babasubbarajeshmaden

we are all family

I Love You
When April bends above meAnd finds me fast asleepDust need not keep the secretA live heart died to keep.
When April tells the thrushes,The meadow-larks will know,And pipe the three words lightlyTo all the winds that blow.
Above his roof the swallows,In notes like far-blown rain,Will tell the little sparrowBeside his window-pane.
O sparrow, little sparrow,When I am fast asleep,Then tell my love the secretThat I have died to keep.

babasubbarajeshmaden

Shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep,And shall my soul that lies within your handRemember nothing, as the blowing sandForgets the palm where long blue shadows creepWhen winds along the darkened desert sweep?
Or would it still remember, tho' it spannedA thousand heavens, while the planets fannedThe vacant ether with their voices deep?Soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot,Nor yet alone, beloved, shall we see
The desolation of extinguished suns,Nor fear the void wherethro' our planet runs,For still together shall we go and notFare forth alone to front eternity.

Today's
Love Poem
Today's Poem
Perhaps, long hence, when I have pass'd away,Some other's feature, accent, thought like mine,Will carry you back to what I used to say,And bring some memory of your love's decline.Then you may pause awhile and think, 'Poor jade!'And yield a sigh to me--as ample due,Not as the tittle of a debt unpaidTo one who could resign her all to you--
And thus reflecting, you will never seeThat your thin thought, in two small words convey'd,Was no such fleeting phantom-thought to me,But the Whole Life wherin my part was play'd;And you amid its fitful masqueradeA Thought--as I in yours but seem to be.

Today's
Love Poem
Today's Poem
O What a plague is love!...How shall I bear it?She will inconstant prove,...I greatly fear it.She so torments my mind...That my strength faileth,And wavers with the wind...As a ship saileth.Please her the best I may,She loves still to gainsay;Alack and well-a-day!...Phillada flouts me.
At the fair yesterday...She did pass by me;She look'd another way...And would not spy me:I woo'd her for to dine,...But could not get her;Will had her to the wine--...He might entreat her.With Daniel she did dance,On me she look'd askance;O thrice unhappy chance!...Phillada flouts me. . .
I cannot work nor sleep...At all in season:Love wounds my heart so deep...Without all reason.I 'gin to pine away...In my love's shadow,Like as a fat beast may,...Penn'd in a meadow.I shall be dead, I fear,Within this thousand year;And all for that my dear...Phillada flouts me.

babasubbarajeshmaden

The eveningcity's lights were blown offwide roads of Kathmandu shrankAnd trees, once proud, tall and erectcrumbled to the groundtrampling the criteria of conservationconcrete buildings cropped upand historic tower of Dharaharawore a crest-fallen look
In the dark of that duskrivers Bagmati and Bishnumati stopped and frozeand over shrines and stupashovered curls of hashish smokeIn haste, deities fled to Muglan in exilewings of the white bird fluttered in the blue skyas the plump priests chated mantrasto bless the barrel of the smouldering gun
In the lightless gloom of murky duskpeace rallyists broke from their processionand picked up blazing khukurisand bood-drenched long knivesto race amuck in the sullen square of Ratnapark
The evening city'slights were blown off, they murderedsupremacy of ultimate truthcarrying their smarting snoutssoaked in blood, the wolves stalkedcorridors of Singh Durbarwhere legislators were debatinglusty figures of Miss Nepal Malvica SubbaThe click of clock stood stilland Swayambhunath closed its lotus eyesFrom the tall pine treeswelcoming the interval in this national dramabats fluttered their filthy wings
In the lightless gloom of a murky duskI too strangled soul of my soul

binup panday

Seeing you the first timeIt seemed I had foundmy lost sun and moonBut you said -These are my eyes!
My dream had been lostAnd even while watchingIt seemed I was meeting it in youBut you said -This is my body! My vastness!!My music had been lostSuddenly one dayIt seemed I found it in your heart beatBut truthfully, you said -This is my heart speaking!In the same wayMy happiness had been lost;It seemed I found it tooentangled in your lipsAgain, you said -This is my smile!Now what can I say?What can I think?Are you the heap ofmy priceless possession?Or are you the small cottagein my small country?
Tell meWho are you?What are you?

laxi prasad devkota

Laxmi Prasad Devkota: Nepal's Greatest Poet
His verse still resonates with beauty years after his death
Bhuwan Thapaliya (Bhuwan)
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Published 2005-11-22 11:48 (KST)
He has fallen from the black cloudsand is living in the shadows.Do we see a god in him,or do we see a beggar? - Laxmi Prasad DevkotaThe jewel of Nepali literature, poet laureate Laxmi Prasad Devkota, who began to show poetic genius from a very tender age, is regarded as the creator of romanticism -- a progressive trend in Nepali literature. With his literary radiance, he has elevated the literary stature of Nepal in the eyes of the world and was perhaps the first writer in Nepal who rose to majestic heights, where no others had ever been before. But perhaps his greatest possession was his heart -- for it is said that on one cold winter day he gave the coat he was wearing to a beggar shivering at the roadside. Devkota's poetry, in its simplest definition, is his heartbeat expressed in the form of verse.
Laxmi Prasad Devkota
©2005 Ketaketi.orgDevkota was a versatile and voluminous writer, who left no branch of literature untouched in the course of his brief career. He has numerous epics, long narrative poems, essays, stories, plays, novels, songs, criticisms and short poems in his stocks of literature. At the same time, he was a great prose writer and is regarded as the founder of the modern prose style.Moreover, he was the first to begin writing epics in Nepali literature and his magnum opus "Muna-Madan" remains the highest selling book ever in the history of Nepal. There are several famous lines in "Muna-Madan," which have become catchphrases in the literary world. For instance, "A man is great by his heart, not by his caste." Today, many years after he said this, the truth of these words cannot be denied.Devkota had the ability to write poems very quickly -- he wrote the Shakuntal in three months, the Sulochana epic in 10 days and Kunjini in a single day. Nepali poetry soared to new heights with Devkota's groundbreaking poetry. "Muna-Madan," challenged Sanskrit scholars who dominated the Nepalese literary scene before Devkota burst onto the mainstream scene. He had command of Nepali, Sanskrit, Hindi, and English languages and volumes of Devkota's poems are written with sophisticated language, which precisely describes the diverse moods of life. Often to give life to his poetry, he did not even mind borrowing words from other languages including Sanskrit and Hindi. It is said that Devkota's poetry is a torrent of emotions that does not rain, but pours.Laxmi Prasad Devkota was born into a middle class Brahmin family at Dhobi Dhara in 1909 on the auspicious day of Laxmi Puja, when Laxmi, the goddess of wealth, is honored. That's why he was named Laxmi Prasad Devkota. Though his name "Laxmi" stands for wealth, he remained a pauper throughout his life. Instead, goddess Saraswati (a deity of wisdom) blessed him and he was known as Mahakabi, the great poet.
'Make Me a Sheep, O God!'
(in translation)
Let me not jump to the void like a sage. Or with an artificial imagination. Let me not create distorted magic of variegated colors out of magic less truth. Let me not become a Brahmin to live on dirty water washing away other's sin. * * *Let me not reform to expose the world. Let me not patch up the old and tattered things. Let me lit the light of life, Like the simple, beautiful, and unbeautiful light of nature, When dying Let me reach higher up than the sage. / Laxmi Prasad Devkota
When Devkota was born in 1909, the country was ruled by the Rana oligarchy. The Rana administration was against mass education, so Devkota's family went through a lot of trouble to enroll him at Durbar School, the only school in the Kathmandu Valley.Devkota wrote his first poem at this school, and it is said that he used to recite his poems before his friends and teachers. Many times his friends did not believe he had written such excellent poems, but all his teachers were greatly impressed with the young prodigy.He is said to be a bright student. After passing out from school with high marks, Devkota enrolled in the science program at Tri Chandra College in 1925. He completed his Intermediate of Science degree and switched to arts. He received his bachelor's degree in arts in 1929 and went to Patna, India, in 1931 on a scholarship hoping to study English for his Master's degree. But seats were not available, so he studied for a Bachelor of Law, instead.After he received the degree, he returned home and felt a series of shocks, one after another. His mother, father, and a two-month old daughter died within two years. Those tragic events shattered him completely and he became a chain smoker. In later years, with the premature death of his two young sons, Prakash Devkota and Krishna Devkota, Laxmi broke down completely. To add further misery, by 1958, Devkota was diagnosed with cancer and three inches of cancerous colon was removed in India, but he knew death was approaching him, so he stayed up late into the night to continue his writing.He wrote to a friend while he was in Santa Bhawan Hospital, "Death stands before me. I search for constellations in the sky but can find none. I cannot give peace to myself. If I could rise, I would kill myself and my children."Terrible pain left him emaciated and completely bedridden, and eventually Laxmi Prasad Devkota died in 1959 at the quite early age of 50. There was much pain towards the end of his life and he felt himself a beggar and died thinking that he achieved nothing. However, they say that if his works had been translated into English he might have received the Nobel Prize for literature.But ironically, the truest spirit of his poetry has often been under expressed in contemporary Nepal. A great poem in itself isn't great. It owes its gleaming prominence to the greatness of the personality, which gave it life; for what we call a great poem is only the concrete cadence of his heart in the form of verse. Hence, we have to get to know his poems as an offering and value the socio-economic metaphors portrayed by him for the way forward.