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 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.
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