Sneha Subramanian Kanta

Must Love Be Used; Flinchingly

the preposterous planet dangles human
masses convulsing over breathless underarms,
with pretense, insolent. In glee, integrated dusty
doom in laborious slippery reflections perpetually
pride fluent, uncouth ascensions of the heart. alas,
burnt incense on glassy surfaces peculiarly frail,
breaking every flush of feeling

(elsewhere; a moon breathed by lungs of soil
and trees and a sun, like a bright balloon
inflated unto warmth by their veins)

Battered by amorous, brittle square edges
(o did you — say you loved somebody?
scarlet blood, i, on the lap of wind. to your sex-starved
— clumsiness, i am sexless)
luscious, an Eighteenth century pencil point
debris sharpened, indignantly
profound
(something opens and folds, vaguely dashes against my bones)
and carried, flies,
scratching shores under pruned ersatz.

 

 

The Shades of Charcoal

Gray tinctures from mist carry smeared wafts
of slow pyrolysis embers. As pencil stream tints
cross-hatch on paper, dampened by smooth
resolves of finger trails on chalk-white paper.
Visible sun rays over a light-weight vestige vine
of soft consistency. Tones of compressed sketch
skirt outlines depict on precis like soliloquies.
Vapors emancipate from distilled chips to create
whiskey. Intoxication breathes there in slow, sedate
breaths as patches of remnant, subdued wood stains

Embers succumb to fire as i surrender to he —
as flakes to fire, gray.

 

Mutisme

In the crowded metropolis in London

where rain beats over the grayscale sky

 

and repeats itself every one quarter

mythology lessons nudge memory,

 

create an analogy with the Arjuna Chakra.

caught in the endless chain of life;

 

expressions alabaster figurines hold.

From a window outside the bathroom in

 

Paris, at the Grand Hotel de Clermont I

saw an early morning one such figurine:

 

melancholic at a loss she was too tired to

remember. The sky was bright with autumn

 

smok’d lanes winding and stretching uphill.

 

the train in its husky sound laughed —

as it drew in.

 

 

Semantics of Mythologies

Where were you, O mariyada purushottam Ram,

while Sita suffered at the hands of a stranger?

There was a mangal thread

she wore: close to her bosom, and clutched onto.

 

She had leapt into vanvas for your safekeeping,

under the guise of tradition,

do you see the tears in her eyes –

the syringes she spends to assuage society,

the saat-pheras of promised oneness.

 

Where did you lose the golden lotus of love,

amid your tenure among the forest-groves,

do you hear the rivulet still run with fervent velocity,

the days Sita spent there – counting flower petals?

 

O Ram, the world is going to hell since,

Patriarchy has killed all of you.

 

 

Sneha Subramanian Kanta, currently pursuing my postgraduate studies in literature and culture in the United Kingdom.  She believes in the sounds of silence and qualities of seasons, among other things. A dedicated scholar to the rubric of postcolonial literature, her work has appeared or is to appear in 7X20 mag, Otoliths, Noble Gas Qtrly., Sahitya Akademi and in poetry anthologies such as Dance of the Peacock (Hidden Brook Press, Canada), Suvarnarekha (The Poetry Society of India, India) and elsewhere. You can write to her on s.sneha01@yahoo.in

Daipayan Nair

CLOUDS

What gets taken away is the paint,

which was once the wall, always present, helping my presence.

Now, it’s gone; peeled off, leaving an unknown blue.

I touch it. I feel it.

They say, my palm floats on a nothingness.

If I tag it as a smile, then yes,

the marigolds flying, floating on winds are not a mere balcony curtain.

Perhaps, it will not ask of me

why my peeled off always leaves behind a red,

as then it will have to tag me as a dawn

and death is a transparent glass and still empty.

And so I stand with my hands stretched on the roof;

the floating palms accumulating you in the blue.

I don’t know, if ever I will meet you again

May be the day, when your love leaves its perception, of being true.

Feel free to come.

I will be waiting for you in your eye.

 

Born in the year 1988 in a town named Silchar in Assam, India, Daipayan Nair is a freelance writer, author, poet, surrealist and admin of a few active groups on social media platforms. He writes poetry on an array of subjects. His poems have been published in quite a few international as well as national magazines and anthologies. He has also been awarded a few prizes including the recent Reuel International Prize For Poetry 2016. His recently published book containing his collection named ‘The Frost’, a bouquet of lyrical poems, has gathered positive reviews from many spheres. He has also invented a new poetry form in the field of creative writing called ‘The Tideling’

Sandeep Kumar Mishra

Sleep-On Sale

Every night I wander around bed- town

To buy some tranquil delights homegrown;

Dark ghostly mysteries of human life

Persuade me to escape from the day of struggle and strife.

I am eager to go that land of forgetfulness, of that unknown territory,

I track but can’t find a way to make me weary.

When unfulfilled desires hover frequently,

My fancy wide awake weaves his web brilliantly.

Sleep is a dream girl, a musk rose fragrance,

Melodies of a cookoo, the serenity of romance,

These beauties in bounty I always cherish,

But every nocturnal errand will be quite garish,

Because sleeplessness is my love interest,

Day sympathies me but nights torment.

I am impelled to sell my reluctant sleep,

If anyone is willing to buy and ready to weep

 

 

Bring Me More Pain

I want to lift the raven pal of my doomed future

To see if there is some silver line in the dark,

No, wait! I have changed my mind

 As it might show me

The coming disaster,

 I might not be able to face,

I have reconciled with my

Shattered dreams,

Broken heart,

Lonely nights,

Sullen days,

Weary body

And tortured soul,

I feel the prick of pain

In the corner of my heart

When life does not torture me

 

 

Beauty: bliss

Beauty is but bliss, an ecstasy

When life unveils her holy face;

A soft whispering, speaks in our spirit,

The eternity gazing itself in a mirror,

It glows with pure tints of varying hue;

It shall rise with the dawn from the east,

A lock of angels forever in flight;

Exulting beauty descends from centered

 And from errant sphere;

Balmy nectar glows,

Its magic spell enchants the heart.

Come! See the breezy dome of groves,

At its fountain quench the thirst

Of magic thrall

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 

When I Breathe Last

When I breathe last,

Don’t weep at my grave or inscribe a stone

For I won’t be there;

Death is slave to the luck,

Nothing it could do;

I will change my form,

My ashes will be one with the crust of the earth,

I would revolve with its diurnal path

And be live again for forever,

Eternal I become.

For me, life would mean all that more than

If ever meant whatever,

You can afford to forget me now.

 

 

Death: A New Life

Death doesn’t have feet or form,

You can’t trace his footprint;

See its image in the mirror of vitality,

Its spirit lives in the body of life.

Death is inside the flesh,

Mount on the funeral pyre;

Feel the body fabric burning;

You are not descending into the Earth

But rising towards the Sky,

And entering into a new home,

Remember! When the Sun sets, the Moon rises.

 

Sandeep Kumar Mishra is an outsider artist, an International freelance writer and a lecturer in English with Masters in English Literature . He has edited a collection of poems by various poets – Pearls (2002) and written a professional guide book -How to be (2016) and a collection of poems and art – Feel My Heart (2016) .Recently his work has published  in New England Review, Classical Poets,Permafrost Journal,Human Touch Journal,Blue Mountain Review, International Times, Literary Yard, Mud Season Review,Verbal art,Stone coast Review,Indiana voice Journal,Ripen the Page, Poetry Nook, Forever Journal, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Priestess and Hierophant, Red Fez, Literary Orphan,Chiron Review,Poetry Leaves .etc. Blog- http://sandeepkumarmishra5574.blogspot.in/

 

Debasish Parashar

Neo-random Thoughts : On Media

1.

The eternal contest

who can eat less

to talk more

 

2.

You said, we believe

We said, I believe

What about the trial ?

 

3.

You need more

We need often

Let us grab and produce

 

4.

You say you are free

They think you are free

Are you free?

 

5.

On 29th February in 232 B.C

King Ashoka was bitten by a mosquito

How do you remember it?

 

6.

It is interesting

when a pillar

becomes a keystone

 

Secular?

He wears

the sacred thread

Chants occasionally

Loves to eat

Biryani

Hyderabadi Haleem

Sends heartfelt wishes

on Janmashthami

Has visited

Jama Masjid

chasing

rainbows of Old Delhi

Does not buy

new clothes

on Eid

out of habits

(socially formed may be ! )

Now he is worried…

or confused

if he is

religious

or secular?

A fool

wise like a river

advised

“You are so silly !

Don’t think that much

wait for the Circular

spectacular

secular ”

 

On Habits

Potassium Bromate

is carcinogenic

As if habits are not !

Thinking the thought

Sinking the sought

Linking the dots

God damn what not !

 

Neo-random Thoughts 1

All of a sudden

wi-fi signals

are low

(The modem,a moron !)

I am now worried

we may not

communicate

our wishes,dreams and fantasies

to each other

or

you might think

I am despicably slow !

 

Debasish Parashar is a public policy,governance and art & culture enthusiast,singer,lyricist,poet (to some extent)and social journalist based in New Delhi,India. He is a postgraduate in English literature from University of Delhi. He has sung for ‘In Search of God’ and ‘Raag’.His write-up on Majuli has been listed amongst top 100 online #worldheritagesites stories globally in May 2016 by Agilience Authority Index.His literary works have been featured in prestigious Indian and international initiatives like Visual Verse(Germany/U.K),Tuck Magazine(London/Global)(accepted and to be published),Indiana Voice Journal(U.S.A)(accepted for October,2016 issue), Muse India,Indian Periodical, The Poet Community, Swarajya, Youthkiawaaz,Duane’s PoeTree,Thumb Print Magazine(Accepted),Bordoisila, Spillwords(Poland), Scriggler(U.K), Kahaniya, Sadda haq, Assam Tribune and many more. His works are included in two upcoming international anthologies namely ‘Apple Fruits of an Old Oak'(to be published under Kew Gardens Press,New York) and ‘Dandelion in a Vase of Roses’ (To be published in U.S.A). Visit Debasish at https://debasishparashar.wordpress.com or follow MrDevParashar@twitter.

Suman Pokhrel

BETWEEN RAINBOW AND MELODY

As you entered the room

stirring air with suppleness of walk

waking up the stillness with jingles of cymbals

making curtains dance to the sound of bangles

aroma wafted into air from canvas and copybooks

my paintbrush grew restless

and pen became enraptured

my eyes, hands and other parts

became electrified.

 

My heart spread rainbow in the room

like colours of youth and

lilts of life’s melodies.

 

You who are sitting before me

have the power to

change my consciousness

into painting, poem, melody

or anything else!

 

I know you’ll speak no truth at this time.

I’ve to be guided

solely by your silence, your eyes and

the inaudible appeals of your heart.

 

I’ve to settle before I lose the presence of mind-

whether I should use brush or pen

or my eyes, hands or something else

and create a unique

composition

all in you.

               

Whose city is this?

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.

 

But

carrying a mind drained

by the pain of its ugliness

and analysing half a basket of time,

I’m visualising 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.

(Suman Pokhrel poems Translated from Nepali by Abhi Subedi)

Suman Pokhrel  is a multilingual Nepali poet, lyricist, translator, and an artist. His works sumhave been widely acclaimed and are published internationally. His poems revolve around the nuances of life. The play around his choice of words creates magic in the minds of his readers. Pokhrel’s lyrics are marked for their musical qualities and literary verve. Pokhrel has read his poems in various international literary meets including SAARC Charter Day Celebrations on December 8, 2013 in New Delhi, India as an especial invitee. He received SAARC Literary Award in 2013 and 2015.

Durgesh Verma

The Frozen Blackberry~
“An unknown sadness
& madness prevails.
The heart bereft from
inner peace.

A peculiar prong
spreads on the bushy path.
Which offers violent weapon to a person

and snatches his all artistic means?

On the other hand-

The frozen blackberry
is eagerly awaiting for sunbathe.
Its branch shakes
with wavy wind increase.

So, search the door of calmness
in nature’s lap.
You’ll feel fresh warmth of love
which is itself a masterpiece.”

 

 An Insect’s Query

“I laugh
I dance
I sing
the songs.

On the soft
green branch
I stand firmly
with four legs.

But an unanswered question is
in my head –
Who says –
I am just an insect?

See my hands are
in pose.
Wings are
half spreaded of course.

My little mind is developing
a new life concept.
Who says –
I am just an insect?

Though, I know
my life is too short.
Yet, I’m filled it
with colorful art.

I live happily
without having any expect.
Who says –
I am just an insect?

I’ve captured
the flowing sands of time
& have mixed it with cement
for a perfect wine.

Wine which may give
a wonderful moment ceaseless.
Who says –
I am just an insect?

Sometimes I’m racing
with the waves
to search the destination
of my self-respect.

My existence in this world isn’t
by mistake.
Who says –
I am just an insect?”

 

 

An Identity: All of Me

“Here, I’m talking

All of Me

My name, tale & specialty

not about Thee!

 

I’m now flowing

with the calm stream of Time

let’s come to share my Jiff

let’s come to share my Rhyme.

 

You can’t judge Me

through the spectacles of penetrable presence

My inner thought is a little bit different

from the physical appearance.

 

During past jobs –

I served for Orphans

I too felt glad

to strengthened destitute Women.

 

I felt their real Pain

in the absence of Identity

I worked to eradicate

their unquenchable thirst, hunger & Poverty.

 

I am exploring different ways

to intermingle them with mainstream of Society

So they could become self-sufficient

and not be the mere part of Pity.

 

Introspection of my actions

are my Reality

I will continue it till my last breath

is my Identity.

 

Let’s sow the seed of Affinity

to preserve Global Humanity

Else, we will be late

to bear Indemnity!”

 

Let’s Save Our Planet “We are trying to heal pains of our kith & kins. For this, we are nurturing our selfish deeds and are killing naturalistic doctrine. Nature opens an emancipation door which goes to the path of divine. But, a tragic situation we create by which we are relentlessly going behind! Firstly, we are sowing seeds to get ripened fruits & wood. Finally, we are chopping into pieces and are leaving them alone with an incurable wound. Seeing such pathetic plight.The Sun clears its surmise. & expresses genuine reason behind unwillingness of its rise on those planets where such dim darkness of selfishness arise.!!”

 

 

Dedicating To Entire Poet Friends

“Though, my wording expressions are not so poetic. Yet, I’m proceeding little steps to refine my confined thoughts. Muse of my mind are made for the sake of mankind.  My fingers are defining their destination through keyboard snapshots. Sometimes I travel in the aroma of violet shade of tales.  Sometimes my path covers with the imaginative crystals of frost. Sometimes the wilderness dislocate my destination.  Sometimes my immense courage finds lost ways in the dirt of past. Hindrance never stops me to freely act. Intentions of intense feelings are my tacit pact. Be a poet before becoming a man. To ignite rhythmic & peaceable tune like a Saint.!!”

 

 

Durgesh Verma is a Social Worker in Uttar Pradesh, India. Currently he is working for the State Government Programme- National Health Mission as a Divisional Programme Assistant- Quality Assurance. He has a track record of fund raising and publicity and is a skilled communicator.He has worked with the NGO- ‘SPARSH…TOUCHING LIVES‘, at Varanasi in several fields as a President. Helping to generate placements for older girls in the workforce and helping to give older youths the options for self employment as well as empowering women who are supporting their families by enabling them to access education and skills. He has participated in National workshop on ‘Role of Higher Education in the Development of Social Innovation and Entrepreneurship in India’ which was held in 18th & 19th March, 2016 in Institute of Management Studies, Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. He has too participated in ‘Development Dialogue 2016‘ which was held in 19th July, 2016 in Swatantrata Bhawan Auditorium, Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. This year, 7 of his compositions are published in USA in Feelings International: A Book of International Artists Vol.2 , 3 of his compositions are published in Canada in Voices of Humanity Volume 2 and a composition is published in Australia in THE AUSTRALIA TIMES POETRY- Volume 4 No.23. A University post graduate, Durgesh post graduated with a degree in Commerce from Mahatma Gandhi Kashi Vidyapeeth University, Varanasi.  He speaks Hindi and English and in his spare time enjoys listening to all genres of music, swimming, writing poems in Hindi, Urdu & English, which may help lead to global peace and harmony.”

Rahul Ahuja

Abuse

A scissor moves arbitrary trimming the blank paper

into shreds of existence

Dark poetry gnaws at the virgin strings of marionettes

 

Savagery sharpens its pencil into dark, innocent pits

Sorrows weep in the depth of voiceless nights

Scarred skins shriek the stories of molestation

Blood oozes from the crevices of saplings

 

Wretched lives knock upon the deaf doors of society

Supple bodies are tore and fed to the brutes

 

Paper was made to absorb every fallen emotion

But were the dolls designed only for the purpose of pleasure?

 

 

Translations

Ah! Those mighty walls

standing between us

My silent lips and

your conversing eyes

An abiding chemistry

awaiting to spice

 

Upon the tips of your fingers

melting chocolates reek

of the tantalizing cocoa

Fading time struggles to burn

within the slumbering cinders –

Unable in helping us to decipher

 

Language barrier giggles,

keeping us all dumb

Amid shrieking silence

the roses begin to succumb

 

Two glasses of sparkling golden wine

are lost in futile conversations

Beneath the textures of our hearts

love was busy doing all the vital translations.

 

 

Rahul Ahuja is a poet who hails from Surat located in the state of Gujarat. He feels that poetry is a fortuitous journey. His poems have been published in several national and international anthologies. He won the Poiesis Award for the third place in the 4th Rabindranath Tagore Award- International Competition 2015 organised by PoiesisOnline.com. May it be a crumpled leaf, floating clouds or trees; he loves to capture the essence of nature in the lens, which has also inspired him to pen down his poems. He strongly believes that everything around us is art and poetry. He can be reached at rahulahuja159@gmail.com.

prahallad satpathy

I LOVE THE LANGUAGE OF POETRY

Seen today a lone sparrow in the courtyard of my heart
A lone star all that I can see at the night’s sky

A lone word all that I pine for
A lone world all that I have
I want you to communicate with me in any language
May we talk the way talk blades of grass while sprouting
May we talk the way talk flowers
While petaling

I can’t sleep the way sleep the national highway
Letting all the trucks running over
At best I may allow some stray dogs scratching my skin while fighting for a  few bones

But no to wound that oozes blood and always cry for beautiful eyes !

I love the language of poetry
The hiss hiss sound of words
That silently bites my heart
I love her hood
I love the language of silence!
I do talk to the tree, her serpentine limbs ladden with leaves of hope
And flowers of prayer !
Love the clouds the way eclipse the  stars
Love your eyes enveloping my being
I love the language of darkness
Those silences that slay me

I have seen the night crawling towards me
I have seen stars shouting against me
I have seen the sky devouring me

What else a earth like me can do other than shouting aloud ?
When silence breaks
Words too break shackles
Fences do assemble
River changes course
Birds of eyes flutter wings
And a seed germinate giving birth to seedlings!

And the earth in me write the poetry of protest against all those gigantic skies eyeing at me! !

Dr.prahallad satpathy who hails from Balangir district of odisha (india) is a bilingual poet.He writes both in odia and English. So far he has published three anthology of poetry in odia to his credit.His poems have been published in national anthology like Scaling heights and international anthology like GLOBAL ANTHOLOGY ON PEACE AND HARMONY, HAPPY ISLE, FEELINGS INTERNATIONAL, CHANTING FOR PEACE AND OTHER E-MAGAZINE.By profession Dr.satpathy is a Reader in economics, at present serving in Rajendra autonomous college, balangir (odisha). He has represented odisha sahitya academy , as honorary member for two consecutive terms.

Aju Mukhopadhyay

Homage to Shakespeare on his 400th Year of Departure

He was the greatest dramatic poet of any age

Of and beyond the Elizabethan stage

Who glorified his tongue and country and race

In showing his dramatic passion he was relentless.

Standing at the crest of his creation, he was Shakespeare

Revealing himself through all his characters

He grew self assertive without innuendo;

“A Hiranyagarbha”, said Sri Aurobindo.

The creator with a womb of gold

He was always fearless and bold.

 

Innumerable characters speaking in varied voices

Tell us about the bard’s luminous vision

About the great genius among the geniuses.

Greed, envy, vanity, sex, anger and infatuation

With innumerable mix of desires

Created tumultuous passion in Shakespearean characters.

 

 

Mood of April 24th 1920

This was one of the most joyous days

In the life of the Mother by divine grace

A human with the Divine face to face;

When after all vicissitudes of life

All experiments, struggles and strife

She was assured of living with Sri Aurobindo

Together to work with divine gusto

To unravel their spiritual manifesto.

 

An air of joy and success

In spiritual sense

Greeted her

As she disembarked here

At the tedious journey’s end;

The mood was hopeful and vibrant.

Mood of the day still vibrates in our heart

For after all there may always be a new-start.

 

 

In the Heart of the Wild

In the calm and quiet bosom of the unfrequented dicterocarp forest

full of creeks, cliffs, beaches, glades

marshes, grasslands and water ways

thrive plants, animals, humans, insects and amphibians

in varied habitats.

Innumerable inhabitants in their symbiotic, food-eater, non-interfering

and harmonic relationship representing Nature’s ways and modulations

live with systematic irregularities

in the heart of the Borneo rainforest.

 

Proboscis monkeys, wonderment in their eyes,

cohabit with silvery lutung, furs glistening in the sun;

leaf eaters of different species.

A group of ferns growing in circle trap rain water

in a bowl where frogs lay their eggs

fertilizing the plants with their droppings.

Tribals of Sarawak living in their settlements

follow the orangutans who daily change their habitats.

Male fiddler crabs flaunting their large colourful claws

attract their females but fall prey to crab-loving macaques.

Fireflies of different species flash at different dark phases of the eve

but some of the females flash at odd times to attract males

of the other species which are lured to their death traps

like insects drawn by the smells of the pitcher plants

enter through their mouths and slip into their slimy sloppy bowls

to be dissolved in enzymes.

Side by side live the vegetarian pitcher plants

content with fallen leaves and dewdrop nectars.

Wonderful animals roam there like bearded pigs

fly the lemurs and lizards like birds.

 

Silently blossom in the heart of the strange wilderness

tallest phallus like odorous amorphophallus

and largest yoni like colourful carrion smelling rafflesia;

the tallest and the largest wild flowers on earth

complementary to each other

thrive in the Borneo’s wilderness.

 

While plants, animals, humans and insects of different species

live in the heart of the wild

wild lives camouflaged in the heart of the elite.

 

Aju Mukhopadhyay, a bilingual award winning poet, author and critic, writes fictions and essays too.  He has authored 33 books and has received several awards from India and abroad besides other honours. He has so far published eight books of poems in English besides two in Bangla. He is a regular contributor to various magazines and e-zines in India and abroad. Besides poetry in the usual way he has been regularly writing Japanese short verses also of different types. His works are regularly published in Indian and some international journals, anthologised and translated in several international languages.

 

Bhisma Upreti

Mirror

 

Sitting among a group of boys

Was also a youthful girl.

 

Some boys, not letting her know,

Some openly,

And some others cautiously,

Were looking frequently

Sometimes into her eyes

Sometimes on her chest

Sometimes on her face.

 

Possibly, they searched their own self,

Or viewed themselves in her.

Not a lady

With her own desires and dreams,

She was becoming a mirror.

 

I thought – all men look at women.

What should women turn to?

 

Just then, a seller of mirrors,

Appeared with a bag, filled with mirrors,

Walking past us

While on his way to bazaar.

 

Brushing aside all the glances on her,

The girl called out to the man

And asked the price of the mirror.

 

Translated from Nepali: Mukul Dahal

 

WATER

I’m only water when just looked at.

Without color
Without taste
Without even shape
I’m only water when just looked at.

 

But when I come to your mind,
I come with shape
I come with color.

 

I enter the roots.
Then only
Climb green color
Up the trees.
I enter the dry cores.
Then only
Wafts around
The aroma of life,
And comes the dream
To abide in the eyes.
And the pace itself
Starts walking.

 

I’m only water when just looked at.

 

But am I
Only water ?

 

( Bhisma Upreti’s poem translated from Nepali by Haris Adhikari)

 

 

Bhisma Upreti  is an award winning Nepali poet and wuriter. His 8 books of poetry and 6 books of essays have been published. His works have been translated into English, Hindi, Japanese, Korean, Serbian, Slovenian and Tamil and have appeared in various international journals, magazines and anthologies.. He is Joint Secretary of PEN Nepal and also a Coordinator of Writer’s Peace Committee under PEN Nepal.
He lives in Kathmandu with his family.