Before taking decisions
 

In how many minds

Should I go crazy?

Whom should I ask?

 

Should I continue to hop

Like drops

That jump up

After water

Flowing from spout

Hits the ground,

Or remain transfixed

Like stone under the selfsame spout

That despite being lashed

By incessant flow

Does not even budge?

 

Which eyes should I look for

To find the ultimate

Unreasoned answer?

Or

Should I ask everyone the question

That should not have been asked?

Or Should I

Turning up to the sky

Be answering the question

That’s not been asked?

 

In this atmosphere

Where you have to go

Perennially crazy

Only to survive,

Which auspicious moment

Should I choose to become mad?

 

I didn’t ask any head

Like core of lapsi[1] fruit

Hiding no seed inside,

Didn’t ask for auspicious moment

To a judgment like leaves of taanki[2]  tree.

 

Dew drop as always

Was reveling all night with flower

Taking taste of alcohol,

Naked morning sun-ray too

Was making worship

After diving in the river.

 

That effervescence

Finished after a short while

Like cotton fleece ultimately

Turning into cloud.

 

Without asking anybody’s advice

I turned myself insane

Sitting under the same sun

And the same clouds.

 

I believed all along

One day

Everyone would go mad

Just to see me sane.

[1] Nepali hog plum of the mountainous region.

[2] A common Nepali fodder tree.

(Translated from Nepali by Prof. Dr. Abhi Subedi)

 

In Midnight Street

 

Cars

carrying only eyes

tearing tremulous leaves of air

look like chasing

rush of wind.

 

Sightless flag

scolding environment

that surrounds it

dances in the joy of being a flag.

 

Mouths

carrying barking prowess

go from one courtyard to another

spraying blasts of raucous sound–

monotonous conch shell wailings

of ambulance in funeral march

upbraiding dozing guards in each door.

 

Haunted trees

covered behind the curtains of their own leaves

stare at the dark

from the fringe of streets.

 

Lampposts look

in the glow of their defeated light

robbed by the fog

but cannot tell

if the streets

lying by stretching limbs in courtyards

are sleeping face downwards or supine.

Butterflies as if unaware

that darkness is no impediment to love

are playing primordial game with light.

 

Clock tower

teases a bull walking

dangling pendulum, down below.

 

Bull

like a calm poet

carefree

like swallowing the entire dense dark

is pushing the path behind.

 

Creation does not cease

just because there is darkness!

 

But alas

why does the fear

like volcano before the apocalypse

runs so atrociously

across my mind

perhaps not seeing

any chance of brightness

being born even up to the remote

greens of futurity

on the earth

where I stand?

(Translated from Nepali by Prof. Dr. Abhi Subedi)

 

 About the Author

suman pokhSuman Pokhrel (born on September 21, 1967) is a multilingual Nepali poet, lyricist, translator and an artist. Many of his works have been translated into English and are published and acclaimed internationally. Author of three collections of poems in Nepali, he won the prestigious “SAARC Literary Award” given by the Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature twice. He is considered as one of the most important creative voices of South Asia. His poems revolve around the nuances of life. The play around his choice of words creates magic in the minds of his readers. English translations of  his literary works are widely published in journals and anthologies globally,  including Snow Jewel, USA; Life and Legends, USA; Song We Share, South Asia; Sweet and Sour Dreams, South Asia; Global Poetry, Learning & Creativity  and in different volumes of Beyond Borders, South Asia; and Art of Being Human, Canada.