INTERNATIONAL POET OF THE WEEK – Bhuwan Thapaliya
Nepalese poet, Bhuwan Thapaliya is the author of four poetry collections Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected, Our Nepal, Our Pride, Rhythm of the Heart and Verses from the Himalayas, and is currently working on his latest collection The Marching Millions.
His writing is imbued with the art and culture of Nepal, in which he grew up, but he is eminently qualified as an Oriental, and as an Occidental poet, for his poetry truly represents a marriage between the traditions of East and West, and in a way that is immediately appealing and cohesive. He is a prolific poet and is writing his own Everest, and spreading the message of global peace, universal solidarity and love.
Bhuwan has read his poetry and attended seminars in venues around the world, including South Korea, the United States, Thailand, Cambodia, and Nepal, and his work has been widely published in leading literary journals, newspapers and periodicals such as Kritya, The Foundling Review, ApekshaNews, Strong Verse, Counercurrents.org, myrepublica , The Kashmir Pulse, Taj Mahal Review, Nuveine Magazine, Poetry Life and Times, Ponder Savant, VOICES( Education Project), The Vallance Review, Longfellow Literary Project, Poets Against the War and others. His poetries have also been published in the CD’s and Books such as The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry , Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry and The Strand Book of International Poets 2010 and many more.
➡️ Xem thêm: Thơ ngắn về phụ nữ hiện đại mạnh mẽ và phong kiến xưa
DEMOCRACY
I am cold
but not numb.
I am silent
but not dumb.
I am not gazing
but not blind.
I am not making love
but impotent I am not.
I will take
a time to coil
and then as a snake
I will strike
at the heart
of the tyranny.
Watch out for me,
my name is DEMOCRACY.
WHAT TYPE OF POEM AM I?
“What type of poem am I?”
I am as formless as the clouds,
and as elegiac as the silence,
in the itinerary of the noise.
I am not a classic
written by the author, God.
The rhythms of my verses are supplied
by the parable of their tears.
I am not in me,
though I abide within myself.
I am but a colour,
whose colours have worn away.
Maybe I was written as
an ethical effect of modern art.
Or maybe I was not written
but just replicated from the lives of others.
I wish I could read the critics’ minds.
Is it true that a poem cannot read anyone?
I loathe the way they recite me,
pretending to understand me.
Maybe I am
the monologue of my rhymes.
Or maybe I am
the narrative of my own life.
However much they hate me,
I am that poetry they can’t write.
I am the phantom of the world
crawling, with a rose in the hand
in the boulevard of the thorns.
However much they praise me,
I am only a drop of verse
drawn up by time
to become the formless clouds
in the wilderness of the literary sky.
O Poet! O my maker!
What type of poem am I?
O strangers! O my readers!
What sort of poem am I?
I wish I could read myself
and discern my spirit.
Is it true that a poem
cannot read a poem?
“Am I a poem?”
or am I just a rhymed hoax?
This cyclic curiosity goes on eternally.
I am lost in a synthesis between
the dualism of my readers
and the monism of my maker.
No one knows what it is like to be a poem.
No one knows how vague its core is.
There is nothing as genuine as me.
There is nothing as deceptive as me.
MUNGLING DREAMS
He slept as a truck driver
with vertigo,
in the Mungling lodge
midday buffet of
daal, bhat, tarkari and naked women,
all left on their own.
Dreamt he was
ascending to the heaven
of prosperity
on an escalator
made out of her thighs
holding The World Bank’s
“Annual World Development Report” in his hand.
GRANDFATHER’S GREY BEARD
Long before the dawn,
my grandfather’s
whooping cough
mingled with
the cuckoo’s song
and the prayers
of the flowing river
woke me up.
➡️ Xem thêm: 30+ Thơ hay về phận làm Dâu, cảnh ở Rễ nhiều nổi niềm
A fat stubborn fog
dances over the horizon.
It’s not that chilly yet
but I don’t want to
sleep anymore.
Every once in a while
a pristine bubble
of democracy
in the distance
would emerge
from the fog,
only to dissolve again
against the backdrop
of my grandfather’s
grey beard.
PAINTBRUSH
He washes
the stains
➡️ Xem thêm: 30+ Thơ về con gái đi lấy chồng xa xứ – gần ý nghĩa
of his memories
at the banks
of her lips,
every day.
Her lips
are like
a canvas
where he
reflects
on his life
and the world
around
with a
paintbrush
of time.
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