मर्दैछ हामीमा हामी बाँचेको युग – भूपी शेरचन

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बाँधका मुहान
अनि खोला नाला र तालका कुराहरुमा
थापेजस्तै माछा समाउने पोडेहरुले डोका र जालहरु
यो युग जसमा बाबुहरुले
भोगपछिको जिम्मेदारीसँग बाँच्न
थाप्तछन्
गर्भाशयतिर लम्केका आफ्नै सम्भावित सन्तान
शुक्रकीटहरुलाई नष्ट गर्ने पासोहरु,
र आमाहरु
आफ्नो आनन्दलाई चिन्तामुक्त गर्छन्
गर्भाशयको ढोकामा
आफ्नै सम्भावित छोरा–छोरीको प्रवेशलाई
निषेध गर्ने पालेहरु उभ्याएर
यो युग जसमा
भाग्यवश
संयोगवश
पाए भने कसैले प्रवेश गर्भाशयभित्र
तीमध्ये पनि कैयन् नष्ट गरिन्छन्
आफ्नै आमा–बाबुद्वारा खटाइएका
जिउँदो वा मुर्दा समाउने आदेश पाएका
यमदुतहरूद्वारा
यस युगमा
यस्तो युगमा जन्मेका छौं हामी
जन्मिनुअगावै मृत्युको त्रास बोकेर
हत्याको सुइँको पाएर
आएका छौं हामी यस पृथ्वीमा
आफ्नै निर्माताहरुको इच्छाविरुद्ध
उनीहरुको षड्न्त्रलाई तोडेर
पहिलो पटक
नीलो चहकिलो आकाशमुनि पहिलो पटक
पहिलो
पहिलो
र पहिलो पटक
खोल्यौं पनि त हामीले आँखा यस धरतीमा
पोलिनलाई ठीक भइसकेका
नाजी ग्याँसच्याम्बरका कैदीहरुले मुर्छा पारेर
अन्तिम घडीमा मुक्ति पाएर आँखा खोलेजस्तो
आफुलाई मृत
र आँखाअगाडिको संसारलाई
मृत्युपछिको अर्को लोक भन्ठानेर
त्यसैले हामी बाँचिरहेका छौं
बाँच्नुप्रति चिसो र शङकालु भएर
र हामी हुर्किरहेका छौं त्यस युगमा
जुन युगमा
हामीभित्र
हामी सँग–सँगै
हुर्किरहेको छ एउटा तीब्र अनास्था
स्वयं यस युगप्रति नै
यस युगको अस्तित्वप्रति नै ।

सहिदहरुको सम्झनामा – भूपी शेरचन

हुँदैन बिहान मिर्मिरेमा तारा झरेर नगए
बन्दैन मुलुक दुई-चार सपूत मरेर नगए

ओठमा हाँसो, गालामा लाली तब आउँछ जगत्‌को
देशको पीरले भेटी जब वीरले चढाउँछ रगतको
घाँटीमा फाँसीको माला गाँसी वीरले हाँस्ता
मातृभूमिको चरण ढोगी भाग्दछ दासता
उम्रन्न बोट कसैले बीउ छरेर नगए

हामीले खाने प्रत्येक गाँसमा रगत छ शहीदको
हामीले फेर्ने प्रत्येक सासमा रगत छ शहीदको
हाम्रो मुटुको प्रत्येक चालमा छ धडकन शहीदको
हाम्रो खुशीको प्रत्येक पलमा छ जीवन शहीदको
पाउने थिएनौं खुशी तिन्‌ले छाडेर नगए

हामीले आफ्नो कर्तब्य बिर्से इतिहासले धिक्कार्ला
गोली निलेका शहीदका प्यारा ती लाशले धिक्कार्ला
धरतीले मुख लाजले छोप्ला, आकाशले धिक्कार्ला
शहीद रोलान् हामीले उन्न्ती गरेर नगए
हुँदैन बिहान मिर्मिरेमा तर झरेर नगए
बन्दैन मुलुका दुई-चार सपूत मरेर नगए

भूपी शेरचन
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English Poem – In Time Of Grief – Lizette Woodworth Reese

Dark, thinned, beside the wall of stone,
The box dripped in the air;
Its odor through my house was blown
Into the chamber there.

Remote and yet distinct the scent,
The sole thing of the kind,
As though one spoke a word half meant
That left a sting behind.

I knew not Grief would go from me,
And naught of it be plain,
Except how keen the box can be
After a fall of rain.

lizette woodworth reese
lizette-woodworth-reese

English Poem – A Rhyme of Death’s Inn – Lizette Woodworth Reese

A rhyme of good Death’s inn!
My love came to that door;
And she had need of many things,
The way had been so sore.

My love she lifted up her head,
“And is there room?” said she;
“There was no room in Bethlehem’s inn
For Christ who died for me.”

But said the keeper of the inn,
“His name is on the door.”
My love then straightway entered there:
She hath come back no more.

Lizette Woodworth Reese
lizette-woodworth-reese

English Poem – A Smile To Remember – Charles Bukowski

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, ‘be happy Henry!’
and she was right: it’s better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn’t
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: ‘Henry, smile!
why don’t you ever smile?’

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled
Charles Bukowski
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English Poem – Alone With Everybody – Charles Bukowski

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there’s no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

Charles Bukowski
charles-bukowski