bhuwan-thapaliya
Nepalese
Bhuwan Thapaliya was born in Kathmandu, Nepal and is the author of four collections of poetry and currently he works as an economist. / / His poetry has been published in leading literary journals such as Urhalpool, Mahmag, Kritya, Folly Magazine, The Vallance Review, Nuveine Magazine, Foundling Review, Poetseers, Poetry life and times, Longfellow Literary Project, Poets Against the War, Voices in wartime, Tajmahal review, Autumn Leaves, Mindful of Poetry - Page for Africa,etc. / / He has read his poetries and attended seminars in various venues in South Korea, USA, Bangkok, Cambodia and Nepal.
Roses are pink,
and so are your lips –
similar, but same,
they are not.
Roses have thorns,
but sleek as butter
are your lips.
O' come closer,
beloved!
Let me vanish
in the midst
of your lips.
What more could
a lover ask than that?
What more does
a lover yearn for?
Please don’t
be a mere picture
and stand aloof
in your painted form.
Look into my eyes
and feel the pulse
of my forlorn life
waiting to phase out
its moments of solitude,
one by one,
as the shooting stars
in the haven
of your affection and care.
I will be your lover
for the rest of my life,
and if I could choose
my own fate,
I would die in your arms.
That would be
an immaculate farewell.
O' may these desires
be ripe before I kiss the sky.
Let me rejoice ... in my own demise.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 11:52 AM UTC
“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.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC