POET OF THE WEEK – Bhuwan Thapaliy

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.

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E: [email protected]

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.

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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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