Poem – River – Yuyutsu Sharma

Between your marble 

shoulders and my hairy chest 
the river roaring, 

tears, tears, tears… 
Between your mellowing 

mouth and my scented tongue 
a night of flames 

and flesh, flesh, flesh … 
Between your hefty thighs 

and my throbbing hands 
clouds drunk 

from the forests of rhododendrons. 
Between your almond eyes 

and my warm mouth 
rain dropping like pearls 

on the plump leaves of the jungle. 
Between your shimmering skin 

and my dark hair grass greener 
than the greenest parakeet 

growing yellowish from incessant rain. 
Between your nights by 

the impotent pillow of your husband 
and my crazed headpiece 

a poem of spring that shall fill my deep wounds, 
sprouting flowers, flowers, flowers … 
Between your tulips 

and my fragrant pen 
a brain-fever bird’s 

crazed cry, mad, mad, mad… 
Between the sparkle 

of your teeth and my sleep 
a rain coming 

like roar of a starving steam 
in the starless 

summer gloom of the night. 
Between your melon breasts 

and thirst of my soft lips 
the rage of the river 

battering its head against the magic mountains. 
Between your decisions 

and my flickering lamps 
the river mad 

you, you poet, you bastard, go away!

Poem – Mules – Yuyutsu Sharma

On the great Tibetan 

salt route they meet me again 
old forsaken friends… 
On their faces 

fatigue of a drunken sleep 
their lives worn out, 

their legs twisted, shaking 
from carrying 

illustrious flags of bleeding ascents. 
Age long bells clinging 

to them like festering wounds 
beating notes 

of a slavery modernism brings: 
cartons of Iceberg, mineral water bottles, 

solar heaters, Chinese tiles, tin cans, carom boards 
sacks of rice 

and iodized salt from the plains of Nepal Terai. 
Butterflies of 

the terraced fields know their names. 
Singing brooks tempests 

of their breathless climbs. 
Traffic alert 

and time-tested, they climb 

dreams of posh peacocks 

of a secret religious war 

of an ecologist’s sterile semen 
entire kitchen 

for a cocktail party at the base camp 
defunct development 

agenda of guilty donors 
the West’s weird visions 

lusting for an instant purge. 
Stone steps 

of the mountains embossed 
on their drugged brains, 

like lines of aborted love 

on the historic rocks of waterspouts. 
Starry skies 

of the dozing valleys know 
the ache 

of their secret sweat. 
Sunny days 

along the crystal rivers 

of their bleeding eyes. 
Greatest fiction 

of the struggling lives lost, 
like real mules 

clattering their hooves on the flagstones, 
in circling 

the cruel grandeur 
of blood thirsty 

mule paths around the glacial of Annapurnas.

Poem – Glacier – Yuyutsu Sharma

A hope 

that someday I shall sprout 
like a tree 

on the edge of a remote hillside. 
A hope 

someday a Queen-of-the-Night 
shall bloom in my chest 

and suck all the smoke 
I have inhaled 

in these malignant cities. 
A hope that someday 

a just born brook shall clean 
and wash 

bacteria of greed in me. 
A hope that someday 

a Buddha meditating in the niche of a cairn 
by the heap of the city 

garbage shall shake his limbs 
and walk away towards a village of eternity 

to take another birth 
to save me 

from the shame of becoming a glacier.

Poem – “Nature” Is What We See – Emily Dickinson


“Nature” is what we see— 

The Hill—the Afternoon— 

Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— 

Nay—Nature is Heaven— 

Nature is what we hear— 

The Bobolink—the Sea— 

Thunder—the Cricket— 

Nay—Nature is Harmony— 

Nature is what we know— 

Yet have no art to say— 

So impotent Our Wisdom is 

To her Simplicity.

Poem – “Heaven”—Is What I Cannot Reach! – Emily Dickinson  

“Heaven”—is what I cannot reach! 

The Apple on the Tree— 

Provided it do hopeless—hang— 

That—”Heaven” is—to Me! 
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud— 

The interdicted Land— 

Behind the Hill—the House behind— 

There—Paradise—is found! 
Her teasing Purples—Afternoons— 

The credulous—decoy— 

Enamored—of the Conjuror— 

That spurned us—Yesterday!

Poem – “Heaven” Has Different Signs&Mdash, To Me – Emily Dickinson 

“Heaven” has different Signs—to me— 

Sometimes, I think that Noon 

Is but a symbol of the Place— 

And when again, at Dawn, 
A mighty look runs round the World 

And settles in the Hills— 

An Awe if it should be like that 

Upon the Ignorance steals— 
The Orchard, when the Sun is on— 

The Triumph of the Birds 

When they together Victory make— 

Some Carnivals of Clouds— 
The Rapture of a finished Day— 

Returning to the West— 

All these—remind us of the place 

That Men call “paradise”— 
Itself be fairer—we suppose— 

But how Ourself, shall be 

Adorned, for a Superior Grace— 

Not yet, our eyes can see—