you feel depressed and defeated
it will always be there,
as firm as ever,
besides you.
Time
by Bikash Rajkarnikar
Time, flowing, circling, deep down
defeating the abyss, the downward spiral
fall, fall, fall... gravity is the only absolute
death, the ultimate truth.
Time, healing, hurting, deep down
killing the self, killing existence
never to be reborn, eternal death
of a head, of a heart, of rationality.
Time, concealing, revealing, deep down
the truths, the lies, the true lies
and the false truths
the innermost notions, the abstracts
submerged and drowned.
Time, running, crawling, deep down
happiness, a short warm moment
anxiety, a light year
pain, an eternity.
Time, creating, destroying, deep down
nourishing hopes, making it stronger
turning illusion into reality
and then shattering them all.
Time, getting very short, getting tense,
getting confused, getting painful
getting dark
to The End.
The
Curfew
by Sagun S. Lawoti
There’s calm in the city.
It haunts and agitates.
Baby next door is unable to sleep,
she is crying:
an unsure, scared mother
by her side.
There goes the whistle!
Boots march by.
Crack! Crack!
Gunshots, yells, cries of pain:
the baby is still crying.
The street is calm again,
dead and discreet.
In the distance, sirens sound.
Meantime, a smell of gunpowder,
the baby is still not sleeping.
Where are the stray dogs?
Their friendly barks and howls.
All vanished with disturbed peace.
Jindabad! Murdabad!
These remain, the kitchen’s empty,
except for a little basi bhat.
It’s nine-half at night,
Murdabad! Jidabad!
(one more time).
Bang! Bang!
Law and order follows suit
calm returns once more.
Next door
That baby is now wailing.
She wants candy.
Her mother is not in control
soft words make no reason
her lullaby soothes no more.
Because there’s calm in the city
that haunts and agitates
the child next door is unable to sleep,
she is crying:
an unsure, scared mother
by her side.
Waiting
to Paint the Walls
by Bandana Shrestha
It’s come to a point where you can’t
tell the difference between Didi and me.
There are six years between us.
You would remember if everything
was all right, but things are not all right
in your room painted steel blue
over smooth plaster of Paris walls.
Now old, the blue is fading
into an uninteresting grey.
Nobody seems to care enough to give
those tall wide walls a new coat of paint –
maybe a warmer color, a pink.
The smell of paint is not good for you
and where would you go for the day
while they painted the walls–
taking down all the picture frames
of deities, their reincarnations,
old black and white photos of the family,
moving your bed and the your almari
and The Wonderful World series of 1933,
the old paperwork for forgotten properties.
It
is too much hassle for a day,
so everyone will wait.
Patience
by Doma Tsering
The skin held
together by staples
begin to slowly
heal as the stitches
within dissolve
into body fluids
weary with pressure
from the outside
world dictating
what should be
what will be or
missed golden
opportunity the
scar a constant
reminder of what
could have been
false alarms wax
into triumph of self
cooking raw wounds
into well done skin
of undoubtedly rare
multiple cells with
tested character and
precise individuality
to create a tasty meal
sprinkled with the union
of firm resilient fibers
each strand weaving
its own unique story
into the main dish
like melting cheese
a necessary ingredient
blending with much
renewed force from
the outside for the
flavor to sink inside
such things take time
it is the test of patience
good things come
to those who wait
Untitled
by Sudesh Upadhyaya
Tombstone sparkles in the twilight
lone camel baby stares
the stars twinkle endlessly
Vision blurred, Mind fakes
clasped upon the heat of the dune
faded warmth from the sorry womb
Suckling on spent nipples
obsession taking him on a ride
to purge into the grossness of birth
his only eclipsed memory
Nightly sand mirages
a masterpiece
the foyer beyond the fathoms lie
the reason for his teary eyes
why does the sadness seek?
Still, he awaits
in the moments of seamless time-dreams
a broken amber egg
Icicles hanging from a dead end rainbow.
Transition
by Para Limbu
Call it an inevitable change,
or metamorphosis,
I knew it had to happen
if I was ever to belong
to the world where grave imagination
creates a generation's dream.
Anyway, I'm not humble enough
to
admit apologies.
For better or worse
the Odyssey has begun.
The
Rainbow, the Rill, and I
by Manita Gautam
Seeing the rainbow on the canopy
and iridescent bubbles on a rill,
my mind goes back–to the vista of my years.
I was pleased when I saw the rainbow and
used to play with bubbles that accrued on a rill.
On the rainbow, several times, I reached Paradise.
The rainbow, the rill, and I.
I needed no more friends.
Unfortunately we ceased being in contact,
now, getting sight of them, once again, I feel
like a free and innocent child. Once again
I’m pleased, I am like a bird breathing air
after having left the cage. Once again,
in the unfathomed depth of my heart,
is fascination that reaches horizon’s other side
- to be free.
I
am a queen
by Arati Dahal
I lay bare my heart,
I am a queen without inborn finesse,
I am a queen without aristocratic elegance,
I am a single queen
because I am the queen of my dreams.
My dreams, my only assets.
My dreams, a lap of luxuries
where I am fragile enough
to break down when touched by flowers,
where I look like everything I am not.
I am a queen because I have a heart,
a heart for not one, but all,
a heart never depleted of love. |
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