5th Vol, No 1  (July 2018)

Contemporary Bengali  poets by Moinak Dutta

The translation, to a great extent, was treated as a little inferior to creative writing in English. Though the translations pull one into the sensitive and serious study of each word used by the translator to weave an experience. However, now-a-days, in India, the scenario has been slowly and steadily changing but unfortunately we have not yet accomplished full control over this .Isn’t it a fact that Indian writing in English, to some extent, cannot fully cater to the needs of the readers in India and satisfy them?  Besides, there is constantly growing awareness about the literary meaning of writings in the regional languages that depict Indian life with profound depth, vitality and variety.  Indian life, being reflected in regional fiction seems more authentic and genuine when one meditates in the context of regional identity, ethos and cultural identity of rural India.

As a matter of fact to comprehend the balance of a translated text and the original, the act of translation demands commitment, loyalty, labour and fidelity to both, form and context.A translator should have mastery of the native as well as the target language, ability to share and feel original work’s feeling, a common cultural and linguistic heritage, an innate turning with the emotional fervour of the original text, deep insight into the semantic depths and nuances of words in the original language, and their English equivalents – acceptable diction, ability to catch the flow of emotion and the beauty and felicity of expression, – for if the translator has instinctive romantic genius it would generate a little complexity to catch the emotional flow of the tragic events; here aesthetic perception could not harmonize considerably with the demands of the tragic story.  A translator should have the ability to achieve relative accuracy of the emotional content along with its literary flavour and true identity of mental and physical make-up of the characters to release proportionate emotion.

what is crucial in translation is the degree of approximation, which the translator experiences, with the core of the original work.  And if the translator has shared a common cultural and linguistic heritage, his rendering in the target language helps him to achieve Indian sensibility to project life in harmony with natural urge.  Any way the translation is a source for the promotion of language learning and it is the only medium and process of conveying message across linguistic and cultural barriers.

We are focusing here Moinak Dutta’s translation and his hold of language.


All related to Love
Seen him one horrendous rain filled night-
He was getting wet, alone,
I wanted to beckon him to my room
He reverted in brief – ‘ no!’
he had said,
Knowing the old man’s unease, could not say more!
The night how far kept him away could not make that out,
In the morn
Saw all those flowers of the  jasmine tree
Had fallen,
Like pain,
Had he been the soul of that immensely beautiful tree?
From then on,
Every rainy night
I stay awake looking out
But he does not care to come,
Only that curious smell of jasmine-
Gradually enveloping me
And that white color of buds
Only tell upon me,
As if they ask me to dream
Without getting wet,
Without being burnt!
Have scraped all colors black and white from you
Scraped them out like dream
Then put colors more real
With green have I filled,
Wrapped from head to toe
And sent them away to the woods;
Now no amount of enmity would come betwixt us!
Life would now largely become songs of afternoons,
Hearing the gongs of copper bells would you learn
Every temple after being sheltered by green trees
The Gods would come alive;
If leaves would fall and stay on the yard of temples
Temples would become true
Places of worship –
It may happen that temples are not that very much clean ( devoid of fallen leaves which come floating in the breeze),
It may happen that the temples are not that bright, glittering ones by light so enflamed!
I have sent the zebra in different form
Only in memory I visualise zebra as black and white,
Once in dream have I found that cave where ancient and the modern meet – prehistoric and unchanged earth!
You have called me like a secret deep and large mansion,
Have shown me those large rooms,
Why have you  forgotten that one should not leave open those bejeweled branches infront of a beggarly person?
The breaking of a trance, it will happen sure!
Then on he down turned his palm,
Up turned it,
Taking exquisite shapes of a stance, a pose, the most beautiful;
That restless irresistible ‘Ichcamoti’ ,
Her breezy silken touch having worn
Stayed alone the bemused neighbour woman,
Just like a princess, waiting for the night…
{*note: it is a translation  of a poem  titled ‘ প্রণয় -প্রধান’ ( Pronoy- Pradhan) by Shweta Chakraborty }
How have I searched for him
At Paris, in Monalisa, in waves of Rhine,
In Picasso’s paints bluish fine,
In Beethoven’s symphony nine,
How my mind searched for him – my love;
Sometimes have I
Found him ( out of sky)
On the snow,
Like a traveller on the go,
On road white,
Sometimes him
I do  sight,
In my colored wintry pullover warm
How have I found him
In moments some,
But that love changes
Like a mirage
If I call him,
How he disappears
Leaving me in desert,
All paintings, songs and
Memories get merged then
In sun burnt sands.
( * note : it is a translation / transliteration of a bengali poem titled ‘ Marichika’ / ‘মরীচিকা ‘ by Jagari Mukherjee )
The poem for birthday
Whatever happened in other births, let that not matter
This time I am born as the taper
On the day of diwali,
The little candle too
Turned myself into sparkling dots
In the hands of children,
Blew the rockets up and away
Above those seven or ten storied buildings
Even if you don’t believe come to the street
You will find me there in verandahs
Or you can climb to any terrace
And find me how with me a girl
Lighting up the stars one by one …
{ the poem is transliteration  of a poem titled ‘ Janmadiner kobita’ (জন্মদিনের কবিতা) by Joy Goswami }
That book which you had given me, to call clouds, once,
Opening it today found it sunk in knee deep water,
The next page turned out to be a river gliding away far,
That book which you gave me full of plants,
Today can’t move a single inch through it,
For it had grown a forest really dense and deep,
Those plants had grown tall and wide
Enough to hold up all the sunlight,
That book which you had given me to learn stream,
Found it turned into a huge waterfall, wild, having its own rhythm,
Even that white feather, that page marker,
The book where I kept it,
Found that it had been by magic
Turned into a sanctuary, of birds,
They are flying, swimming, sitting there ,
-quite a pleasing sight,
All those books given by you
Are now like deserts, ranges of mountains,
They all are now like horizon,
Interestingly,  today a few friends have come home
To have a look at the library owned
By me,
Now tell me, what should I tell them?
(Note: it is a transliteration of a poem called ‘Premik’, by Joy Goswami, from his collected poems, vol ii,)


Moinak Dutta Presently engaged as a teacher of English.Many of his poems and stories are published in national and international anthologies and magazines.Written reviews of books and fictions, one on Upanisads can be found at  His debut fiction ‘Pestilence’ was published in 2009. He had  signed an agreement with a publishing house in October,2012for the publication of his second english literary fiction ‘Online@Offline’. The fiction had been published in 2014, January by Lifi Publications.His third fiction titled ‘ In search of la radice is published in August 2017 by Xpress Publications.

Blogs regularly at



4th Vol, No2 (April  2017)

Contemporary Nepali poets by Suman Pokhrel

A distinction can be made between the group of writers and poets who were the noted figures of the modern times and still active in their literary output and another group of emerging new generation who are striving to establish a new trend of writing poetry. Nepali poetry has come a long way since Gopal Prasad Rimal (1918-1973) rescued it from the bondage of the past, writing prose poems dealing with contemporary problems and his successor Bhupi Sherchan made prose poetry popular among the masses. A few poets around their time led Nepali poetry to obscurity in the and distanced it from Nepali social life. Poets like Bashu Shashi, Krishna Bhusan Bal, Shailendra Sakar, Parizat, Sharada Sharma, Bishnu Bibhu Ghimire, Jeevan Aacharya, Meen Bahadur Bista, Manju Kanchuli, Shyamal and Bibas Pokhrel pulled Nepali poetry from the quagmire of obscurity and proved it a beautiful creation with subtle human feelings and concern towards social unrest. Some poets among them are actively creative till the date. So the contemporary scene of Nepali poetry is the continuation of the past on the one hand while on the other a journey to the new direction.

The contemporary poets draw themes of poetry from their wounded sensibility caused by bloody insurgency at home. Their voice is that of discontentment, depression, hopelessness and satire and an ultimate desire for peace.

The newly emerging generation of poets includes——-

  Deepak Samchu

Dipak Samchu is a young Nepali poet and theater artist. His poems are published in several

poetry journals and anthologies. He has been awarded many awards for his works including The Best Young Poet of the Year 2010 by Vani Prakashan, one of the leading literary organizations. He holds post graduate degree in Nepali literature from Tribhuvan University falling down.

While falling down

By Deepak Samchu

I was entangled

like some water hyacinth at a riverbank,

you happened to come carrying handful of rainbow

and tied me like a rope does.


That was everything for me

and, I started to find myself within your fragrance.


I wanted the wave of my heart to echo entering inside you,

wanted, the shadow that follows me

to get faded out approaching you,

wanted, the breeze that flew away by fondling me

may gift you smiles of happiness,

and I wanted, all of my longings to get emptied

inside your desire.


I never noticed that

I had forgotten all my friends who played horse ride

on walking stick together,

the cattle lost in jungle forgetting the way back home,

the rubbles collected while

getting sheltered inside the cave in rains,

and the songs that were written

by pouring my eyes

while thinking about you.


Leaving all of my past shattered,

I melted inside you,

and we had found the rhythm of life

while blowing the MURCHUNGA together.


But while walking through the bridge to sky

you threw me down unexpectedly,

and now, whilst falling down like Icarus

every memory of past is hitting me –

Tuk tuk tuk tuk .


My gasps may have been left behind somewhere there

do find it and keep with you,

you may hear my whisper when you are alone.


Do search for the occulted memories of love

in your pocket, in the Khopis, and

at the corners of rooms,

that may help you unfold the reminiscences

when you are gloomy.


I have tied the bud of rose

that my mother had planted

on my cheeks, to your heart;

do keep it to decorate your ambience,

it may help you stare at me

without touching.


I have left every melody of life

for you,

keep humming it in your solitude.


But  never do carry any wish

to sing together

again with me.

(Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)



Arjun Dhungana

Arjun  Dhungana  is  a talented  young   poet, writer and  theatre artist from Nepal. His poems are published in various anthologies and literary journals within and outside Nepal. His first novel is due to publish this year. He has been awarded as The Best Young Poet of the Year 2013 by Vani Prakashan, one of the leading literary organizations.  He teaches Physics at Mahendra Morang Multiple Collage under Tribhuvan University.

An Old Rickshaw Puller

By Arjun Dhungana

The sun of destiny flashed never

on his forehead,

never lit the lamppost of his heart undying


with the eyes that glitter every moment

the old rickshaw puller, together with the dawn

arrives to be positioned before the Sahuni’s shop

and sings his song –


“The morning is arrived at your door

and so am I, with money in my pouch

let me have a cup of tea n’ fun

the road of being is hard to walk on

life is alive at this second,

in a moment, it may be dead”


The dawn that has come to road

by leaving the warm slumbers right at the beds

and is on a walk to paint colors around

asks the rickshaw puller as it sees him-


“will you take me to the college?”

“hey rickshaw, will you go to hospital?”

“rickshaw, going market?”


Many of those students might have completed their study

many of those patients might have recovered from their illness

and all of those shopping might have entered into homes,

but, how many people would know his name ?


How many times

would the wheels of the rickshaw have

revolved around the age of that work-hero,

the sun has turned whose body to coal tar

the flowing sweat has turned whose face to a drain,

and who, the whole day, carries the city arduously

by stretching the veins, elongated

Form forehead to calf

like a mess of power wire ?


By tying up the squares of roads that

are skipping on the music of chaos


by taking the rushing shadows to their destinations,

being oneself the dust, in dust

converting oneself to mud, in mud,

attuning the khak khak khak of cough

with kat kat kat noise of rickshaw;

for what

would that rickshaw puller get his sweat spilled

more than the amount of water he drinks?


Where would be the home of that rickshaw puller

who, mocking the sun that sleeps under the rug of darkness

whispering to the insomniac stars that stare downwards,

plays with winds till midnight?


“dishonest, you became


numbers of potholes are there on the road

price of goods are hiking to burn

dishonest, you became

dishonest, you became


you take all, cash and the coin

you sell water, telling it wine

dishonest, you became

dishonest, you became


you took my heart, how did you mown?

where did you go leaving me alone ?

dishonest, you became

dishonest, you became”


Drunk at midnight

pulling the rickshaw leisurely,

to whom to listen

is this rickshaw puller singing his song?

(Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)




 Shubhalaxmi Lamsal

Shubhalaxmi Lamsal is a young poet from Nepal. She has one book of poetry titled ‘Prakampit

Ujyalo’ in her credit. She is a M.A in Nepali literature from Tribhuvan University. She was awarded ‘The Best Young Poet of the Year 2009’ by Vani Prakashan, one of the leading literary organizations in Nepal.

 Stone Age

By Shubhalaxmi Lamsal

I live the Stone Age

and seek the fire for living

by striking the pair of  palaeoliths.


I get cactus to bloom, by carving my existence

right on stone,

and, I die a multiple times.


Making a fragile shed for shelter,

decorating its drip edges and gutters with desires;

I get trickling in the form of possession

I get seeping in the shape of mourning.


Wearing a mask of modernity

I, the human being,

live the stone age within me;

till date, I live carrying

the thinking, Paleolithic.

(Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)




 Suraj Subedi

Suraj Subedi, a promising young poet from Nepal holds Master’s Degree in English Literature from Tribhuwan University. He, in his poems meditates over the existence of human inner self through the metaphors of daily life struggle. Apart from being published in several national literary journals and webzines, he also owns his personal blog that is the montage of his several poems, stories, travelogues, articles and drama reviews. He has won several poetry prizes including the first prize in National Youth Poetry Competition in 2015, organized by Book Art Nepal and Readmore Publication. Subedi has great affection to abstract poems.


-by Suraj Subedi

Why would water

fall down from atop,

if no reason was there?


As mind visits the entire world in no time,

cloud visits the hearts of hills, and gets

water to emerge out of the source,

runs over the landscapes of sky

and creates azure identity.


Does it look like

a human walking?


The playful wind

enjoying with happiness

flies carelessly

as if it has to tell something.


The weather becomes a leaf

and falls on water

as if, it is in immense thirst.


There seem reasons with nature

be it of flowing or of falling.


I believe,

there must be a reason of, your

running away from me

in my dreams.

(Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)



 Mukunda Prayas

Mukunda Prayas is a young poet, artist and radio jokey from Nepal. He has one book of poetry titled ‘Ek Jhola Indreni’ to his credit. He has bedecked hundreds of book covers with his paintings. Satako Sahitya, a lit-webzine, awarded one of his poems as the best poem of the year in 2014. In addition, he has received various literary awards from across the country.  He is actively involved with numbers of organizations working in the area of art and literature.


Old Age Feeling

By Mukunda Prayas

On the picture of nature

made up by assembling the bright colors,

who did paint with the color of smoke ?

These eyes feel uncomfortable

to see these scenes these days.


Melodies are running away from the ears

and getting evoked in distance

by hiding itself out of sight.


Some faces seemingly that of near ones

tend to come closer, by striking

on the narrowing down walls of memories.


The tastes are scratchy

the bed is out of shape

and the former theatre of life seems in distance afar.


Besides being unable to count

the remaining numbers of steps to reach the destination

are getting fewer, and

the steep is getting harder to walk up.


Why does the pace of movement of Sun

get slower every moment?

Why do the nights sleep late night

to see the dreams black and white?

Why does the earth, without any notice

starts revolving unbalanced from the early morning.


Now, knew that

on being unable to stay firmly

one should get their body rested.


I am waiting for

the last feeling that could be gained

from the last truth.

(Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)




 Birat Anupam

Birat Anupam is a young Nepali poet and columnist. He writes in both Nepali and English. His

poems are published in many literary journals, webzines and poetry portals. He contributes his articles on contemporary issues to Nepal’s national and regional newspapers and portals.

 When I was a Child

by Birat Anupam

When I was a child, I used to

kite the birds,

row the clouds,

hover along riverside in search of its breath,

and, play hide and seek with the fishes.


I used to teach the newborn calf of Koili[1] cow

to say ‘Aama[2]’,

that was me, who taught crow and eagle

to play thief and police.


The tree of my courtyard still waves its leaf

whenever wind visits,

by imitating my habit of waving hand

while playing TaraBaji Lailai[3] and

seeing off my uncle.


By imitating my deeds of revolving around

together with the oxen during ‘daain[4],

the earth had started to revolve around the Sun

of which, I knew only after joining my school.


That was also me, who whispered to sky

to be stubborn on not getting the desired things.


When I was a child

sky too used to take care of me.

after sprinkling over trees, saplings and mud

the sky used to bring an eternal pencil for me

up to the stream near our valley to let me draw

an exact picture of bride-Nature.


Despite having desperate desire

to keep that beautiful seven-colored pencil,

I could not take it, as my mother had taught

not to take anything from anyone for free,

for, that was a sin.

(Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)




Suman Pokhrel

Suman Pokhrel, an eminent Nepali poet, lyricist, playwright, translator and artist; is widely reckoned as one of the most creative contemporary voices. He lives in Biratnagar, a city nestled in the foothills of Himalayas. He writes in Nepali, English, Hindi and Urdu. He has three collections of poems. Beside English, his poems are translated into Spanish, French, Italian, Arabic, Farsi, Hindi, Bengali, and Urdu; and are published in various literary journals, anthologies and webzines globally. Pokhrel has translated poems of several poets from around the world into Nepali; and has translated various Nepali language poets’ works into English, Hindi and Urdu. Recently, he wrote a solo play ‘Yajnaseni’, based on ‘Draupadi‘, one of the lead characters from the famous Sanskrit epic Mahabharata.  The play was premiered in Irvin Art Center, Dallas, Texas in USA in October 2016, and was performed in other six states in the US.


The interplay of imagery and intertwining thoughts around Suman Pokhrel’s choice of words create magic in the mind of his readers. The indigenity in his writing blended with a unique style and poise make his works natural. Pokhrel, thrives on his belief that ‘poetry covers all spheres of literature, the other genres are derivatives of poetry’. He has an honest approach to writing and it is also his endeavor to break /bridge barriers through his creative pursuits. He has carved a niche’ for himself by not following any trend in poetry. He is appreciated for his own distinct style of writing. He has participated in numbers of international literary festivals. Suman Pokhrel is two-time SAARC Literary Award recipient.


Suman Pokhrel

I was watching

a city taking shape

like raging delusions

from the deposits of migrating

lovely pristine villages.

Grown playing in dusty streets,

I was searching myself

standing on bifurcating streets

between growing houses

in times dangerous even to tread.


Someone with no shape

came suddenly in my life’s noon

and grabbing with trembling hands

asked me, lost on my own footpath

walking endlessly

as far as the memory goes,

and asked—

whose city is this?


I’m watching the rainbows

rising from the far water place

lost in the artificial light of midnight.

I’m watching birds flying hither

from far horizons

singing songs of love

dancing to sounds of confusions.


I’m feeling

the breeze arriving

fanning coolness on me

returning now by igniting fire

pushing me aside.


Water surging

bestowing life on us

entered the city and

left by tearing gardens of life,

Even one who looked like human

in meetings outside

sold a no-man inside the city

and dissolved into that act.


At moments I wish

to became part of the perennially roaring

hurricanes of abuses

and stand naked dropping

all sense of responsibilities,

And cry with the quivering speech it has taught

by mustering the sanguine spirit

made from this city’s water, with

impulses supported by its air—


This is a city of those who dance

to the senseless slogans of the crowd,

Of those who see beauty on outer paints

used to camouflage real humans,

Of those dozing contentedly on

insensitivity as their ideals,

Of those who live in dreams and die in waking hours,

Of those who lose themselves walking,

Of the lunatics.


This is a city of those

who turn the pheasant

flying from rhododendron branch

carrying music of life

into crows by consecrating them

to the staples of the temples,

Of those who leave the god

behind in old people’s homes

and search on television after returning home,

Of those who throw human baby into trash container

and suckle dog’s puppies.



carrying a mind drained

by the pain of its ugliness

and analyzing half a basket of time,

I’m visualizing this city and me

all under one perception


This city is laughing

by drinking its own disillusionments

with my anxieties,

It’s burgeoning by toying with

my unfulfilled desires,

Is sleeping under the cover

of the sweet dreams of my love narratives,

Is waking up by carrying out

demonstrations of my rebellions.


I’ve brought this city’s dust and smoke home

and washed them with my face and clothes,

I’ve picked up its raucous sounds

and carefully chiselling them

have used in my songs,

I’ve embellished my poetry

by collecting its chaotic scenes,

And by collecting its anguish,

I’ve wreathed the melody of my life.


Taking upon myself

all its virtues and vices,

I declare

this city is mine.

(Translated from Nepali by Abhi Subedi)

[1] Koili- Name of a cow

[2] Aama – Mother

[3] TaraBaji Lailai- A childhood game

[4] daain – indigenous process of graining of crops by getting folk of oxen tied together revolve around a pole with stalks having grains spread around it.




3rd Vol, No2  (August  2016)


Focus —–Emergence of Dalit Literature in Translation

Dalit poetry emerged as the radical poetry and challenged the norms, standards and principles of the so-called mainstream literature, aesthetics and literary theory. Dalit literature is not the literature of mere protest or negation. It aims at dismantling the existing structures of exploitation and restructuring the global society. These poetry , barring languages, do share the egalitarian ideology and expose the exploitative mechanisms latent in the Indian society. The rise of dalit women writers in many parts of India has raised many issues pertaining to patriarchy, dalit male chauvinism and specificity of the dalit women’s exploitation.


More than four decades have passed since dalit poetry embarked. Though dalit literature set new standards hitherto unknown and unpractised in world literature in general and Indian literature, it had to suffer negligence and severe criticism at the hands of the mainstream. For long, dalit literature was not translated into English. S Anand has attempted  to provide causal relationship between the emergence of dalit literature in translation. In 1992, Mulk Raj Anand and Eleanor Zelliot translated Marathi dalit poems as An Anthology of Dalit Literature. This was the first attempt of this kind. In the same year, Arjun Dangale, one of the founding members of dalit panther in Maharashtra, edited Poisoned Bread. It was a collection of prose, autobiography, poetry, etc. Karukku,  an autobiographical novel written by Bama in Tamil in 1992, won worldwide acclaim only after Lakshmi Holmstrom translated it to English in 2000. This was followed by the publication of Laxman Mane’s Upara as The Outsider in 1997 and Laxman Gaikwad’s Uchalya as The Branded6 in 1998 by Sahitya Akadami.

Dalit poetry has an effort to use symbolic images based on thearunava_2058640gexperience and they break many old poetic conventions of literature. In the images they neither follow Eliot nor pound or Freud .Instead they choose historical references and myth from a dalit point of View.

In this issue we ll discuss translation work of dalit poetry by  Arunava Sinha.


1.A Kingdom of Vines Tree

You scream that
This land
I built
Aren’t really mine
You order me angrily
To abandon these at once
And go into the unknown
This place was
A kingdom of vines
A dense forest
Without habitation
Clearing the jungle
With physical labour
I made a home to live in
A happy household
If you now claim
This land and pond and farm and house
Are not mine
Then I
Have no choice but to pick up my bow and arrow

~ ( Translation of Dalit Poet Marshal Hembrom by Arunava Sinha)



2.You Murdered Me

You murdered me
Long ago
I’m in the morgue now
But there’s no freedom
Even after death
Why do you look at me that way?
After all this time
Your eyes are a river in flow
Do you want me to drift
Upstream to the sandbank?
The window was open
You could have wafted in
You didn’t try
When I tried to pluck the lotus
By the maddened river
To adorn my heart
Its thorns pricked me
You murdered me
After that
I’m in the morgue now
But there’s no freedom
Even after death

~  (Translation of Sunil Kumar Mandal’s  Bangla poem Chnai by Arunava Sinha)



3.‘It’s all a lie – go away

Those who had said this freedom is a lie
Are all kings now
Those who had said the emperor is naked
Are his courtiers today
Those who had said, break those murderous arms
Are either NRIs now
Or the faithful salariat
Occupying chilled corporate cabins
Only Meher Ali from the neighbourhood
Such an idiot
Failed at Presidency College in the Seventies
Everyone says he’s mad
Because he’s mad he still dreams of change
When they all fall asleep late at night
Meher Ali shrieks
He wants everyone to have the same dream
‘It’s all a lie – go away’
His deafening screams cut through the houses
To disappear in the darkness
No one wakes up

~  (Translation of Debashish Mandal’s poem by Arunava Sinha)



4.Their song made the sun glow

The sound of our breath in our wings
In our breasts the song of rain
And an ancient hunger

Our ancestors sang
Their song made the sun glow
And the moon beam
While the waves lapped

Still the darkness in our homes was impenetrably black
We used to fumble in that darkness
For burnt bread
All night we would be surrounded by
Time and timelessness
Life and death
And then the limitless dawn would steal up on us
The infinite sky beneath a blue oblivion

Wake up, all of you
Who have been sleeping since eternity
Who have never heard the song of the rain

~  (Translation of Shyamal Kumar Pramanik’s poem by Arunava Sinha)



5.A dialogue between the oppressor and the oppressed

This anguish over them
The revolution seems an indulgence to you people
Roasting their votes for eating
Is also our job
At least we know what’s going on with them the year round
Why have you people suddenly decided
To put up a show of revolution right now

We’re ignorant people who don’t understand, sahib
The two of you are our god
Before your eyes our boy is sacrificed
God of sacrifices
How much blood must flow to satisfy you
Go away from where you watch over us
We’ll die of starvation, even that’s better
It will save the lives of our children
We don’t need development, all that is for you
What happens in the forest
What has happened for thousands of years in the forest
Has not killed us
Don’t take our blood for your development, god
You are kings who fight one another
While poor men die
Our wounds are deeper at this age
We remember the zamindar’s soldiers
So many lives given up to protect the land
O revolutionary friends descended from zamindars
The same game by a different name and colour
Still makes so much blood flow

~  (Translation of Kalyani Thakur Charal’s poem by Arunava Sinha)



Still call you an epic poet?

You’re an epic poet, Valmiki
In the eyes of Indians you’re still an epic poet
By what power of art
Is your creation The Ramayana still an epic?
The blood that flowed through your veins
Was also Shambuka’s
Didn’t your hand shake even once when writing his murder?
You said children die prematurely
In immoral times
In your view a Shudra’s attempts to be an ascetic was culpable
Severing the head of the man
Who hung upside down to perform the deepest penance
Did not make your hand tremble even a little
And, epic poet Valmiki, people across all of India
Still call you an epic poet

~  (Translation  of Manohar Mouli Biswas’s poem by Arunava Sinha)





3rd Vol, No1 January 2016

A Glimpse of the Development of Nepali Literature:Bhisma Upreti‘s Footing on it
Edited by Dhruva Harsh

Nepali Literature

The history of Nepali literature begins with the unification of Nepal, startedtribal-eye from the 1760s. It was the time when most of the poets used to compose poetry to inspire the military so that they can uplift their courage. This type of writing was called ‘Veer Dhara’. After the conclusion of the Sugauli Treaty with the British India in 1815, Nepal lost some of the territories to the British India, which aroused deep frustration in the people of Nepal. Consequently, poets also switched their writings from ‘Veer Dhara’ to ‘Bhakti Dhara’, which epitomized writings on moral and religious epics and poems. Bhanu Bhakta Acharya led this era with the translation of the great epic the Ramayana into Nepali from Sanskrit. Shortly, some new poets set a new trend of romantic writings. Motiram Bhatta and his literary friends had introduced Ghazal in the Nepali literature at that time. He composed many love poems and Ghazals.

As the literary tradition in other societies traversed, the Nepali literature had also started with Poetry. Slowly, other genres of writings were also introduced in the Nepali Literature.

The modern era of Nepali literature starts in the 1920s and 1930s with the works of Balakrishna Sama, Laxmi Prasad Devkota, and Lekhnath Paudyal. These writers and poets started to take images from society and cultural traditions covering various aspects of social issues in their writings. At the same time, they also discarded the tradition of writing on the conventional Sanskrit influence. Balakrishna Sama introduced lyrical drama in the Nepali literature, whereas, the Great Poet Laxmi Prasad Devkota influentially introduced western style images in the Nepali literature. He set up a new trend in the Nepali essays and poetry by introducing imaginary writing with the poetic flow taken images from nature. Though Lekhnath Paudyal followed the traditional Sanskrit style of writing, thoughts and ideas were conspicuously modern in his writings. Poet Gopal Prasad Rimal introduced free-verse writing in the Nepali poetry with modern and progressive thoughts. They denied the traditional Sanskrit dominated tradition and enriched the Nepali literature using and even inventing more and more Nepali words.

Another poet, Bhupi Sherchan, emerged in the 1960s, capturing the people’s suffering and aspirations in his poetry with a very simple style communicable in people’s language. He also mixed satire to the directionless politics in his poetry. Meanwhile, Bairagi Kaila, Ishwor Ballav, and Indra Bahadur Rai raised their voices against the existing tradition of Nepali literature. They argued that people’s feeling and ideas could not feet on the flat way. Length, width, and deepness—all needed in art for the expression, they argued. They called their movement as the ‘Third Dimension’ in the Nepali literature.

The progression of Nepali literature has passed through a various movements such as Boot Polish, Third Dimension, Ralpha, Arko Jamat and so on. These movements and creative ideas have immensely helped the Nepali literature to widen the horizon and have started to spread beyond the boundary of geography and language.

The Nepali people experienced a bloody insurgency during the decade of late 90s and the first half of 2000. The insurgency culminated in destroying the historically set up of social harmony. However, at the same time it has also planted the seeds of hope for the equal rights of the indigenous people, women, and the marginalized people. Many young writers from these communities emerged during this period with a new voice of speaking their hearts. They took images from their own culture (apart from the mainstream ‘Nepali’ culture of the nation) and tradition in composing poetry, prose and story expressing their discontentment, decades long depressions, satire, and the ultimate desire for sustainable peace that has opened the new door for the Nepali literature. Today, at the same time, various generations are engaged in writing different genres of literature in Nepal, sharing their experiences, and learning from one another. They are producing experimental writings with personal imagery and symbols picking up from their own life world.

At present, various forms of writings coexist in Nepal. Bhisma Upreti is also one of the cotemporary poets and writers, writing to enrich the Nepali literature from various perspectives and paradigms.

Bhism Upreti is into the Nepali Literature

uIn the beginning of his career, He confesses that “I started writing poems with the appetite of name amongst the friends’ circle at his high school age.” He did his matriculation from a village school of east Nepal. He would take images primarily from the surrounding of his village. Slowly, He developed an abounding attachment with the poetry. Study and experience helped him to realize the responsibility of writing literature in reflecting the Nepalese society seeking for its betterment.

After the school education, He moved to Kathmandu, capital city of Nepal. There, He found amazing poets, writers, enriched culture, art, and abundant heritage. He started to read more books, listened more poets and writers, and started to involve in various literary and cultural activities that helped him to understand the deep saga of Nepali literature. When the poetry and literature became his passion from hobby, He started to look forward his own way to create his perspectives from the vantage point of profound social consciousness.

With the help of literature, He looks at the scenery, people, nature, society, sorrow, and mercy of the people with deference and different eyes. When he observes things and incidents happened in society, he humbly tries to raise his consciousness to a point of heightened attention; He streamlines his efforts to find different meanings in the same things and objects beyond from many ordinary eyes and sensations.The poet of this land Bhisma Upreti might be wondering in the remote and lonely Himalayan spots where man could not track and find them. We shall listen the story of mountain mystery through his words—–

”One day I was born, and slowly
I grew up here,
listening to grandpa’s tales each day
and weaving dreams of hills in my eyes.
Grandpa used to say-
part of his dream is still left in the hills
part of his soul is still in the hills.
I have within me
a deep seated ,blurred image of the hills ,
Aged people ask me–
” Boy ,which hill do you belong to?
I pine for the hills
and remember my grandpa.
My hill must be there
part of my grandpa’s dream is left behind.”

The mainstream writing of the Nepali poem is still full of the representations of the voices of aggression, protest, refusal, and the demands for new changes. Poets have made their voices aloud and very straight in many of their poems to raise the issues. However, there are many other poets and writers who have a soft writings even they write in an artistic way to put their protest against anarchism and autocratic behaviour of the rulers. He unassumingly belongs to the second category of the Nepali poets.Like

”First a way uphill
Then a come down
Strips of flat lands in between
Strewn occasionally with plains
Like mere dreams —–
Elevations again,
And again comedowns
That’s all.” (Aesthetics of Himalayan life)

He observes and says, “People looking for peace, prosperity, and happiness. For the search of these noble but basic values, people look forward far away, get ready to wait for years, get prepared to bear all possible hardships, but at the same time we forget that there are many small things around us that can fulfill our wish and desire of being happy. These small things that we ignore or do not realize are left on the corner of our houses, garden, and in the heart of our beloved ones. They also subtly ask us for a small correction of our habits, realizing the colors of nature or/and finding kindled feelings in the innocent eyes of the children.” He decided to concentrate his poems to reflect and represent these forgotten realities. He loves to pick such small things that we are long for waiting and would like to put them before the people. He wants them realize the reality and producing the feeling of happiness and inner peace. In this way, his writing is a bit different than the mainstream Nepali poetry writing. However, He loves mainstream Nepali poems.

‘’All happiness,
The ceaseless surges of feelings,
The colourful spectrum of dreams,
Love,as soft as the heart ——–
All happened to be smiling here
with rhododendron.’’

Procuring nature’s permission
I have picked up a bloosom of rhododendron
To be carried to the town
For you. ( A Blossom of Rhododendron)

He loves writing poems on various subjects. On the various aspects of love, vividness of nature, sufferings and happiness, success and failure, and selfishness and cooperation to others—He believes, they all are necessary components of human life. He would like to write on human beings; so all these are the subjects of his writings.

I was hurrying along
To meet the sea.
But the sea stopped me and said-
‘’I have seen a sea inside man,
Have you seen it too?

I looked into my heart,
(where I found a sea)
And for the first time I realized
that a sea exists in man—
sea of salty tears,
sea of unfathomable sorrow and bitterness.

I abandoned
My wish to seethe sea.

He does also believe in the selection and control over words in poetry. Control over words means control on the emotions and feelings, i.e., to be more objective and not to be carried away by emotions. Many Nepali poets do not prefer to have such control and make their poems gratuitously longer. This invites repetition of feelings and ideas that risks poetry to be ugly. When people feel bored and they do not find the things they want in poetry or representing their voices and desires in the poetry, they start going away from the poetry. He is reluctant to confirm this trend. He wants to pull readers close to the poems or make them comfort to love poetry. Readers can love poems when poems speak their hearts, their feelings, reflecting both their happiness and sufferings. For this structure and style, He believes language styles do matter. He does not want to make his poems too much heavy with myths and difficult words. But he wants readers laugh, smile, and speak of their hearts in my writing. He also wants people cry, weep, and again become fresh reading his poems and prose. As a poet and writer, this is what makes him little different than many other Nepali poets and writers. Though, his respect to them is unbounded.

Like an orphan,
The hill stands in the yard
And looks far into the horizon
With eyes blurred with tears
And enters the house everyday,
A hopeless evening on its back.

For the simplicity in structure, with a deep pursuit in meaning, his poems have been able to draw the attentions of Nepali readers as well as publishers. Also, the same quality his poems have started up to draw the attention of the publishers and translators from around the world. His works have been translated into English, Slovenian, Serbian, Tamil, Hindi, Sanskrit, Korean and Japanese. His writing is also contributing to help getting exposure of the Nepali literature beyond the boundary or outside Nepal. His literary journey is constantly and untiringly moving to achieve the goals that we all as literary figures aspire to acquire.

2nd  Vol ,No1 July  2015

Edited BY –Dhruva Harsh
Three contemporary poets from Greece

 Poems of Christos Papoutsis

When you arrived,
two arms were spread to hold you.
You stepped back,
because that was unfamiliar to you.
They were neither bird limes
to trap you,
nor barbed wire
to imprison you.
They were
the two halves of a heart
that opened to enfold you.

As he was hastily
boarding the ship,
his suitcase unfastened
and one of his dreams sank.
With this dream
the sea,since then,
has remained calm.

The man of the storm
A man above suspicion
Without distrust,
A sensitive man.
Without aggressiveness,
An unyielding man.
He possesses nothing,
he has no fear,
he cannot be infected.
A serene man.
A solitary man.
Man of the storm.

Poets are made of sadness
Exposed to emotional storms.
Not manageable at all.
Carried away by the erotic gravity.
With penetrating wounds.
Sadness follow them,
until the excoriation
af all their bodies.
Until the return.

You don’t change
In Venice
you sink.
You say
it is water’s fault for rising.
To save yourself,
you went somewhere else.
In vain.
Permanent luggage in your heart,
this is what Venice is.
You don’t change.
You sink everywhere!

Christos Papoutsis was born in Athens,Greece.He studied medicine at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens and works as an internist.He lives in Athens,Greece.He is married and father of two daughters.He participated to the 45o International Congress of the Union Mondiale Des Ecrivains Medecins.Some of his poems were published on Greek literary magazines.In 2013 he brought out,in collaboration with the publishing house “Anemos”,his poetical collection “After the end of the sky”.This collection includes the attached five poems.



 Poems of Eftichia Kapardeli

All-white arms in
clear skies
my mother’s love
in the blue sky
with fancy colors
write the name of
By chrism of the
breast lily
the pain of his body sweeten
the caress of
In the embrace of Mind
the hot tear
lighthearted weight
in light of her heart

Hours of whispers
flares kindness
flower petals
opens in mid-winter
flowered apron
What kissing cheeks makers
lips ..
and leave sweet honey
when Crochet dream
and plaintive
I wake up in the lap of


Purple coral
drippings beauty
in harmony and
serenity preforms
the vigil water
Crowds … purple corals
Water in gold
and silk
the bottom of the sea
Freedom, the hidden
Sun desperately seek!!!

In the crystal of silence
and that the wait
from walkers
who said goodbye
in their wake
the heart with strength
with knowledge in fire

Unfulfilled the oracles
the seed of love only
Spring flowers in the rain
meets cool
grass … rebels

How many years have I slept
the burnt grass
I tear clay
with soil
how to learn colors

And when it rains, the mind runs
mind go to that
little heart
when flower,
when life when air
the suns
the Germa coziness
Memories touches
old perfume  paints
the frozen sunbeams
She breathed like ….
like breath, new
untamed, beautiful

Eftichia Kapardeli born in Athens and live in Patras .She writes poetry, stories, tribal-eyeshort stories, xai-kou , essays, novels. It deals with the painting Participate in treble choirs as a soprano She studied journalism AKEM (Athenian training center). He has participated in several training sessions, knowing H / Y 7 programs, English and Italian classical guitar. Was the body of the driver Greek Scouts .Is a volunteer fire department and to participate in voluntary programs.Like student listener heard the 2004 Faculty of Philology at the University of Patras. He has many awards in national competitions first, second and third prizes, accolades and honors In 2008 he took second prize in the unpublished collection of poems by the club Parnassus. Has published 16 books and has awarded nearly all Her work there is to many national and international anthologies Just a few days was author of the Indian Academy Anthology The first collections of poetry are confiding and light .Has a section at the University of Cyprus in Greek culture is a member of the world poets society. The official website is http://world-poets.blogspot. com / is a member of the IWA (internasional writers) chaired by Teresinka Pereira Address Maizonos 229, TK 26222 Phone έως 2610 338248 6973930402 INTERNET: htt: / / / gdouridas / poetryArkadia.html

Poems of  Dimitris P. Kraniotis

Fictitious line
of cigarettes
and mugs
full of coffee,
to the fictitious line
where the eddy
of words
leans against
and nods,
to my silence.
Noiseless wrinkles
on our forehead
the frontiers of history,
shed oblique glances
at Homer’s verses.
full of guilt
wounded whispers
that became echoes
in lighted caves
of the fools and the innocent.

Snow-covered mountains,
ancient monuments,
a north wind that nods to us,
a thought that flows,
images imbued
with hymns of history,
words on signs
with ideals of geometry.

Rules and visions
Life counts
the rules;
the sunset, their exceptions.
Rain drinks up
the centuries;
spring, our dreams.
The eagle sees
the sunrays
and youth, the visions.
One-word garments
Waves of circumflexes,
storms of adverbs,
windmills of verbs,
shells of signs of ellipsis,
on the island of poems
of soul,
of mind,
of thought,
one-word garments
you wear
to endure!
The fireplace
was eager
to put a full stop,
in the sentence
where the road
of my dreams
upon the word of happiness
with sparkles
of wet logs
I collected
from the inside of me
that I dared
to turn to ashes.

A roar of cars
seals the dawn
with short-cut answers,
with unyielding denials
that are repeated
every sunset.
Fragments of glasses
in the empty room
of the inarticulate whispers,
our limits,
with sores
the caress of our soul.
The end
The savour of fruits
still remains
in my mouth,
but the bitterness of words
demolishes the clouds
and wrings the snow
counting the pebbles.
But you never told me
why you deceived me,
why with pain
and injustice did you desire
to say that the end
always in tears
is cast to flames.

To the dead poet of obscurity

(In honor of the dead unpublished poet)
Well done!
You have won!
You should not feel sorry.
Your unpublished poems
-always remember-
have not been buried,
haven’t bent
under the strength of time.
Like gold
inside the soil
they remain,
they never melt.
They may be late
but they will be given
to their people
to offer their sweet,
eternal essence.

Dimitris P. Kraniotis is an award-winning Greek poet. He was born in 1966 in tribal-eyeStomio (Larissa), a coastal town in central Greece. He studied at the Medical School of the Aristotle University in Thessaloniki (Greece). He lives and works as aMedical Doctor (Internal Medicine Specialist Physician) in Larissa (Greece). He is married and father of one son.
He is the author of 7 poetry books: “Traces” (Greece 1985), “Clay Faces” (Greece 1992), “Fictitious Line” (Greece 2005), “Dunes”(Romania 2007), “Endogram” (Greece 2010), “Edda” (Romania 2010), “Illusions” (Romania 2010). He has won a number of awards for his poetry which has been published in many countries around the World. His poems have been translated into 20 languages. He is Academician (Academy Tiberina of Rome and International Academy of Micenei, Italy), Doctor of Literature (World Academy of Arts and Culture, USA), elected President of 22nd World Congress of Poets 2011 (United Poets Laureate International, USA), Universal Peace Ambassador (Universal Peace Embassy, Switzerland), President of World Poets Society (WPS), Vice-President of United Poets Laureate International (UPLI), Vice-President of Larissa Union of Poets and Writers (Greece), Vice-President of Thessaly Association of Letters and Arts (Greece), Editor of the Greek poetry magazine “Poetics @ GR” and Member of the Editorial Board of the Greek literary magazines “Graphi” and “Pneumatiki Larissa”, the poetry magazine “Interpoetry” (UK) and the Greek newspaper “Synchroni Ekphrasi” (Athens, Greece). He is member of National Society of Greek Literary Writers, Hellenic Literary Society, Panhellenic Literary Union, Greek PEN Centre, Hellenic Society of Physician Writers, International Society of Greek Writers, World Poetry Movement (WPM), Global Harmony Association (Russia), Poetas del Mundo (Chile), International Writers Association (IWA), etc.
His official website: