Cultivation of words

I sowed the rice, then roused the drought;
couldnt sow the maize, rain rained continously.
I tried to sow the life, when the time was barren,
But life started pricking inside my lemient heart.

Husbandary doesnt mean only sowing the rice,
nor it implifies only sowing the maize;
If the drowsy time awakes from slumber,
plantation of words could be husbandary.

If some bitter experiences of my privy life,
brings a never-ending hope in horizons
and refills life into fossils of the dead time,
I must cultivate words to be fruitful.

Uncontrollable tears of my uncountable sisters,
raped daily in the foreign and even native land;
Intolerable agony of my unbounded brothers,
exhausted by poverty in himalayan region
................... will irrigate my farming.

My nation blazed with violence and adversity,
my blodshedded pityland of my heart,
would be the lustful pastureland of my interest.

Thus, lighting a dim light lamp of consciousness,
To arouse some new golden dreams
In vigilanted half-asleep innocent eyes;
why shouldnt i cultivate the words?

Spreading the calm moonlight,
To add effort in activity of a beautiful dawn,
To fill life inside every occasion;
I must cultivate words to be fruitful.

So, i would be cultivating the words,
Until the consequences cover the world;
Coz it provides sense ot my life.
%%%%%%%%%%

AN EGO
By: Shrawan pokharel

A new crisis in my life has began
A new life of handful sorrow has begun.
A bitter experiences of my life has been driven
A slow motion race of fortune has been started.

A pugnacious logic has appeared in me
A hunk is developed with in my poetry.
Lechery has swept every aspect of rhythm
Words with no melody is now my milestone.

Manipulation of words has now wandered
My privy writing of love and life has dazed
May I have been polluted with harsh logic of life?
A drowsy time may have appeared in my side.

An unprepossessing poetry has been circulated
May I be the supremo of crazy poems?
It seems as if a bird with no wings has flattered
Though no competitors are in my tricky competition.

No matter how the rhythm continues
No matter what the poetry really mean
I know no man ran before crawling
I will keep trying until my rhythm catches the right track.

@###########@@@@@@@########@

Lord Gifted Elegant
By- Shrawan Pokharel
　
A heartful episode of mesmerizing lust,
That could hardly be explained in words.
Perfect adulation of a women with great beauty,
which could never be sufficiently lined up.

She, who launches smile in every dreary faces,
What on Earth I’m going to name her?
When her eyes sticks on me, I feel,
as if my spiritual lust has been questioned.

While moving here and there, she seems,
weltering on the thick bushes of flowers.
Her graceful smile makes me to suppose,
An unwritten poem has been completed.

I’m unable to prove her grace to be illusion,
Coz, I have no control upon the precision.
Her elegant beauty if compared to others,
Would be a devastating crime or injustice.

As if my words of commendation in support to weak tradition,
are barren and neuter for her beauteous appearance.
I’m thankful to the creative solemn nature,
for making her something special on the earth.

#####################

women as water

Water has no color,
black with black and red with red.
So I dislike that character of water
and crooked character of women.

Water has no shape,
but changes shape according to pot.
So, I fear of that clumsy countenance,
and women assuming various appearances.

Water has no address,
dew in the flower and tears in the eyes.
So I suffer of that innumerability,
and innumerable intention of women.

Water has no soul,
Intolerable hail and destructive flood.
So I hate water having no heart
and a cruel women as water.

Water has no ideality,
Intoxication of alcohol and stench of drainage.
So I feel pity to that nasty custom of water,
and women bearing same character as water.

The end

Suppressed love

by shrwan pokharel

Pretty it would be, if I could reverse the time
The luminous child life would be there
And my happy soul would be there with it
Collection of memories: longer than the life
Would be all right, the way it should be

She, who went a lot trouble on my account,
Now faraway from me in my home country
someday i will there with my new rituals
but confused here about my own existance
agony matters not in materialistic world
neigther does the loud silence inside me.

no dream of her own makes sense in her life
she dances in my mood and dream imitation
no ideality lies on her desire accept me
can any creator love their creation this way
noway but its a fact my mother believes in.

How much I loved the burned bottom of rice
Nobody knew that, but my mother stolidly
How I enjoyed spattering water on the bucket
And her caressing scolding, upon my wet dress
Now, I wish to live back the same days.
...........to be continued