२०६५ को शुभगमन – तारानाथ शर्मा 

थोत्रो बूढो बितेको असफल ननिको वर्षले राष्ट्र भाँड्यो 

मैला च्याङ्ला पुराना रिसघिनफुटका रोग सर्वत्र बाँड्यो
देशै टुक्र्याउने जो सरल जनमा सर्पको खेल चम्क्यो

पृथ्वी नै छट्पटायो र समयसँग मिली लौ नयाँ साल झुल्क्यो

नेपाली एकताको हृदय दह्रिलो पार्न यो साल पाओस्

सारा पाखण्ड फाँड्दै अब त मुलुकमा दिव्यदृष्टि उदाओस्

पैँसट्ठी साल राम्रो अतिशय रसिलो आशको ज्योति छर्छ

सारा हाम्रा गलेका तन र मनमा प्राणसञ्चार

साझा यो फुलबारी – तारानाथ शर्मा 

कालो अत्यन्त कालो अतिशय धमिलो राजनीति नराम्रो

आयो छायो निराशा मुलुकभरिको चेत खुस्केर हाम्रो

हामी नेपालका छौ सकल जनता एकतामा बसेका

कोही छैनौँ अरुको श्रम र पसिना लुट्न पेटी कसेका
योद्धा शूरा र आँटी अघि असल थिए न्यायका लागि मर्थे

पुर्खाको देनलाई शिरउपर गरी नीतिको राज्य गर्थे

साझा यो फूलबारी सकल जनको हो भनी पृथ्वी भन्थे

चोखो आदर्श मानी युवकयुवती राष्ट्र्का भक्त बन्थे
जनतन्त्र थियो सबको रहर

परतन्त्र हुने अब नित्य डर

लुटमार बढ्यो जनजाति फुटे

रिस द्वेष र भेद अँगाल्न जुटे
जब भेद बढ्यो अनि राष्ट्र् फुट्यो

जनता ठगिए ईतिहास टुट्यो

कुन सर्प सुटुक्क पस्यो परको

हुन सक्छ यहीँ कपटी घरको
मन खल्बलियो विषले भरियो

अनि टायर बाल्न युवा सुरियो

किन पढ्नु र लेख्नु युवा जनले

जनजीवन बन्द गरे रिसले
जनतन्त्र भयो सपनासरह

अनुशासन ऐन भए कलह

अब शासन छैन कुनै प्रहर

ठग नै ठगले भरिए सहर
धमिरै धमिरा घरका जगमा

कसरी अब राख्नु निजी गरिमा

जब गिद्ध र चील उडे नभमा

बचरा बिचरा जनको शिरमा
ठग बोल्छन् ठग लेख्छन् नयाँ नेपाल जन्मियो

लोकतन्त्र यहाँ आयो हाम्रो सौभाग्य चम्कियो

ब्वाँसा र बाघ लुछ्तै छन् आमाको छाती चर्चर

चलायौँ सँसद भनी पार्दै मुलुक जर्जर
पत्तोफाँट कतै छेन उज्यालो घाम झुल्कने

तैपनि राष्ट्र् यो हाम्रो अघिल्तिर छ लम्कने

वीरको देश नेपाल अदम्य हिमका चुली

उचाली अघि बढ्नेछ परस्पर मिलीजुली
जनता अब चाहन्छन् आफ्नै शासनको भर

छानेर नेता विश्वासी उन्नति गर्न तत्पर

राष्ट्र्गौरव राखेर शान्ति स्नेह स्वतन्त्रता

स्थापनाको प्रण लिई एकता र समानता

गजल – इश्कबाजीमा 

नजाने छुरी बर्सन्छन् हजारौँ, इश्कबाजीमा

र, जाने फूल बर्सन्छन् अनेकौँ, इश्कबाजीमा 
नजाने बिखका खोला बहन्छन्, पर्छ बाढीमा

र, जाने महका चाका चुसिन्छन्, इश्कबाजीमा
नजाने डुब्छ चुर्लुम्मै जवानी, जेलखानमा

र, जाने अप्सरा खोपी छ आफ्नै, इश्कबाजीमा
नजाने ज्यान नै जाने पचासौँ पर्छ धोखामा

र, जाने काखको मीठो सिरानी, इश्कबाजीमा
नजाने हुन्छ बदनामी, कलङ्की, दागी, दुनियाँमा

र, जाने प्राणको प्यारो सबैको, इश्कबाजीमा
नजाने सम्पत्ति, जीउ विनाशी बग्छ आँसुमा

र, जाने रत्नका माला गलामा, इश्कबाजीमा।

गजल – आधा छ अङ्ग मेरो अर्धाङ्गिनी तिमी हौ

आधा छ अङ्ग मेरो अर्धाङ्गिनी तिमी हौ

सिन्दूर हुँ म तिम्रो सौभागिनी तिमी हौ
यो स्नेहको बिरुवा कैले पनि नसुकोस्

फूलबारीको म माली मधुमालिनी तिमी हौ
हाँसेर मोह गर्ने बोलेर दिल हर्ने

म कृष्ण हुँ कलीको तर ग्वालिनी तिमी हौ
हाम्रो अखण्ड प्रीतिको उपमा दिऊँ के

श्रीखण्डको म हाँगा हुँ, नागिनी तिमी हौ
यो प्रेमको कहानी सुन्नेहरू चर्किन्छन्

म राग हुँ उषाको औ रागिनी तिमी हौ

काम्यो  लुग लुग त्यो – भीमनिधि तिवारी 

मैन्हा माघ थियो, बिहानपखमा हावा चलेको थियो,

छानामा, पथमा तथा चउरमा चिनी छरे झै थियो,

जाडो खूब थियो, समस्त जलमा ऐना जमेको थियो,

काम्यो लुगलुग गरीब बिचरा त्यस्मा दया गर्छ को !!!
टोपी सिर्फ छ नाम मात्र शिरमा, जम्मै टुपी निस्कने

भोटो जीर्ण धुजाधुजा छ उसको, छाती पिठ्यूँ देखिने,

धोती केवल चार अङ्गुल धरो, नङ्गा छ र्सवाङ्गमा,

काम्यो लुगलुग गरीब बिचरा त्यस्मा दया गर्छ को !!!
आँखीभौँ छ तुषारका पतनले सेता भएका दुबै,

खुट्टाका अउँलाहरु, नङहरु नीला भएका सबै,

पैताला छ छियाछिया हरुघडी हा !! रक्त टप्काउँदै

काम्यो लुगलुग गरीब बिचरा त्यस्मा दया गर्छ को !!!
कैले बस्तछ छेउमा सडकको खुम्च्याइ छाती, अनि

कैले हेर्दछ पूवतर्फ नभमा लाली चढ्यो की भनी,

काखीभित्र घुसारी हा ! कर दुबै छोपेर ‘स्यूः स्यूः’ गरी

काम्यो लुगलुग गरीब बिचरा त्यस्मा दया गर्छ को !!!
ठण्डा उग्र हिमालको बरफ झैँ च्चः ! बाहिरी अङ्ग छन्,

आगो बल्दछ पेटभित्र तर जो निभ्दैन सल्कन्छ झन्;

निस्कन्छन् मुखबाट धूम कुहिरो झैँ, दाँत कट्काउँदै

काम्यो लुगलुग गरीब बिचरा त्यस्मा दया गर्छ को !!!

 कोपिला – भीमनिधि तिवारी 

साना बालक, बालिका भुवनका हुन् फूलका कोपिला

शिक्षाको मल, प्रेमको जल छिटी गर्छौँ भने संचिता

फुल्नेछन् दिन मध्यमा यिनिहरू बास्ना अनेकौँ दिई

त्यो बेला अनि यो उजाड दुनियाँ बन्नेछ कस्तो भई !
सारा दुषित वायुमण्डलभरी घुम्ला जसै केसर

त्यल्ले शुद्ध पवित्र पार्दछ सबै, बाँकी अरू के छ र?

झिल्का ‘मानवता’ यहीँ मनुजमा सल्केर जाला अनि

स्वार्थी भाव विनाश हुन्छ, तब ता सर्वत्र शान्तिध्वनि !

नाट्यशाला – भीमनिधि तिवारी 

संसार नाट्यशाला हो; प्रकाश सूर्य, चन्द्र हुन्
जीवनधारीहरू सारा कर्मचारी समान हुन्

छ जो प्रकृतिको पर्दा त्यसैको आडमा डटी

यहाँ भेष लिई नाना आउँछन् नट औ नटी

अभिनीत यहीँ हुन्-विपत्तिया महीपति

अंक प्रलयको बेला, महाप्रलयमा ‘इति’

सुत्रधार भई, काल काम गर्छ निरन्तर

गुण दोष दुवै हेर्ने आलोचक छ ईश्वर !

Poem – A Familiar Letter – Oliver Wendell Holmes

YES, write, if you want to, there’s nothing like trying; 

Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold? 

I’ll show you that rhyming’s as easy as lying, 

If you’ll listen to me while the art I unfold. 
Here’s a book full of words; one can choose as he fancies, 

As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool; 

Just think! all the poems and plays and romances 

Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool! 
You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes, 

And take all you want, not a copper they cost,– 

What is there to hinder your picking out phrases 

For an epic as clever as “Paradise Lost”? 
Don’t mind if the index of sense is at zero, 

Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean; 

Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero 

Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine. 
There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother 

That boarding-school flavor of which we’re afraid, 

There is “lush”is a good one, and “swirl” is another,– 

Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made. 
With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes 

You can cheat us of smiles when you’ve nothing to tell 

You hand us a nosegay of milliner’s roses, 

And we cry with delight, “Oh, how sweet they do smell!”
Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions 

For winning the laurels to which you aspire, 

By docking the tails of the two prepositions 

I’ the style o’ the bards you so greatly admire. 
As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty 

For ringing the changes on metrical chimes; 

A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty 

Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes. 
Let me show you a picture–‘t is far from irrelevant– 

By a famous old hand in the arts of design; 

‘T is only a photographed sketch of an elephant,– 

The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine. 
How easy! no troublesome colors to lay on, 

It can’t have fatigued him,– no, not in the least,– 

A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon, 

And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast. 
Just so with your verse,– ‘t is as easy as sketching,– 

You can reel off a song without knitting your brow, 

As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching; 

It is nothing at all, if you only know how. 
Well; imagine you’ve printed your volume of verses: 

Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame, 

Your poems the eloquent school-boy rehearses, 

Her album the school-girl presents for your name; 
Each morning the post brings you autograph letters; 

You’ll answer them promptly,– an hour isn’t much 

For the honor of sharing a page with your betters, 

With magistrates, members of Congress, and such. 
Of course you’re delighted to serve the committees 

That come with requests from the country all round, 

You would grace the occasion with poems and ditties 

When they’ve got a new schoolhouse, or poorhouse, or pound. 
With a hymn for the saints and a song for the sinners, 

You go and are welcome wherever you please; 

You’re a privileged guest at all manner of dinners, 

You’ve a seat on the platform among the grandees. 
At length your mere presence becomes a sensation, 

Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brim 

With the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration, 

As the whisper runs round of “That’s he!” or “That’s him!” 
But remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous, 

So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched, 

Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o’er us, 

The ovum was human from which you were hatched. 
No will of your own with its puny compulsion 

Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre; 

It comes, if at all, like the Sibyl’s convulsion 

And touches the brain with a finger of fire. 
So perhaps, after all, it’s as well to he quiet 

If you’ve nothing you think is worth saying in prose, 

As to furnish a meal of their cannibal diet 

To the critics, by publishing, as you propose. 
But it’s all of no use, and I’m sorry I’ve written,– 

I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf; 

For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten, 

And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.

Poem – A Birthday Tribute – Oliver Wendell Holmes

TO J. F. CLARKE 

WHO is the shepherd sent to lead, 

Through pastures green, the Master’s sheep? 

What guileless ‘Israelite indeed’ 

The folded flock may watch and keep? 
He who with manliest spirit joins 

The heart of gentlest human mould, 

With burning light and girded loins, 

To guide the flock, or watch the fold; 
True to all Truth the world denies, 

Not tongue-tied for its gilded sin; 

Not always right in all men’s eyes, 

But faithful to the light within; 
Who asks no meed of earthly fame, 

Who knows no earthly master’s call, 

Who hopes for man, through guilt and shame, 

Still answering, ‘God is over all’; 
Who makes another’s grief his own, 

Whose smile lends joy a double cheer; 

Where lives the saint, if such be known?– 

Speak softly,–such an one is here! 
O faithful shepherd! thou hast borne 

The heat and burden of the clay; 

Yet, o’er thee, bright with beams unshorn, 

The sun still shows thine onward way. 
To thee our fragrant love we bring, 

In buds that April half displays, 

Sweet first-born angels of the spring, 

Caught in their opening hymn of praise. 
What though our faltering accents fail, 

Our captives know their message well, 

Our words unbreathed their lips exhale, 

And sigh more love than ours can tell. 
April 4, 1860.

Poem -Girl To A Soldier On Leave – Isaac Rosenberg

Girl To A Soldier On Leave 

Love! You love me — your eyes 

Have looked through death at mine. 

You have tempted a grave too much 

I let you — I repine. 
I love you – Titan lover, 

My own storm-days Titan. 

Greater than the son of Zeus, 

I know whom I would choose. 
Titan — my splendid rebel — 

The old Prometheus 

Wanes like a ghost before your power — 

His pangs were joys to yours. 
Pallid days arid and wan 

Tied your soul fast. 

Babel-cities smoky tops 

Pressed upon your growth 
Weary gyves. What were you 

But a word in the brains ways, 

Or the sleep of Circes swine. 

One gyve holds you yet. 
It held you hiddenly on the Somme 

Tied from my heart at home. 

O must it loosen now? — I wish 

You were bound with the old gyves. 
Love! you love me — your eyes 

Have looked through death at mine. 

You have tempted a grave too much. 

I let you – I repine.

Poem – Against Lying – Isaac Watts

O ’tis a lovely thing for youth 

To early walk in wisdom’s way; 

To fear a lie, to speak the truth, 

That we may trust to all they say! 
But liars we can never trust, 

Even when they say what is true. 

And he who does one fault at first 

And lies to hide it, makes it two. 
Have we not known, nor heard, nor read 

How God does hate deceit and wrong? 

How Ananias was struck dead, 

Caught with a lie upon his tongue? 
So did his wife Sapphira die, 

When she came in, and grew so bold 

As to confirm that wicked lie, 

Which just before her husband told. 
The Lord delights in them that speak 

The words of truth; but every liar 

Must have his portion in the lake 

That burns with brimstone and with fire.

Poem -Against Evil Company – Isaac Watts

Why should I join with those in Play, 

In whom I’ve no delight, 

Who curse and swear, but never pray, 

Who call ill Names, and fight. 
I hate to hear a wanton Song, 

Their Words offend my Ears: 

I should not dare defile my Tongue 

With Language such as theirs. 
Away from Fools I’ll turn my Eyes, 

Nor with the Scoffers go; 

I would be walking with the Wise, 

That wiser I may grow. 
From one rude Boy that’s us’d to mock 

Ten learn the wicked Jest; 

One sickly Sheep infects the Flock, 

And poysons all the rest.

Poem – Month Of  February – Hilaire Belloc

The winter moon has such a quiet car 

That all the winter nights are dumb with rest. 

She drives the gradual dark with drooping crest, 

And dreams go wandering from her drowsy star. 

Because the nights are silent, do not wake: 

But there shall tremble through the general earth, 

And over you, a quickening and a birth. 

The sun is near the hill-tops for your sake. 
The latest born of all the days shall creep 

To kiss the tender eyelids of the year; 

And you shall wake, grown young with perfect sleep, 

And smile at the new world, and make it dear 

With living murmurs more than dreams are deep. 

Silence is dead, my Dawn; the morning’s here.

Poem – Month of January – Hilaire Belloc

It freezes- all across a soundless sky 
The birds go home. The governing dark’s begun: 

The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun; 

The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die. 
Death, with his evil finger to his lip, 

Leers in at human windows, turning spy 

To learn the country where his rule shall lie 

When he assumes perpetual generalship. 
The undefeated enemy, the chill 

That shall benumb the voiceful earth at last, 

Is master of our moment, and has bound 

The viewless wind it-self. There is no sound. 

It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast. 

It freezes; and the graven twigs are still.

Poem – Month  Of August – Hilaire Belloc

The soldier month, the bulwark of the year, 

That never more shall hear such victories told; 

He stands apparent with his heaven-high spear, 

And helmeted of grand Etruscan gold. 

Our harvest is the bounty he has won, 

The loot his fiery temper takes by strength. 

Oh! Paladin of the Imperial sun! 

Oh! crown of all the seasons come at length! 
This is sheer manhood; this is Charlemagne, 

When he with his wide host came conquering home 

From vengeance under Roncesvalles ta’en. 

Or when his bramble beard flaked red with foam 

Of bivouac wine-cups on the Lombard plain, 

What time he swept to grasp the world at Rome.

Poem – The Frog – Hilaire Belloc

Be kind and tender to the Frog, 

And do not call him names, 

As ‘Slimy skin,’ or ‘Polly-wog,’ 

Or likewise ‘Ugly James,’ 

Or ‘Gap-a-grin,’ or ‘Toad-gone-wrong,’ 

Or ‘Bill Bandy-knees’: 

The Frog is justly sensitive 

To epithets like these. 
No animal will more repay 

A treatment kind and fair; 

At least so lonely people say 

Who keep a frog (and, by the way, 

They are extremely rare).

Poem – Courtesy – Hilaire Belloc

Of Courtesy, it is much less 

Than Courage of Heart or Holiness, 

Yet in my Walks it seems to me 

That the Grace of God is in Courtesy. 
On Monks I did in Storrington fall, 

They took me straight into their Hall; 

I saw Three Pictures on a wall, 

And Courtesy was in them all. 
The first the Annunciation; 

The second the Visitation; 

The third the Consolation, 

Of God that was Our Lady’s Son. 
The first was of St. Gabriel; 

On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell; 

And as he went upon one knee 

He shone with Heavenly Courtesy. 
Our Lady out of Nazareth rode – 

It was Her month of heavy load; 

Yet was her face both great and kind, 

For Courtesy was in Her Mind. 
The third it was our Little Lord, 

Whom all the Kings in arms adored; 

He was so small you could not see 

His large intent of Courtesy. 
Our Lord, that was Our Lady’s Son, 

Go bless you, People, one by one; 

My Rhyme is written, my work is done.

Poem -A May Burden – Francis Thompson

Though meadow-ways as I did tread, 

The corn grew in great lustihead, 

And hey! the beeches burgeoned. 

By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! 

It is the month, the jolly month, 

It is the jolly month of May. 
God ripe the wines and corn, I say, 

And wenches for the marriage-day, 

And boys to teach love’s comely play. 

By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! 

It is the month, the jolly month, 

It is the jolly month of May. 
As I went down by lane and lea, 

The daisies reddened so, pardie! 

‘Blushets!’ I said, ‘I well do see, 

By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! 

The thing ye think of in this month, 

Heigho! this jolly month of May.’ 
As down I went by rye and oats, 

The blossoms smelt of kisses; throats 

Of birds turned kisses into notes; 

By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! 

The kiss it is a growing flower, 

I trow, this jolly month of May. 
God send a mouth to every kiss, 

Seeing the blossom of this bliss 

By gathering doth grow, certes! 

By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! 

Thy brow-garland pushed all aslant 

Tells – but I tell not, wanton May!

Poem – All Fresh – Francis Thompson  

I do not need the skies’ 

Pomp, when I would be wise; 

For pleasaunce nor to use 

Heaven’s champaign when I muse. 

One grass-blade in its veins 

Wisdom’s whole flood contains; 

Thereon my foundering mind 

Odyssean fate can find. 
O little blade, now vaunt 

Thee, and be arrogant! 

Tell the proud sun that he 

Sweated in shaping thee; 

Night, that she did unvest 

Her mooned and argent breast 

To suckle thee. Heaven fain 
Yearned over thee in rain, 

And with wide parent wing 

Shadowed thee, nested thing, 

Fed thee, and slaved for thy 

Impotent tyranny. 

Nature’s broad thews bent 

Meek for thy content. 

Mastering littleness 

Which the wise heavens confess, 

The frailty which doth draw 

Magnipotence to its law– 

These were, O happy one, these 

Thy laughing puissances! 
Be confident of thought, 

Seeing that thou art naught; 

And be thy pride thou’rt all 

Delectably safe and small. 

Epitomized in thee 

Was the mystery 

Which shakes the spheres conjoint– 

God focussed to a point. 
All thy fine mouths shout 

Scorn upon dull-eyed doubt. 

Impenetrable fool 

Is he thou canst not school 

To the humility 

By which the angels see! 

Unfathomably framed 

Sister, I am not shamed 
Before the cherubin 

To vaunt my flesh thy kin. 

My one hand thine, and one 

Imprisoned in God’s own, 

I am as God; alas, 

And such a god of grass! 

A little root clay-caught, 

A wind, a flame, a thought, 

Inestimably naught!

Poem – Autumn Valentine – Dorothy Parker

In May my heart was breaking- 

Oh, wide the wound, and deep! 

And bitter it beat at waking, 

And sore it split in sleep. 
And when it came November, 

I sought my heart, and sighed, 

“Poor thing, do you remember?” 

“What heart was that?” it cried.

Poem – August – Dorothy Parker

When my eyes are weeds, 

And my lips are petals, spinning 

Down the wind that has beginning 

Where the crumpled beeches start 

In a fringe of salty reeds; 

When my arms are elder-bushes, 

And the rangy lilac pushes 

Upward, upward through my heart; 
Summer, do your worst! 

Light your tinsel moon, and call on 

Your performing stars to fall on 

Headlong through your paper sky; 

Nevermore shall I be cursed 

By a flushed and amorous slattern, 

With her dusty laces’ pattern 

Trailing, as she straggles by.

Poem – One Perfect Rose -Dorothy Parker

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met. 

All tenderly his messenger he chose; 

Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet – 

One perfect rose. 

I knew the language of the floweret; 

‘My fragile leaves,’ it said, ‘his heart enclose.’ 

Love long has taken for his amulet 

One perfect rose. 

Why is it no one ever sent me yet 

One perfect limousine, do you suppose? 

Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get 

One perfect rose.

Poem – Frustration – Dorothy Parker

If I had a shiny gun, 

I could have a world of fun 

Speeding bullets through the brains 

Of the folk who give me pains; 
Or had I some poison gas, 

I could make the moments pass 

Bumping off a number of 

People whom I do not love. 
But I have no lethal weapon- 

Thus does Fate our pleasure step on! 

So they still are quick and well 

Who should be, by rights, in hell.

नैतिक दृष्टान्त – लेखनाथ पौड्याल

लेखनाथ पौड्याल  १८८५  -  १९६६  कास्की नेपाल

लेखनाथ पौड्याल
१८८५ – १९६६ कास्की नेपाल


बडाले जे गर्यो काम हुन्छ त्यो सर्व-संमत ।
छैन शङ्करको नङ्गा, मगन्ते भेष निन्दित ।।

गरदैन ठूलो व्यक्ति मर्यादा-स्थिति-लङ्घन ।
बसेको छ महासिन्धु सीमाबद्ध बनीकन ।।

दबिन्छ गुणिको दोष गुणका राशिमा परी ।
रश्मिले चन्द्रको दाग दबाएकै छ बेसरी ।।

कसैको लोकमा छैन एकैनास समुन्नति ।
अरूको के कुरा हेर सन्ध्यामा सूर्यको गति ।।

छोटो बढ्यो भने ज्यादा फूर्ति ढाँचा बढाउँछ ।
उर्लंदो खहरे हेर कत्तिको गड्गडाउँछ ।।

ज्यादा सोझो हुनुभन्दा टढिनु छ फला-धिक ।
गरदैन कुनै सोझो ग्रहको पूजना–दिक ।।

टपर्टुञ्या पनि हुन्छ मूर्खमध्ये प्रतिष्ठित ।
बोलने को अँध्यारोमा महा–त्मा जुन्किरीसित ।।

सानैदेखि छुचो हुन्छ दुष्ट मानिसको मति ।
घोचने जङ्गली काँढा पहिले नै तिखा कति ।।

मिलेर काम गर्नाले हुन्छ अत्यन्त फायदा ।
एकता हेर कस्तो छ मौरीको महमा सदा ।।

जो दिंदैन उही दिन्छु भनी गर्जन्छ सत्त्वर ।
जो हो नवर्षने मैघ उसैको हुन्छ घर्घर ।।

हुनुपर्दछ मौकामा शत्रुको पनि सेवक ।
कोइली कागकै बच्चा बन्छ सानू छँदा तक ।।

गुणग्राही जहाँ छैन वहाँ के गरला गुणी ।
कौडीमा तक मिल्किन्छ भिल्लका देशमा मणि ।।

योग्य स्थानविषे मान सानाले पनि पाउँछ ।
कृष्णाका तटको ढुङ्गा देवता कहलाउँछ ।।

उपकारी गुणी व्यक्ति निहुरन्छ निरन्तर ।
फलेको वृक्षको हाँगो नझुकेको कहाँ छ र ।।

मेटिंदैन कसैबाट आफनू कर्मपद्धति ।
बनवासी बने राम चौधै भुवनका पति ।।

धर्म हो धीरको धैर्य राखनू दु:खजालमा ।
मानू मौनव्रती हुन्छ कोइली शीतकालमा ।।

सारा सार लिई कन्था छोडी-दिन्छ गुणी जन ।
रस चुसेपछि भृङ्ग फूलमा भुल्दथ्यो किन ?

सङ्गले पनि जाँदैन दुष्टको दुष्टा रिस ।
श्रीखण्डमा बसी सर्प कहाँ हुन्थ्यो र निर्विष ।।

मूर्खका मनमा अर्ती गालीतुल्य बिझाउँछ ।
दूधपान गरी सर्प खालि विष बहाउँछ ।।

Poem – A Dream Lies Dead – Dorothy Parker 

A dream lies dead here. May you softly go 

Before this place, and turn away your eyes, 

Nor seek to know the look of that which dies 

Importuning Life for life. Walk not in woe, 

But, for a little, let your step be slow. 

And, of your mercy, be not sweetly wise 

With words of hope and Spring and tenderer skies. 

A dream lies dead; and this all mourners know: 
Whenever one drifted petal leaves the tree- 

Though white of bloom as it had been before 

And proudly waitful of fecundity- 

One little loveliness can be no more; 

And so must Beauty bow her imperfect head 

Because a dream has joined the wistful dead!

Poem – A Certain Lady – Dorothy Parker

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head, 

And drink your rushing words with eager lips, 

And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red, 

And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips. 

When you rehearse your list of loves to me, 

Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed. 

And you laugh back, nor can you ever see 

The thousand little deaths my heart has died. 

And you believe, so well I know my part, 

That I am gay as morning, light as snow, 

And all the straining things within my heart 

You’ll never know. 
Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet, 

And you bring tales of fresh adventurings, — 

Of ladies delicately indiscreet, 

Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things. 

And you are pleased with me, and strive anew 

To sing me sagas of your late delights. 

Thus do you want me — marveling, gay, and true, 

Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights. 

And when, in search of novelty, you stray, 

Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go …. 

And what goes on, my love, while you’re away, 

You’ll never know.

Poem – Sorry

one thing i don’t need 
is any more apologies 

i got sorry greetin me at my front door 

you can keep yrs 

i don’t know what to do wit em 

they dont open doors 

or bring the sun back 

they dont make me happy 

or get a mornin paper 

didnt nobody stop usin my tears to wash cars 

cuz a sorry 
i am simply tired 

of collectin 

i didnt know 

i was so important toyou 

i’m gonna haveta throw some away 

i cant get to the clothes in my closet 

for alla the sorries 

i’m gonna tack a sign to my door 

leave a message by the phone 

‘if you called 

to say yr sorry 

call somebody 

else 

i dont use em anymore’ 

i let sorry/ didnt meanta/ & how cd i know abt that 

take a walk down a dark & musty street in brooklyn 

i’m gonna do exactly what i want to 

& i wont be sorry for none of it 

letta sorry soothe yr soul/ i’m gonna soothe mine 

you were always inconsistent 

doin somethin & then bein sorry 

beatin my heart to death 

talkin bout you sorry 

well 

i will not call 

i’m not goin to be nice 

i will raise my voice 

& scream & holler 

& break things & race the engine 

& tell all yr secrets bout yrself to yr face 

& i will list in detail everyone of my wonderful lovers 

& their ways 

i will play oliver lake 

loud 

& i wont be sorry for none of it 

i loved you on purpose 

i was open on purpose 

i still crave vulnerability & close talk 

& i’m not even sorry bout you bein sorry 

you can carry all the guilt & grime ya wanna 

just dont give it to me 

i cant use another sorry 

next time 

you should admit 

you’re mean/ low-down/ triflin/ & no count straight out 

steada bein sorry alla the time 

enjoy bein yrself

Poem – You are such a Fool

You Are Sucha Foolyou are sucha fool/ i haveta love you 

you decide to give me a poem/ intent on it/ actually 

you pull/ kiss me from 125th to 72nd street/ on 

the east side/ no less 

you are sucha fool/ you gonna give me/ the poet/ 

the poem 

insistin on proletarian images/ we buy okra/ 

3 lbs for $1/ & a pair of 98 cent shoes 

we kiss 

we wrestle 

you make sure at east 110 street/ we have cognac 

no beer all day 

you are sucha fool/ you fall over my day like 

a wash of azure 

you take my tongue outta my mouth/ 

make me say foolish things 

you take my tongue outta my mouth/ lay it on yr skin 

like the dew between my legs 

on this the first day of silver balloons 

& lil girl’s braids undone 

friendly savage skulls on bikes/ wish me good-day 

you speak spanish like a german & ask puerto rican 

market men on lexington if they are foreigners 

oh you are sucha fool/ i cant help but love you 

maybe it was something in the air 

our memories 

our first walk 

our first… 

yes/ alla that 

where you poured wine down my throat in rooms 

poets i dreamed abt seduced sound & made history/ 

you make me feel like a cheetah 

a gazelle/ something fast & beautiful 

you make me remember my animal sounds/ 

so while i am an antelope 

ocelot & serpent speaking in tongues 

my body loosens for/ you 

you decide to give me the poem 

you wet yr fingers/ lay it to my lips 

that i might write some more abt you/ 

how you come into me 

the way the blues jumps outta b.b.king/ how 

david murray assaults a moon & takes her home/ 

like dyanne harvey invades the wind 

oh you/ you are sucha fool/ 

you want me to write some more abt you 

how you come into me like a rollercoaster in a 

dip that swings 

leaving me shattered/ glistening/ rich/ screeching 

& fully clothed 

you set me up to fall into yr dreams 

like the sub-saharan animal i am/ in all this heat 

wanting to be still 

to be still with you 

in the shadows 

all those buildings 

all those people/ celebrating/ sunlight & love/ you 

you are sucha fool/ you spend all day piling up images 

locations/ morsels of daydreams/ to give me a poem 

just smile/ i’ll get it

Poem – My Father Is A Retired Magician

 

my father is a retired magician 

which accounts for my irregular behavior 

everythin comes outta magic hats 

or bottles wit no bottoms & parakeets 

are as easy to get as a couple a rabbits 

or 3 fifty cent pieces/ 1958 
my daddy retired from magic & took 

up another trade cuz this friend of mine 

from the 3rd grade asked to be made white 

on the spot 
what cd any self-respectin colored american magician 

do wit such a outlandish request/ cept 

put all them razzamatazz hocus pocus zippity-do-dah 

thingamajigs away cuz 

colored chirren believin in magic 

waz becomin politically dangerous for the race 

& waznt nobody gonna be made white 

on the spot just 

from a clap of my daddy’s hands 
& the reason i’m so peculiar’s 

cuz i been studyin up on my daddy’s technique 

& everythin i do is magic these days 

& it’s very colored 

very now you see it/ now you 

dont mess wit me 

i come from a family of retired 

sorcerers/ active houngans & pennyante fortune tellers 

wit 41 million spirits critturs & celestial bodies 

on our side 

i’ll listen to yr problems 

help wit yr career yr lover yr wanderin spouse 

make yr grandma’s stay in heaven more gratifyin 

ease yr mother thru menopause & show yr son 

how to clean his room 
YES YES YES 3 wishes is all you get 

scarlet ribbons for yr hair 

benwa balls via hong kong 

a miniature of machu picchu 
all things are possible 

but aint no colored magician in her right mind 

gonna make you white 

i mean 

this is blk magic 

you lookin at 

& i’m fixin you up good/ fixin you up good n colored 

& you gonna be colored all yr life 

& you gonna love it/ bein colored/ all yr life/ colored & love it 

love it/ bein colored/ 

Spell #7 from Upnorth-Outwest Geechee Jibara Quik Magic Trance Manual for Technologically Stressed Third World People

Poem – Key to Friendship – Anonymous

The key to friendship 
Is not in the hand you hold 

But how you hold the hand. 
It’s not in the tears you dry 

But all the reasons why. 
It’s not how you make a person smile 

But whether or not it’s worthwhile. 
It’s not in the conversation 

But in the way you listen. 
It’s not in the laughter 

But what comes before and everything after. 
The key to friendship 

Is not in two people relating 

But in two hearts communicating. 
Thank you for being that special friend 

Who understands the key to friendship 

And how to unlock everything within my heart.

Poem – Death Of An Innocent – Anonymous 

I went to a party, Mom, 

I remembered what you said. 

You told me not to drink, Mom, 

So I drank soda instead. 
I really felt proud inside, Mom, 

The way you said I would. 

I didn’t drink and drive, Mom, 

Even though the others said I should. 
I know I did the right thing, Mom, 

I know you are always right. 

Now the party is finally ending, Mom, 

As everyone is driving out of sight. 
As I got into my car, Mom, 

I knew I’d get home in one piece. 

Because of the way you raised me, 

So responsible and sweet. 
I started to drive away, Mom, 

But as I pulled out into the road, 

The other car didn’t see me, Mom, 

And hit me like a load. 
As I lay there on the pavement, Mom, 

I hear the policeman say, 

‘The other guy is drunk,’ Mom, 

And now I’m the one who will pay. 
I’m lying here dying, Mom… 

I wish you’d get here soon. 

How could this happen to me, Mom? 

My life just burst like a balloon. 
There is blood all around me, Mom, 

And most of it is mine. 

I hear the medic say, Mom, 

I’ll die in a short time. 
I just wanted to tell you, Mom, 

I swear I didn’t drink. 

It was the others, Mom. 

The others didn’t think. 
He was probably at the same party as I. 

The only difference is, he drank 

And I will die. 
Why do people drink, Mom? 

It can ruin your whole life. 

I’m feeling sharp pains now. 

Pains just like a knife. 
The guy who hit me is walking, Mom, 

And I don’t think it’s fair. 

I’m lying here dying 

And all he can do is stare. 
Tell my brother not to cry, Mom. 

Tell Daddy to be brave. 

And when I go to heaven, Mom, 

Put ‘Daddy’s Girl’ on my grave. 
Someone should have told him, Mom, 

Not to drink and drive. 

If only they had told him, Mom, 

I would still be alive. 
My breath is getting shorter, Mom. 

I’m becoming very scared. 

Please don’t cry for me, Mom. 

When I needed you, 

you were always there. 
I have one last question, Mom. 

Before I say good bye. 

I didn’t drink and drive, 

So why am I the one to die?

Poem – Advice To A Lover – Anonymous

The sea hath many thousand sands, 

The sun hath motes as many; 

The sky is full of stars, and Love 

As full of woes as any: 

Believe me, that do know the elf, 

And make no trial by thyself! 
It is in truth a pretty toy 

For babes to play withal: 

But O, the honies of our youth 

Are oft our age’s gall: 

Self-proof in time will make thee know 

He was a prophet told thee so: 
A prophet that, Cassandra-like, 

Tells truth without belief; 

For headstrong Youth will run his race, 

Although his goal be grief: – 

Love’s Martyr, when his heat is past, 

Proves Care’s Confessor at the last.

Poem – My Soul is Dark – George Gordon Byron

My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear; 

And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear. 

If in this heart a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm it forth again: 

If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. 
But bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first: 

I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst; 

For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 

And ached in sleepless silence, long; 

And now ’tis doomed to know the worst, 

And break at once – or yield to song.

हिँड्दै छौ कि बस्यौ कतै – माधव प्रसाद घिमिरे

माधव प्रसाद घिमिरे  Oct 22, 1919

माधव प्रसाद घिमिरे
Oct 22, 1919

गौरी खण्ड काव्य – ०७

फर्कन्छन् वन शैलबाट बचरा सम्झेर पन्छीहरू
फर्कन्छन् परबाट प्यार घरको सम्झेर यात्रीहरू
हे रानी ! अझ फर्किनौ किन यहाँ अल्प्यौ अँध्यारातिर
हेर्छ झ्यालमहाँ बसेर टुहुरी यो शान्ति धारातिर

कोठा शून्य छ यो, उठीकन अहो ! बाटो कहाँको लियौ
तिर्खाएर पियौ कहाँ जल, यहाँ गाग्री भरेकी थियौ
टाढाको कुन छहारीमनि बसी सम्झेर के के गयौ
दौडायो कुन दूरदेश विधिले, एक्लै कसोरी गयौ

हिँड्दै छौ कि बस्यौ कतै, मुलुक त्यो कस्तो छ, यस्तै छकि
त्यो छायामय लोकबाट कहिल्यै यो लोक देखिन्छ कि
छन् तिम्रा मुखमा अझै बिफरका बुट्टा कि कस्ती भयौ
स्वप्नामा जुन आउँछ्यौ, भन त्यही सम्झूँ कि भिन्नै भयौ

लागेको मनमा छ के भन त्यहाँ हास्छ्यौ कसोरी तिमी
सम्झी शान्ति र कान्ति दूधकटुवा रुन्छ्यौ कि क्यारे तिमी
दिन्नन् फर्कन फेरि बिर्सन पनी, द्यौताहरु निठ्ठुर
त्यो एकै छिनको मात्र बिछुडले कत्रो महा–अन्तर !

हामी छौँ सुखमा कि आज दुःखमा के भन्नु के भन्नु ख्वै
आफैँ मर्न सकिन्न, बाँच्नु कसरी, के गर्नु के गर्नु ख्वै
छौ देवी सुखमा भने यदि त्यहाँ हामी रुँदैनौ यहाँ
हाम्रै साथ थियौ कुनै दिन भनी सम्झेर बस्छौँ यहाँ

बाँचुन्जेल सकेँ र गर्न अब के सक्नेछु गर्नै म हे
चाँडै नै सँगिनी ! गयौ नि मनका इच्छा मनैमा रहे
बाँचुन्जेल त चिन्न नै सकिनँ हे जाहान ! जे भन्दछ्यौ
गाढा आज हुँदो छ प्रेम, जति नै टाढा तिमी बन्दछ्यौ

लीलाले कहिलेकहीँ त भुइँमा ओर्लेर आऊ तिमी
नौला मानिस खेत चौर हरिया हेरेर जाऊ तिमी
आऊ शान्ति र कान्तिमा अमृतको देऊ नयाँ चुम्बन
आऊ यो मनमा पसेर सहजै लेऊ नयाँ जीवन

तिम्रा गीत म फाँट शैल वनका एक्लासमा गाउँला
आफ्ना मानिसका गएर घरमा तिम्रा कथा गाउँला
हुर्काईकन शान्ति कान्ति भुइँमा छाडी त्यहाँ आउँला
देवी ! अन्तिम साँझमा गहभरी आँसू लिई आउँला

कविता – बिर्सी बिर्सी सकिन्न – माधब प्रसाद घिमिरे

माधव प्रसाद  घिमिरे  Oct 22, 1919

माधव प्रसाद घिमिरे
Oct 22, 1919

गौरी खण्ड काव्य – ०४

लीला माइतका भुलेर घरका धन्दा तिमीले गर्यो
आमाको ममता भुलेर कसरी माया मलाई गर्यो
छातीबाट झिकेर प्राणसरिका छोरी मलाई दियौ
हेरी आखिर घाटबाट रसिला आँखा ममा चिम्लियौ

ख्वै छोरीहरु छन् कता, म त गएँ, ख्वै माइती छन् कहाँ !
प्यारा ! यति रहेछ भेट, टुहुरी हेरेर बस्नु यहाँ !’
धोको यत्ति कहेर के हृदयले उल्टीरहेकी थियौ
हेरी आखिर घाटबाट रसिला आँखा ममा चिम्लियौ

मैले सोधिनँ, अन्त्यकाल कुनमा धोको अडेको थियो
मैले रोइनँ, प्राण जान कतिको बाधा परेको थियो
हेरेँ टुल्टुल खाली, दीन मुखमा हेरीरहेकी थियौ
हेरी आखिर घाटबाट रसिला आँखा ममा चिम्लियौ

आँसू झर्न सकेन खालि रसिला आँखा लिएकी थियौ
बाक्लो फुट्न सकेन खालि दिलको भाषा भनेकी थियौ
मेरो ध्यान गरी मभित्र कसरी आत्मा मिलाईदियौ
हेरी आखिर घाटबाट रसिला आँखा ममा चिम्लियौ

गथ्र्यौँ दम्पति मृत्युका पनि कुरा माया र सन्तोषमा
भन्थ्यौ– मैँ पहिले मरुँ हजुरको प्यारो यही काखमा !
साँच्चै भाग्यवती सती हृदयकी सच्चा ! मलाई जित्यौ
हेरी आखिर घाटबाट रसिला आँखा ममा चिम्लियौ

तिम्रो पाप थिएन, चार दिनको चोला थियो कञ्चन
तिम्रो धर्म थियो, सुन्यौ दिनभरी श्रीकृष्णको कीर्तन
राती शीतल मेघको मनि महानिद्रा सजीलै लियौ
हेरी आखिर घाटबाट रसिला आँखा ममा चिम्लियौ

तिम्रो रुप र माधुरी धमिलिँदै जाला कुनै कालमा
जानेछन् अनि बिर्र्सदै गुन पनी यो बैगुनी विश्वमा
बिर्सि बिर्सिसकिन्न किन्तु कहिल्यै जो यो अनौठो गर्यो
हेरी आखिर घाटबाट रसिला आँखा ममा चिम्लियौ

Poem – Childish Recollections – George Gordon Byron

‘I cannot but remember such things were, 

And were most dear to me.’ 
WHEN slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 

Chills the warm, tide which flows along the veins 

When Health,affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 

And flies with every changing gale of spring; 

Not to the aching frame alone confined, 

Unyielding pangs avail the drooping mind: 

What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe, 

Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow 

With Resignaion wage relentless strife, 

While Hope retires appall’d, and clings to life! 

Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour, 

Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 

Calls back the vanish’d days to rapture given, 

When love was bliss, and Beauty form’d our heaven; 

Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 

Those farry bowers, where all in turn have been. 

As when through clouds that pour the sumrner storm 

The orb of day unveils his distant form, 

Gilds with faiht beams the crystal dews of rain, 

And dimly twinkles o’er the watery plain; 

Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams 

The sun of memory, glowing through my drearns 

Though sunk’ the radiance of his former blaze, 

To scenes far distant points his paler rays; 

Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 

The past confounding with the present day. 
Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 

Which still recurs, uniook’d for and Unsought 

My soul to Fancy’s fond suggestion yields, 

And roams romantic o’er her airy fields. 

Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 

To which I long have bade a last adieu! 

Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes; 

Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams; 

Some who in marble prematurely sleep. 

Whose forms I now remember but to weep; 

Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 

Of early science, future fame the source; 

Who, still contending in the studious race, 

In quick rotation fill the senior place. 

These with a thousand visions now unite, 

To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight 

Ida blest spot, where science holds her reign, 

How joyous once I join’d thv youthful train! 

Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 

Again I mingle with thy playful quire; 

Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 

Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same. 

Through winding paths along the glade, I trace 

The social smile of every welcome face; 

My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe, 

Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, 

Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past,- 

I bless the former and forgive the last. 

Hours of my youth! when, nurtured in my breast, 

To love a stranger, friendship made me blest 

Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth 

When every artless bosom throbs with truth 

Untaught my worldly wisdom how to feign, 

And check each impulse with prudential rein; 

When all we feel, our honest souls disclose 

In love to friends, in open hate to toes; 

No varnish’d tales the lips of youth repeat, 

No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit, 

Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen’d years, 

Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 

When now the boy is ripen’d into man, 

His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan; 

Instructs his son from candour’s path to shrink, 

Smoothly to speak, and cauautiously to think; 

Still to assent, and never to deny – 

A patron’s praise can well reward the lie: 

And who, when Fortune’s warning voice is heard, 

Would lose his opening prospects for a word, 

Although against that word his heart rebel, 

And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 
Away with themes like this! not mine the task 

From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask; 

Let keener bards delight in satire’s sting; 

My fancy soars not on Detraction’s wing: 

Once, and but once, she aim’d a deadly blow, 

To hurl defiance on a secret foe; 

But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, 

The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 

Warn’d by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 

With this submission all her rage expired. 

From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 

She hush’d her young resentment, and forgave; 

Or, my muse a pedant’s portrait drew, 

POMPOSUS’ virtues are but known to few: 

I never fear’d the young usurper’s nod, 

And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 

If since on Granta’s failings, known to all 

Who share the converse of a college hall, 

She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 

‘Tis past, and thus she will not sin again; 

Soon must her early song for ever cease, 

And all may rsii when I shall rest in peace. 
Here first remember’d be the joyous band, 

Who hail’d me chief, obedient to command; 

Who join’d with rne in every boyish sport – 

Their first adviser, and their last resort; 

Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant’s frown, 

Or all the sable glories of his gown; 

Who, thus transplanted from his father’s school – 

Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule – 

Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise, 

The dear preceptor of my early days! 

PROBUS, the pride of science,and the boast, 

To IDA now, alas! for ever lost, 

With him, for years, we search’d the classic page, 

And fear’d the master, though we loved the sage: 

Retired at last’ his small yet peacefull seat 

From learning’s labour is the blest retreat, 

POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair; 

POMPOSUS governs,- but, my muse, forbear: 

Contempt, in silence, be the pedant’s lot; 

His name and precepts be alike forgot; 

No more his mention shall my verse degrade 

To him my tribute is already paid. 
High through those elms, with hoary branches crown’d, 

Fair Ida’s bower adorns the landscape round; 

There Science, from her favour’d seat, surveys 

The vale where rural Nature claims her praise; 

To her awhile resigns her youthful train, 

Who move in joy, and dance along the plain. 

In scatter’d groups each favour’d haunt pursue, 

Repeat old pastimes, and discover new; 

Flush’d with his rays, beneath the noon-tide sun, 

In rival bands, between the wickets run, 

Drive o’er the sward the ball with active force, 

Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 

But these with slower steps direct their way, 

Where Brent’s cool waves in limpid currents stray; 

While yonder few search out some green retreat 

And arbours shade them from the summer heat: 

Others, again, a pert and lively crew, 

Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 

With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, 

And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes; 

Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 

Tradition treasures for a future day: 

‘Twas here the gather’d swains for vengeance fought, 

And here we earn’d the conquest dearly bought; 

Here have we fled before superior might, 

And here renew’d the wild tumultuous fight.’ 

While thus our souls with early passions swell 

In lingering tones resounds the distant bell, 

Th’ allotted hour of daily sport is o’er, 

And Learning beckons from her temple’s door. 

No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 

But ruder records fill the dusky wall; 

There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro’s name 

Secures its owner’s academic fame; 

Here mingling view the names of sire and son – 

The one long graved, the other just begun: 

These shall survive alike when son and sire 

Beneath one common stroke of fate expire; 

Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 

Denied in death a monumental stone, 

Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 

The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 

And here my name, and many an early friend’s, 

Along the wall in lengthen’d line extends. 

Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 

Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, 

Who young obey’d their lords in silent awe, 

Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law; 

And now, in turn, possess the reins of power, 

To rule, the little tyrants of an hour; 

Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day, 

They pass the dreary winter’s eve away — 

‘And thus our former rulers stemm’d the tide, 

And thus they dealt the combat side by side; 

Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 

Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail’d; 

Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell, 

And here he falter’d forth his last farewell; 

And here one night abroad they dared to roam, 

While bold POMPOSUS bravely stay’d at home;’ 

While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 

When names of these, like ours, alone survive: 

Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 

The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 
Dear honest race! though now we meet no more, 

One last long look on what we were before — 

Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu – 

Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 

Through splendid circles, fashion’s gaudy world, 

Where folly’s glaring standard waves unfurl’d, 

I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 

And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 

Vain wish! if chance some well-remember’d face, 

Some old companion of my early race, 

Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, 

My eyes, my heart, proclaim’d me still a boy; 

The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around’ 

Were quite forgotten when my friend was found; 

The smiles of beauty–(for, alas! I’ve known 

What ’tis to bend before Love’s mighty throne)– 

The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, 

Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near; 

My thoughts bewilder’d in the fond surprise, 

The woods of IDA danced before my eyes; 

I saw the sprightly wand’rers pour along, 

I saw and join’d again the joyous throng; 

Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 

And friendship’s feelings triumph’d over love. 

Yet why should I alone with such delight 

Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 

Is there no cause beyond the common claim 

Endear’d to all in childhood’s very name? 

Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 

Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear 

To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 

And seek abroad the love denied at home. 

Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee– 

A home, a worid, a paradise to me. 

Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 

The tender guidance of a father’s care. 

Can rank, or e’en a guardian’s name supply 

The love which glistens in a father’s eye? 

For this can wealth or title’s sound atone, 

Made, by a parent’s early loss, my own? 

What brother springs a brother’s love to seek? 

What sister’s gentle kiss has prest my cheek? 

For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 

To no fond bosom link’d by kindred ties! 

Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 

Fraternal smiles collected round me seem; 

While still the visions to my heart are prest, 

The voice of love will murmur in my rest: 

I hear-I wake-and in the sound rejoice; 

I hear again,-but, ah! no brother’s voice. 

A hermit, ‘midst of crowds, I fain must stray 

Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way; 

While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine 

I cannot call one single blossom mine: 

What then remains? in solitude to groan, 

To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 

Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 

And none more dear than IDA’S social band. 

Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends, 

Thy name ennobles him who thus commends; 

From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise; 

The praise as his who now that tribute pays. 

Oh! in the promise of thy early youth, 

If hope anticipate the words of truth, 

Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 

To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 

Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 

Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 

Oft have we drain’d the font of ancient lore; 

Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 

Yet, when confinement’s lingering hour was done, 

Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one: 

Together we impell’d the flying ball; 

Together waited in our tutor’s hall; 

Together join’d in cricket’s manly toil, 

Or shared the produce of the river’s spoil; 

Or, plunging from the green declining shore, 

Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore; 

In every element, unchanged, the same, 

All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 
Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy! 

DAVUS, the harbinger of childish joy; 

For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, 

The laughing herald of the harmless pun; 

Yet with a breast of such materials made– 

Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 

Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 

In danger’s path, though not untaught to feel. 

Sill I remember, in the factious strife, 

The rustic’s musket aim’d against my life: 

High pois’d in air the massy weapon hung, 

A cry of horror burst from every tongue; 

Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 

Fought on, unconscious of th’ impending blow; 

Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career– 

Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 

Disarm’d and baffled by your conquering hand, 

Thc grovelling savage roll’d upon,the sand: 

An act like this, can simple thanks repay? 

Or all the labours of a grateful lay? 

Oh no! whene’er my breast forgets the deed, 

That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed. 
LYCUS! on me thy claims are justly great: 

Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 

To thee alone, unrivall’d would belong. 

The feeble efforts of my lengthen’d song. 

Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 

A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: 

Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 

Lycus! thy father’s fame will soon be thine. 

Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 

What may we hope from genius thus re fined! 

When time at length matures thy growing years, 

How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers! 

Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 

With honour’s soul, united beam in thee. 
Shall fair EURYALUS pass by unsung? 

From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung: 

What though one sad dissension bade us part? 

That name is yet embalm’d within my heart; 

Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 

And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 

Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will: 

We once were friends, –I’ll think we are so still. 

A form unmatch’d in nature’s partial mould, 

A heart untainted, we in thee behold: 

Yet not the senate’s thunder thou shalt wield, 

Nor seek for glory in the tented field; 

To minds of ruder texture these be given– 

Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 

Haply, in polish’d courts might be thy seat, 

But that thy tongue could never forge deceit: 

The courtier’s supple bow and sneering smile, 

The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 

Would make that breast with indignation burn, 

And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 

Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate; 

Sacred to love, unclouded e’er by hate; 

The world admire thee, and thy friends adore; 

Ambition’s slave alone would toil for more. 
Now last, but nearest of the social band, 

See honest, open, generous CLEON stand; 

With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, 

No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 

On the same day our studious race begun, 

On the same day our studious race was run; 

Thus side by side we pass’d our first career, 

Thus side by side we strove for many a year; 

At last concluded our scholastic life, 

We neither conquer’d in the classic strife: 

As speakers each supports an equal name, 

And crowds allow to both a partial fame: 

To soothe a youthful rival’s early pride, 

Though Cleon’s candour would the palm divide, 

Yet candour’s self compels me now to own 

Justice awards it to my friend alone. 
Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 

Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear! 

Drooping, she bends o’er pensive Fancy’s urn, 

To trace the hours which never can return; 

Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 

And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell! 

Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 

As infant laurels round my head were twined, 

When PROBUS’ praise repaid my lyric song, 

Or placed me higher in the studious throng; 

Or when my first harangue received applause, 

His sage instruction the primeval cause, 

What gratitude to him my soul posseat, 

While hope of dawning honours fill’d my breast! 

For all my humble fame, to him alone 

The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 

Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays, 

These young effusions of my early days, 

To him my muse her noblest strain would give: 

The song might perish, but the theme might live. 

Yet why for him the needless verse essay? 

His honour’d name requires no vain display: 

By every son of grateful IDA blest, 

It finds an echo in each youthful breast; 

A fame beyond the glories of the proud, 

Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 
IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme, 

Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 

How many a friend deserves the grateful strain! 

What scenes of childhood still unsung remain! 

Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 

This parting song, the dearest and the last; 

And brood in secret o’er those hours of joy, 

To me a silent and a sweet employ, 

While future hope and fear alike unknown, 

I think with pleasure on the past alone; 

Yes to the past alone my heart confine, 

And chase the phantom of what once was mine. 
IDA! still o’er thy hills in joy preside, 

And proudly steer through time’s eventful tide; 

Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 

Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear,- 

That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow, 

O’er their last scene of happiness below. 

Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along, 

The feeble veterans of some former throng, 

Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl’d, 

Are swept for ever from this busy world; 

Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 

While Care has yet withheld her venom’d tooth; 

Say if remembrance days like these endears 

Beyond the rapture of succeeding years? 

Say, can ambition’s fever’d dream bestow 

So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe? 

Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 

Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 

Can stars or ermine, man’s maturer toys 

(For glittering baubles are not left to boys), 

Recall one scene so much beloved to view, 

As those where Youth her garland twined for you? 

Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age 

You turn with faltering hand life’s varied page; 

Peruse the record of your days on earth, 

Unsullied only where it marks your birth; 

Still lingering pause above each chequer’d leaf, 

And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 

Where passion o’er the theme her mantle threw, 

Or weeping Virtue sigh’d a faint adieu; 

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, 

Traced by the rosy finger of the morn; 

When Friendship bow’d before the shrine of Truth, 

And Love without his pinion, smiled on Youth.

Poem – A Sketch – George Gordon Byron

 Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 

Promoted thence to deck her mistress’ head; 

Next for some gracious service unexpress’d, 

And from its wages only to be guess’d­ 

Raised from the toilette to the table,­ where 

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash’d, 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash’d. 

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, 

The genial confidante, and general spy, 

Who could, ye gods! her next employ­ment guess– 

An only infants earliest governess! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 

That she herself, by teaching, learn’d to spell. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows; 

As many a nameless slander deftly shows. 

What she had made the pupil of her art, 

None know–but that high Soul secured the heart, 

And panted for the truth it could not hear, 

With longing breast and undeluded ear. 

Foil’d was perversion by that youthful mind, 

Which Flattery fool’d not, Baseness could not blind, 

Deceit infect not, near Contagion soil, 

Indulgence weaken, nor Example spoil, 

Nor master’d Science tempt her to look down 

On humbler talents with a pitying frown, 

Nor Genius swell, nor Beauty render vain, 

Nor Envy ruffle o retaliate pain, 

Nor Fortune change, Pride raise, nor Passion bow, 

Nor virtue teach austerity-till now. 

Serenely purest of her sex that live, 

But wanting one sweet weakness–to for­give, 

Too shock’d at faults her soul can never know, 

She deems that all could be like her be­low: 

Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue’s friend, 

For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 
But to the theme, now laid aside too long, 

The baleful burthen of this honest song, 

Though all her former functions are no more, 

She rules the circle which she served before. 
If mothers–none know why–before her quake; 

If daughters dread her for the mothers’ sake; 

If early habits–those false links, which bind 

At times the loftiest to the meanest mind­ 

Have given her power too deeply to instil 

The angry essence of her deadly will; 

If like a snake she steal within your walls, 

Till the black slime betray her as she crawls; 

If like a viper to the heart she wind, 

And leave the venom there she did not find; 

What marvel that this hag of hatred works 

Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells? 

Skill’d by a touch to deepen scandal’s tints 

With all the kind mendacity of hints, 

While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles,

A thread of candour with a web of wiles: 

A plain blunt show of briefly–spoken seaming, 

To hide her bloodless heart’s soul­-harden’d scheming; 

A lip of lies; a face form’d to conceal, 

And, without feeling, mock at all who feel: 

With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown , 

A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone. 

Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 

Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 

Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 

Or darker greenness of the scorpion’s scale– 

(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 

Congenial colours in that soul or face) 

Look on her features! and behold her mind 

As in a mirror of itself defined: 

Look on the picture! deem it not o’ercharged 

There is no trait which might not be enlarged: 

Yet true to ‘Nature’s journeymen,’ who made 

This monster when their mistress left off trade– 

This female dog-star of her little sky, 

Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 
Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought, 

Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought– 

The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 

Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now; 

Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 

And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 

May the strong curse of crush ‘d affections light 

Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! 

And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 

As loathsome to thyself as to mankind! 

Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 

Black–as thy will for others would create: 

Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 

And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 

Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, 

The widow’d couch of fire, that thou hast spread! 

Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer, 

Look on thine earthly victims–and despair! 

Down to the dust!–and, as thou rott’st away, 

Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 

But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 

To her thy malice from all ties would tear– 

Thy name–thy human name–to every eye 

The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 

Exalted o’er thy less abhorr’d compeers– 

And festering in the infamy of years.
 

Poem – In The Waiting Room – Elizabeth Bishop

In Worcester, Massachusetts, 

I went with Aunt Consuelo 

to keep her dentist’s appointment 

and sat and waited for her 

in the dentist’s waiting room. 

It was winter. It got dark 

early. The waiting room 

was full of grown-up people, 

arctics and overcoats, 

lamps and magazines. 

My aunt was inside 

what seemed like a long time 

and while I waited and read 

the National Geographic 

(I could read) and carefully 

studied the photographs: 

the inside of a volcano, 

black, and full of ashes; 

then it was spilling over 

in rivulets of fire. 

Osa and Martin Johnson 

dressed in riding breeches, 

laced boots, and pith helmets. 

A dead man slung on a pole 

“Long Pig,” the caption said. 

Babies with pointed heads 

wound round and round with string; 

black, naked women with necks 

wound round and round with wire 

like the necks of light bulbs. 

Their breasts were horrifying. 

I read it right straight through. 

I was too shy to stop. 

And then I looked at the cover: 

the yellow margins, the date. 

Suddenly, from inside, 

came an oh! of pain 

–Aunt Consuelo’s voice– 

not very loud or long. 

I wasn’t at all surprised; 

even then I knew she was 

a foolish, timid woman. 

I might have been embarrassed, 

but wasn’t. What took me 

completely by surprise 

was that it was me: 

my voice, in my mouth. 

Without thinking at all 

I was my foolish aunt, 

I–we–were falling, falling, 

our eyes glued to the cover 

of the National Geographic, 

February, 1918. 
I said to myself: three days 

and you’ll be seven years old. 

I was saying it to stop 

the sensation of falling off 

the round, turning world. 

into cold, blue-black space. 

But I felt: you are an I, 

you are an Elizabeth, 

you are one of them. 

Why should you be one, too? 

I scarcely dared to look 

to see what it was I was. 

I gave a sidelong glance 

–I couldn’t look any higher– 

at shadowy gray knees, 

trousers and skirts and boots 

and different pairs of hands 

lying under the lamps. 

I knew that nothing stranger 

had ever happened, that nothing 

stranger could ever happen. 
Why should I be my aunt, 

or me, or anyone? 

What similarities 

boots, hands, the family voice 

I felt in my throat, or even 

the National Geographic 

and those awful hanging breasts 

held us all together 

or made us all just one? 

How I didn’t know any 

word for it how “unlikely”. . . 

How had I come to be here, 

like them, and overhear 

a cry of pain that could have 

got loud and worse but hadn’t? 
The waiting room was bright 

and too hot. It was sliding 

beneath a big black wave, 

another, and another. 
Then I was back in it. 

The War was on. Outside, 

in Worcester, Massachusetts, 

were night and slush and cold, 

and it was still the fifth 

of February, 1918.

Poem – Large Bad Picture – Elizabeth Bishop

Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or 

some northerly harbor of Labrador, 

before he became a schoolteacher 

a great-uncle painted a big picture. 
Receding for miles on either side 

into a flushed, still sky 

are overhanging pale blue cliffs 

hundreds of feet high, 
their bases fretted by little arches, 

the entrances to caves 

running in along the level of a bay 

masked by perfect waves. 
On the middle of that quiet floor 

sits a fleet of small black ships, 

square-rigged, sails furled, motionless, 

their spars like burnt match-sticks. 
And high above them, over the tall cliffs’ 

semi-translucent ranks, 

are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds 

hanging in n’s in banks. 
One can hear their crying, crying, 

the only sound there is 

except for occasional sizhine 

as a large aquatic animal breathes. 
In the pink light 

the small red sun goes rolling, rolling, 

round and round and round at the same height 

in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling, 
while the ships consider it. 

Apparently they have reached their destination. 

It would be hard to say what brought them there, 

commerce or contemplation.
 

माया गर्नेको चोखो माया पनि देखियो – काली प्रसाद रिजाल

काली प्रसाद रिजाल

काली प्रसाद रिजाल


माया गर्नेको चोखो माया पनि देखियो
वाचा गर्नेको वाचा बन्धन पनि देखियो

फूल सुकुमार छ को निस्पाप छ कोमल भन्थे
फूलको धारले रेटेको पनि देखियो

रोई रोई नछुट्टिने कसम खानेले
हाँसी हाँसी कसम तोडेको पनि देखियो

सबको भगवान छ भगवानले हेर्छन् भन्थ्यौ
तिम्रो भगवानले हेरेको पनि देखियो

झेल भो धेरै जिन्दगीमा – काली प्रसाद रिजाल

कालीप्रसाद रिजाल

कालीप्रसाद रिजाल


झेल भो धेरै जिन्दगीमा
झेलै झेल भो
मेरो माया उसको लागि
हाँस्ने खेल भो

के दुख्थ्यो र कलेजी यो
रेट्दा करौंतीले
यति साह्रो दुख्यो आज
छाड्दा निष्ठुरीले
कस्तो मायाजालमा पर्यो
त्यै नै काल भो

आफू पर्यो सोझो नि हौ
मीठो गर्थ्यौ कुरा
मुखै मात्र मीठो रैछ
भित्र धारी छुरा
जीउको नाश धनको कती
यस्तो चाल भो

Poem – At The Fishhouses -Elizabeth Bishop 

Although it is a cold evening, 

down by one of the fishhouses 

an old man sits netting, 

his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, 

a dark purple-brown, 

and his shuttle worn and polished. 

The air smells so strong of codfish 

it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water. 

The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs 

and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up 

to storerooms in the gables 

for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. 

All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, 

swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, 

is opaque, but the silver of the benches, 

the lobster pots, and masts, scattered 

among the wild jagged rocks, 

is of an apparent translucence 

like the small old buildings with an emerald moss 

growing on their shoreward walls. 

The big fish tubs are completely lined 

with layers of beautiful herring scales 

and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered 

with creamy iridescent coats of mail, 

with small iridescent flies crawling on them. 

Up on the little slope behind the houses, 

set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass, 

is an ancient wooden capstan, 

cracked, with two long bleached handles 

and some melancholy stains, like dried blood, 

where the ironwork has rusted. 

The old man accepts a Lucky Strike. 

He was a friend of my grandfather. 

We talk of the decline in the population 

and of codfish and herring 

while he waits for a herring boat to come in. 

There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb. 

He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty, 

from unnumbered fish with that black old knife, 

the blade of which is almost worn away. 
Down at the water’s edge, at the place 

where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp 

descending into the water, thin silver 

tree trunks are laid horizontally 

across the gray stones, down and down 

at intervals of four or five feet. 
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, 

element bearable to no mortal, 

to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly 

I have seen here evening after evening. 

He was curious about me. He was interested in music; 

like me a believer in total immersion, 

so I used to sing him Baptist hymns. 

I also sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” 

He stood up in the water and regarded me 

steadily, moving his head a little. 

Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge 

almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug 

as if it were against his better judgment. 

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, 

the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us, 

the dignified tall firs begin. 

Bluish, associating with their shadows, 

a million Christmas trees stand 

waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended 

above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones. 

I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, 

slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, 

icily free above the stones, 

above the stones and then the world. 

If you should dip your hand in, 

your wrist would ache immediately, 

your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn 

as if the water were a transmutation of fire 

that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame. 

If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, 

then briny, then surely burn your tongue. 

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: 

dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, 

drawn from the cold hard mouth 

of the world, derived from the rocky breasts 

forever, flowing and drawn, and since 

our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

Poem – A Summer’s Dream – Elizabeth Bishop

To the sagging wharf 

few ships could come. 

The population numbered 

two giants, an idiot, a dwarf, 
a gentle storekeeper 

asleep behind his counter, 

and our kind landlady— 

the dwarf was her dressmaker. 
The idiot could be beguiled 

by picking blackberries, 

but then threw them away. 

The shrunken seamstress smiled. 
By the sea, lying 

blue as a mackerel, 

our boarding house was streaked 

as though it had been crying. 
Extraordinary geraniums 

crowded the front windows, 

the floors glittered with 

assorted linoleums. 
Every night we listened 

for a horned owl. 

In the horned lamp flame, 

the wallpaper glistened. 
The giant with the stammer 

was the landlady’s son, 

grumbling on the stairs 

over an old grammar. 
He was morose, 

but she was cheerful. 

The bedroom was cold, 

the feather bed close. 
We were awakened in the dark by 

the somnambulist brook 

nearing the sea, 

still dreaming audibly.

 

Poem – A Miracle For Breakfast – Elizabeth Bishop

At six o’clock we were waiting for coffee, 

waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb 

that was going to be served from a certain balcony 

–like kings of old, or like a miracle. 

It was still dark. One foot of the sun 

steadied itself on a long ripple in the river. 
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river. 

It was so cold we hoped that the coffee 

would be very hot, seeing that the sun 

was not going to warm us; and that the crumb 

would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle. 

At seven a man stepped out on the balcony. 
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony 

looking over our heads toward the river. 

A servant handed him the makings of a miracle, 

consisting of one lone cup of coffee 

and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb, 

his head, so to speak, in the clouds–along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun 

was he trying to do, up there on his balcony! 

Each man received one rather hard crumb, 

which some flicked scornfully into the river, 

and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee. 

Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle. 
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle. 

A beautiful villa stood in the sun 

and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee. 

In front, a baroque white plaster balcony 

added by birds, who nest along the river, 

–I saw it with one eye close to the crumb– 
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb 

my mansion, made for me by a miracle, 

through ages, by insects, birds, and the river 

working the stone. Every day, in the sun, 

at breakfast time I sit on my balcony 

with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee. 
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee. 

A window across the river caught the sun 

as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.

Poem -River: Morning – Yuyutsu Sharma

Cruel river 

knows each time 

I come to brood 

over her roaring waters 

each time I come 

to her deafening banks 

to gleam my dreams 

over the plump flanks of her warm body 

each time I come 

to pour last of my life’s salt 

in the ringing gorges 

of her sonorous frame, 

a bone breaks 

in my smoldering chest 

and a wrinkle appears 

across the shriveled leaf of my life.

Poem – River at Night – Yuyutsu Sharma

Dark night 

I cannot see the river. 

I can only 

hear it thundering rumble. 

A water well explodes 

enamored in the fleshy 

clutch of fluffy 

clouds, making a cave of this gorge. 

Only fingers of the fireflies 

illuminate its shape, the wild limbs, 

as the river fumbles 

curled around the hefty thighs of the night 

to find a wink of sleep.

Poem -Space Cake, Amsterdam – Yuyutsu Sharma

“Don’t panic,” they said, 

remain cool like your Krishna, 

meditate maybe like Buddha, 

uttering ‘Om Mani Padme,’ jewel in the lotus, 

or lie down and relax 

like Vishnu on the python-bed 

to float on the ocean’s currents, 

buoyant on the invisible thread 

of your breath in slow motion… 
Millions of cats prowled around me. 

Smoke from shared sex 

and hashish joints stung my eyes. 

Unsettling tongue 

of an awkward fire fed my stomach. 

I skidded queasily towards 

towards the formidable edge, 

unknown ominous frontiers of human life… 
They laughed a secret laugh 

behind my back – “Isn’t it crazy that 

this man from Kathmandu should get stoned 

from a piece of space cake in Amsterdam?” 
“Don’t be serious, laugh, 

celebrate the flame of life!” a woman’s voice said. 

“Hold my hand; I can imagine 

you are alone on this trail. 

I’v been there once,” she whispered. 

Her tongue curled like a dry leaf in my ear 

and crackled “How much did you take, 

just a piece? I took thirty-eight grams once, 

It can be crazy if you don’t know it’s coming. 

Just don’t worry too much. 

Don’t lose your control over things. 

You can kiss me if you like, 

You can pat my back, 

tickle my belly or stroke my breasts 

for a while, if it comforts you. 

Sometimes it can be heavenly, 

this licking the rim of the forbidden frontiers of human life. 
“That’s what he wants, that’s exactly 

what he’s looking for,” a voice leered far off. 

“But I have to go ultimately, 

I’ve a man waiting at home for me.” 
“Maybe read a poem of yours,” 

someone said. My heart raced wild 

and I heard some-girls gossip in the next room— 

What if he gets sick in Europe? 

Don’t we get sick in Asia? 

“Just take it easy,” another voice echoed 

“You won’t go psychotic. Remember one thing, 

whatever happens, you can always make a comeback.”

Faces of my dear ones veered past my face. 

I felt delicate thread of my life 

slipping through my fingers 

“Hey man, it’s fine. Don’t worry too much.” 

My host shouted. “Drink lots of water.” 

Drink black tea or coffee,” a guest suggested. 

“Or take lots of orange juice.” 

“Maybe sing your favorite song,” a woman said. 

“Or recite one of your Hindu mantras.” 

“Maybe stick your finger into your throat” 

another voice came sheepishly, “And throw up. 

You probably haven’t digested everything yet.” 
Questions came like wind slaps. 

“Can you tell me what they call boredom 

in your mother tongue? Do you remember 

your email account and password? 

Discuss your children, if you have any. 

Shall I bring my little daughter before you? 

Maybe you’d feel better then, 

seeing her brilliant eyes.” 
I imagined a child’s face and clung to it, 

like a penitent would hold onto 

a sacred cow’s tail in his afterlife, 

and slept on it, all through the river of blood… 
Hours passed by 

and then I heard someone say— 

What if he had freaked out? 

What if Death had stalked our house tonight? 
Hearing these words, I woke up 

knowing I’d come back, stepped on 

the familiar shores of life 

where Death’s feared, a distant distrustful thing. 

My drowse burst like a glacial that cracks 

from rumble of a seed of fire 

that explodes somewhere in earth’s deep sleep.

Poem – A Poet To His Beloved – William Butler Yeats

I BRING you with reverent hands 

The books of my numberless dreams, 

White woman that passion has worn 

As the tide wears the dove-grey sands, 

And with heart more old than the horn 

That is brimmed from the pale fire of time: 

White woman with numberless dreams, 

I bring you my passionate rhyme.

Poem – A Dream Of Death –  William Butler Yeats

I DREAMED that one had died in a strange place 

Near no accustomed hand, 

And they had nailed the boards above her face, 

The peasants of that land, 

Wondering to lay her in that solitude, 

And raised above her mound 

A cross they had made out of two bits of wood, 

And planted cypress round; 

And left her to the indifferent stars above 

Until I carved these words: 

i{She was more beautiful than thy first love,} 

i{But now lies under boards.}

Poem – A Bronze Head – William Butler Yeats

HERE at right of the entrance this bronze head, 

Human, superhuman, a bird’s round eye, 

Everything else withered and mummy-dead. 

What great tomb-haunter sweeps the distant sky 

(Something may linger there though all else die;) 

And finds there nothing to make its tetror less 

i{Hysterica passio} of its own emptiness? 
No dark tomb-haunter once; her form all full 

As though with magnanimity of light, 

Yet a most gentle woman; who can tell 

Which of her forms has shown her substance right? 

Or maybe substance can be composite, 

profound McTaggart thought so, and in a breath 

A mouthful held the extreme of life and death. 
But even at the starting-post, all sleek and new, 

I saw the wildness in her and I thought 

A vision of terror that it must live through 

Had shattered her soul. Propinquity had brought 

Imagiation to that pitch where it casts out 

All that is not itself: I had grown wild 

And wandered murmuring everywhere, ‘My child, my 

child! ‘ 
Or else I thought her supernatural; 

As though a sterner eye looked through her eye 

On this foul world in its decline and fall; 

On gangling stocks grown great, great stocks run dry, 

Ancestral pearls all pitched into a sty, 

Heroic reverie mocked by clown and knave, 

And wondered what was left for massacre to save.

Poem – When You Wake Tomorrow

I will give you a poem when you wake tomorrow. 

It will be a peaceful poem. 

It won’t make you sad. 

It won’t make you miserable. 

It will simply be a poem to give you 

When you wake tomorrow. 
It was not written by myself alone. 

I cannot lay claim to it. 

I found it in your body. 

In your smile I found it. 

Will you recognise it? 
You will find it under your pillow. 

When you open the cupboard it will be there. 

You will blink in astonishment, 

Shout out, ‘How it trembles! 

Its nakedness is startling! How fresh it tastes!’ 
We will have it for breakfast; 

On a table lit by loving, 

At a place reserved for wonder. 

We will give the world a kissing open 

When we wake tomorrow. 
We will offer it to the sad landlord out on the balcony. 

To the dreamers at the window. 

To the hand waving for no particular reason 

We will offer it. 

An amazing and most remarkable thing, 

We will offer it to the whole human race 

Which walks in us 

When we wake tomorrow.

Poem – Simple Lyric

When I think of her sparkling face 

And of her body that rocked this way and that, 

When I think of her laughter, 

Her jubilance that filled me, 

It’s a wonder I’m not gone mad. 
She is away and I cannot do what I want. 

Other faces pale when I get close. 

She is away and I cannot breathe her in. 
The space her leaving has created 

I have attempted to fill 

With bodies that numbed upon touching, 

Among them I expected her opposite, 

And found only forgeries. 
Her wholeness I know to be a fiction of my making, 

Still I cannot dismiss the longing for her; 

It is a craving for sensation new flesh 

Cannot wholly calm or cancel, 

It is perhaps for more than her. 
At night above the parks the stars are swarming. 

The streets are thick with nostalgia; 

I move through senseless routine and insensitive chatter 

As if her going did not matter. 

She is away and I cannot breathe her in. 

I am ill simply through wanting her.

Poem – First Love

Falling in love was like falling down the stairs Each stair had her name on it 

And he went bouncing down each one like a tongue-tied 

lunatic 

One day of loving her was an ordinary year 

He transformed her into what he wanted 

And the scent from her 

Was the best scent in the world 

Fifteen he was fifteen 

Each night he dreamed of her 

Each day he telephoned her 

Each day was unfamiliar 

Scary even 

And the fear of her going weighed on him like a stone 

And when he could not see her for two nights running 

It seemed a century had passed 

And meeting her and staring at her face 

He knew he would feel as he did forever 

Hopelessly in love 

Sick with it 

And not even knowing her second name yet 

It was the first time 

The best time 

A time that would last forever 

Because it was new 

Because he was ignorant it could ever end 

It was endless

Poem – Friend, Hope For The Guest While You Are Alive – Kabir

Friend, hope for the Guest while you are alive. 

Jump into experience while you are alive! 

Think… and think… while you are alive. 

What you call ‘salvation’ belongs to the time 

before death. 
If you don’t break your ropes while you’re alive, 

do you think 

ghosts will do it after? 
The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic 

just because the body is rotten— 

that is all fantasy. 

What is found now is found then. 

If you find nothing now, 

you will simply end up with an apartment 

in the City of Death. 

If you make love with the divine now, in the next life 

you will have the face of satisfied desire. 
So plunge into the truth, find out who the Teacher is, 

believe in the Great Sound! 
Kabir says this: When the Guest is being search for, 

it is the intensity of the longing for the Guest 

that does all the work. 

Look at me, and you will see a slave of that intensity.

Poem – Tell Me, O Swan, Your Ancient Tale – Kabir

Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale. 

From what land do you come, 

O Swan? to what shore will you fly? 

Where would you take your rest, 

O Swan, and what do you seek? 
Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise, follow me! 

There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: 

where the terror of Death is no more. 

There the woods of spring are a-bloom, 

and the fragrant scent ‘He is I’ is borne on the wind: 

There the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, 

and desires no other joy.

Poem – When He Himself Reveals Himself -Kabir 

When he himself reveals himself, 

Brahma brings into manifestation 

That which can never be seen. 
As the seed is in the plant, 

as the shade is in the tree, 

as the void is in the sky, 

as infinite forms are in the void- 
So from beyond the Infinite, 

the Infinite comes; 

and from the Infinite the finite extends. 
The creature is in Brahma, 

and Brahma is in the creature: 

they are ever distinct, 

yet ever united. 
He Himself is the tree, the seed, and the germ. 

He Himself is the flower, the fruit, and the shade. 

He Himself is the sun, the light, and the lighted. 

He Himself is Brahma, creature, and Maya. 

He Himself is the manifold form, the infinite space; 

He is the breath, the word, and the meaning. 
He Himself is the limit and the limitless: 

and beyond both the limited and the limitless is He, 

the Pure Being. 
He is the Immanent Mind in Brahma and in the creature. 
The Supreme Soul is seen within the soul, 

The Point is seen within the Supreme Soul, 

And within the Point, the reflection is seen again. 

Kabîr is blest because he has this supreme vision!

Poem – Sweet And Twenty – William Shakespeare

O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?

 O, stay and hear! your true love ‘s coming, 

   That can sing both high and low: 

Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 

Journeys end in lovers meeting, 

   Every wise man’s son doth know. 
What is love? ’tis not hereafter; 

Present mirth hath present laughter; 

   What ‘s to come is still unsure: 

In delay there lies no plenty; 

Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty! 

   Youth ‘s a stuff will not endure.

Poem – A prayer – Amy Levy

Since that I may not have Love on this side the grave, 

Let me imagine Love. 

Since not mine is the bliss 

Of ‘claspt hands and lips that kiss,’ 

Let me in dreams it prove. 

What tho’ as the years roll 

No soul shall melt to my soul, 

Let me conceive such thing; 

Tho’ never shall entwine 

Loving arms around mine 

Let dreams caresses bring. 

To live–it is my doom– 

Lonely as in a tomb, 

This cross on me was laid; 

My God, I know not why; 

Here in the dark I lie, 

Lonely, yet not afraid. 

It has seemed good to Thee 

Still to withhold the key 

Which opes the way to men; 

I am shut in alone, 

I make not any moan, 

Thy ways are past my ken. 

Yet grant me this, to find 

The sweetness in my mind 

Which I must still forego; 

Great God which art above, 

Grant me to image Love,– 

The bliss without the woe.

Poem – A Greek Girl – Amy Levy 

I may not weep, not weep, and he is dead. 

A weary, weary weight of tears unshed 

Through the long day in my sad heart I bear; 

The horrid sun with all unpitying glare 

Shines down into the dreary weaving-room, 

Where clangs the ceaseless clatter of the loom, 

And ceaselessly deft maiden-fingers weave 

The fine-wrought web; and I from morn till eve 

Work with the rest, and when folk speak to me 

I smile hard smiles; while still continually 

The silly stream of maiden speech flows on:– 

And now at length they talk of him that’s gone, 

Lightly lamenting that he died so soon– 

Ah me! ere yet his life’s sun stood at noon. 

Some praise his eyes, some deem his body fair, 

And some mislike the colour of his hair! 

Sweet life, sweet shape, sweet eyes, and sweetest hair, 

What form, what hue, save Love’s own, did ye wear? 

I may not weep, not weep, for very shame. 
He loved me not. One summer’s eve he came 

To these our halls, my father’s honoured guest, 

And seeing me, saw not. If his lips had prest 

My lips, but once, in love; his eyes had sent 

One love-glance into mine, I had been content, 

And deemed it great joy for one little life; 

Nor envied other maids the crown of wife: 

The long sure years, the merry children-band– 

Alas, alas, I never touched his hand! 

And now my love is dead that loved not me. 
Thrice-blest, thrice-crowned, of gods thrice-lovèd she– 

That other, fairer maid, who tombward brings 

Her gold, shorn locks and piled-up offerings 

Of fragrant fruits, rich wines, and spices rare, 

And cakes with honey sweet, with saffron fair; 

And who, unchecked by any thought of shame, 

May weep her tears, and call upon his name, 

With burning bosom prest to the cold ground, 

Knowing, indeed, that all her life is crown’d, 

Thrice-crowned, thrice honoured, with that love of his;–

No dearer crown on earth is there, I wis. 
While yet the sweet life lived, more light to bear 

Was my heart’s hunger; when the morn was fair, 

And I with other maidens in a line 

Passed singing through the city to the shrine, 

Oft in the streets or crowded market-place 

I caught swift glimpses of the dear-known face; 

Or marked a stalwart shoulder in the throng; 

Or heard stray speeches as we passed along, 

In tones more dear to me than any song. 

These, hoarded up with care, and kept apart, 

Did serve as meat and drink my hungry heart. 
And now for ever has my sweet love gone; 

And weary, empty days I must drag on, 

Till all the days of all my life be sped, 

By no thought cheered, by no hope comforted. 

For if indeed we meet among the shades, 

How shall he know me from the other maids?– 

Me, that had died to save his body pain! 
Alas, alas, such idle thoughts are vain! 

O cruel, cruel sunlight, get thee gone! 

O dear, dim shades of eve, come swiftly on! 

That when quick lips, keen eyes, are closed in sleep, 

Through the long night till dawn I then may weep.

Poem – A Farewell – Amy Levy

The sad rain falls from Heaven, 

A sad bird pipes and sings ; 

I am sitting here at my window 

And watching the spires of “King’s.” 
O fairest of all fair places, 

Sweetest of all sweet towns! 

With the birds, and the greyness and greenness, 

And the men in caps and gowns. 
All they that dwell within thee, 

To leave are ever loth, 

For one man gets friends, and another 

Gets honour, and one gets both. 
The sad rain falls from Heaven; 

My heart is great with woe– 

I have neither a friend nor honour, 

Yet I am sorry to go.

Poem – The Female – Taslima Nasrin

BIRTH 
In the instinct of no-creature-of-Nature 

the birth of a female is considered undesirable. 

Only humans consider it strange. 
CHILDHOOD 

Since she has been born, 

let her stay in an obscure corner of her home 

and learn to survive. 
ADOLESCENCE 

Keep your hair in a tight knot. 

Don’t let your eyes wander here and there. 

Hide carefully your swelling breasts. 

Women, we know, need to be kept in chains. 

At best they can be allowed 

to move about in the precincts of the home, that’s all. 
YOUTH 

Men look for fresh virgins 

so they can maul and tear them, 

some on the plea of love, 

some of marriage. 
OLD AGE 

The tight smooth skin is full of wrinkles. 

The menstruation pain is gone forever. 

The thread of the tale told again has snapped. 
DEATH 

We are well rid of nuisance. 

In the instinct of no-creature-of-Nature 

is the death of a female so desirable.

Poem – The Game In Reverse – Taslima Nasrin 

The other day in Ramna park I saw a boy buying a girl. 
I‘d really like to buy a boy for five or ten taka, 

a clean-shaven boy, with a fresh shirt, combed and parted hair, 

a boy on the park bench, or standing on the main road 

In a curvaceous pose. 
I’d like to grab the boy by his collar 

and pull him up into a rickshaw – 

tickling his neck and belly, I ‘d make him giggle; 

bringing him home, I’d give him a sound thrashing 

with high-heeled shoes, then throw him out – 

‘’Get lost, bastard! ‘ 
Sticking bandages on his forehead, 

he would doze on the sidewalks at dawn, 

scratching scabies. 

Mangy dogs would lick at the yellow pus 

oozing out of the ulcers in his groin. 

Seeing them, the girls would laugh with their tingling sound 

of glass bangles breaking. 
I really want to buy me a boy, 

a fresh, nubile boy with a hairy chest – 

I’ll buy a boy and rough him up all over. 

Kicking him hard on his shriveled balls, 

I’ll shout, ‘Get lost, bastard! ‘

Poem – Truth Lies Within – Goswami Tulsidas

Within the body lies the essence which the Vedas and the Puranas are seeking. 

Within this body exists the entire Universe, so the sagacious Saints say. 

Recluses, ascetics and monks are searching for Him in variegated garbs. 

Rishis, munis and avdhoots lay stress on scriptures and holy books. 

The learned of the world, puffed up with pride in their scholarly traditions, remain deluded by their erudition. 

They delude the world through the practice of pilgrimage, fasting and charity; 

They glorify bathing in holy waters and their gollowers bear the evil consequences. 

They get lost in rituals and external observances and never can reach the destination. 
Such is the state of people in this world 

Who keep revolving in the cycle of eighty-four. 

Only the Saints have attained the Ultimate, O Tulsi, 

They obtain liberation who realize this truth. 

The pedantic are engrossed in the practice of traditions, 

And evermore, in their ego, are they enslaved by delusion 

Poem – Glimpse Of The Invisible – Goswami Tulsidas

Lightning flashed in my eye, O friend, 

And brightly did shine the light of the moon. 

I got a glimpse of the Invisible within, 

And thirst and longing for the Lord were aroused. 

My ears received the boon of Unstruck Music, 

And Knowledge came like the explosion of light, O Friend. 

Dark clouds began to scatter and the sight 

Of the Divine Mansion was revealed unto me. 

Beyond the sun, the moon and the tunnel, 

Tulsi beheld the abode of the Lord Almighty. 

Poem – The Rainy Season – Goswami Tulsidas

In whom longing for the Beloved hath taken abode, 

Every moment his body becometh feeble and enervated. 

A stream of tears constantly flows from his eyes; 

The pangs of pain ceaselessly smart his body and mind. 
Like rivers in Sawan and Bhadon, overflows the stream of my love. 

Day and night I long for Him and tears fall like incessant rain. 
The pain for my Beloved increasingly penetrates my being every moment; 

My attention can be transfixed on nought but him, 

Even as the moon bird never gets satiated by looking at the moon. 
Dark clouds gather and burst with thunder, and lightning dazzles the eyes. 

The peacock crows in delight and the rain bird sings his longing. 

I yearn for thee evermore, my body keeps wasting away in anguish. 
When I listen to the Sound, I lose my patience and I write to my Beloved. 

With mind and soul as my couriers, I send my message to His inaccessible abode. 
When I hear the tidings of His well-being, 

My heart is filled with love and delight. 

Ever since this yearning for the Lord has taken hold of me, 

I have severed all connections with the world. 

Poem – Sound Celestial – Goswami Tulsidas

Listen, O friend, to the thunderous roar of Shabd, 
Which reverberates throughout the firmament. 

Water, which becomes turbid by relishing the earth, 

Gets cleansed of its impurities when filtered. 

Waves of pure bliss emanate from the heart 

When the moss that covers it is removed. 
Hold the arrow, be still, stretch the bow taut, 

Fix your aim sharp at the target, pierce the firmament. 

The invisible world is contained within the human eye, 

So say and describe all men of inner knowledge. 

Behold the Brahmand within, through your astral eye. 

When that eye is opened, everything stands revealed. 
The soul in Sunn will hear resounding peals of Sound, 

She will uncover and know the essence of Shabd. 
They alone, O Tulsi, will know that perfect state, 

Who have seen and experienced it themselves. 

Poem – How Humble Is God – Kabir

God is the tree in the forests that 

allows itself to die and will not defend itself in front of those 

with the ax, not wanting to cause them 

shame. 
And God is the earth that will allow itself to 

be deformed by man’s tools, but He cries; yes, God cries, 

but only in front of His closest ones. 
And a beautiful animal is being beaten to death, 

but nothing can make God break His silence 

to the masses 

and say, 
“Stop, please stop, why are you doing this 

to Me? ” 
How humble is God? 

Kabir wept 

when I 

knew.

Poem – The Bhakti Path – Kabir 

The bhakti path winds in a delicate way. On this path there is no asking and no not asking. 

The ego simply disappears the moment you touch 

him. 

The joy of looking for him is so immense that you 

just dive in, 

and coast around like a fish in the water. 

If anyone needs a head, the lover leaps up to offer 

his.

प्रश्नोत्तर माला – भानु भक्त आचार्य

भानु भक्त आचार्य     १८१४ - १८६८  चुँदी रम्घा तनहुँ,  नेपाल

भानु भक्त आचार्य
१८१४ – १८६८
चुँदी रम्घा तनहुँ, नेपाल


अपार-संसार-समुद्रमाहाँ
डुब्याँ शरण् कुन् छ मलाइ याहाँ ?
चाँडो कृपाले अहिले बताऊ
श्रीरामको पाउ छ मुख्य नाऊ ।।१।।

कुन हो सदा बन्धनमा पर्याको ?
जस्ले छ यो मन् सुखमा धर्याको ।
मुक्ती भन्याको त पदार्थ कुन् हो ?
वैराग्य भन्नू चिज जान्नु जुन् हो ।।२।।

ठुलो नरक् कुन् छ भनेर जान्नू ?
यही शरीरै छ भनेर मान्नू ।
कस्तो स्वभाव् स्वर्ग भनेर जान्नू ?
तृष्णा छुट्या स्वर्ग भनेर मान्नू ।।३।।

कुन् ज्ञान् छ ठूलो भनि लीनु पर्न्या ?
वेदान्तको ज्ञान छ दु:ख हर्न्या ।
कुन् हो सहज् मोक्ष गरायिदीन्या ?
ज्ञान् हो अरूको किन नाम लीन्या ।।४।।

कुन् मूल ढोका छ नरक् कि ? नारी,
लान्छे नरक् मोह ठुलो फिजारी ।
कुन् धर्म हो स्वर्ग पुर्यायिदीन्या ?
तेस्तो अहिंसा छ बुझेर लीन्या ।।५।।

सुत्न्या सुखै पूर्वक आद्मि कुन् हो ?
समाधि लायी रहन्या त जुन् हो ।
जागा कउन् हो कसरी उ जान्न्या ?
जो सत् असत्को छ विवेक गर्न्या ।।६।।

कस्लाइ हो शत्रु भनेर जान्नू ?
आफ्ना दशै इन्द्रिय शत्रु मान्नू ।
कस्लाइ खूब् मित्र भनेर मान्नू ?
जीत्या तिनै इन्द्रिय मित्र जान्नू ।।७।।

दरिद्र नाऊँ नरमा छ कस्को ?
विशाल तृष्णा घरमा छ जस्को ।
कुन् हो धनी सब् नरले कह्याको ?
सन्तोषले जो छ खुसी रह्याको ।।८।।

जिउँदै मर्याको भनि नाम् छ कस्को ?
उद्यम् बिना बित्तछ काल जस्को ।
अमृत्-सरी कुन् छ भन्या ? निराशा
पाशा कउन् हुन् ? ममतै छ पाशा ।।९।।

को छन् सुरा झैँ अति मोह गर्न्या ?
स्त्री जान्नु तस्तै गरि चित्त हर्न्या ।
कस्लाइ विद्वानहरु तुच्छ भन्छन् ?
जो कामदेव्को वशमा रहन्छन् ।।१०।।

मृत्यू भन्याको भन आज कुन् हो ?
अप्यश् भन्याको तिमि जान जुन् हो ।
कुन् हो सबैले गुरु भन्नु पर्न्या ?
जो हो हितैको उपदेश गर्न्या ।।११।।

कुन् शिष्य हो शिष्य भनेर जान्नू ?
जुन् गर्छ सेवा उहि शिष्य मान्नू ।
कुन् दीर्घ रोग् हो सबलाइ हर्न्या ?
संसार हो जन्मनु मर्नु पर्न्या ।।१२।।

यो दीर्घरोग् फेक्न उपाय कुन् हो ?
अनित्य सब् जान्नु विचार जुन् हो ।
भूषण् छ कुन् सज्जनले कह्याको ?
शीलै छ भूषण् बहुतै बन्याको ।।१३।।

कस्लाइ खुब् तीर्थ भनेर मान्नू ?
जुन् शुद्ध मन् हो उहि तीर्थ जान्नू ।
विद्वान् कउन् चिज्कन तुच्छ मान्छन् ?
कान्ता र सुन् त्याज्य भनेर ठान्छन् ।।१४।।

कुन् सुन्न बेस् हुन्छ भनेर मान्नू ?
वेदान्तका बात् गुरुदेखि सुन्नू ।
कन् ब्रह्म जान्नाकन हेतु मान्नू ?
सत्सङ्ग वेदान्त बिचार जान्नू ।।१५।।

कुन् सन्त हुन् ? लोक्कन तुच्छ मान्न्या,
सब् छोडि साँचो शिवतत्त्व जान्न्या ।
ज्वर् कुन् छ ? चिन्ता ज्वर-तुल्य मन्न्या,
कुन् मूर्ख हो ? कत्ति विवेक् नगर्न्या ।।१६।।

कुन् काम हो मन् दिइ गर्नु पर्न्या ?
श्री विष्णुको भक्ति छ दु:ख हर्न्या ।
कुन् आद्मि हो यस् नरमा जियाको ?
दिर्दोषि भै मन् हरिमा दियाको ।।१७।।

विद्या र बोध् कुन् चिजलाइ भन्छन ?
जुन् पाउँदा मुख्य भयी रहन्छन् ।
कुन् मुख्य लाभ् हो ? भन आज तेही ।
आत्मासरीको अरु छैन कोही ।।१८।।

सारा जगत् जित्छ अवश्य कस्ले ?
अभ्यास् गरी मन्कन जित्छ जस्ले ।
कस्ता बली वीर् कन वीर् कहन्छन् ?
कन्दर्प जस्का वशमा रहन्छन् ।।१९।।

कुन् हुन् बडा धीर् सब धर्म जान्न्या ?
स्त्रीका कटाक्षैकन तुच्छ मान्न्या ।
कुन् हुन् ठुला विष ? विषयै कहिन्छन्
ती कालकुटादि बरू सहिदिन्छन् ।।२०।।

कुन् दु:खि हो यस् विषलाई लीन्या ?
संसारमा खुप्सित चित्त दीन्या ।
कुन् धन्य हो ? जुन् छ परोपकारी,
कुन् पूज्य हो ? तत्त्व लिन्या विचारी ।।२१।।

कौनै बखत्मा पनि क्या नगर्नू ?
पाप्मा अगाडी कहिल्यै नसर्नू ।
विद्वान् पुरुष्ले कति काम गर्नू ?
स्वधर्म थामीकन शास्त्र पढ्नू ।।२२।।

साङ्ला कउन् हुन् सबलाइ बाँध्न्या ?
स्त्री हुन् सदा पाउ समाइ-राख्न्या ।
सब् ब्रतहरूमा व्रत मुख्य कुन् हो ?
सब् देखि सानो म छु भन्नु जुन् हो ।।२३।।

क्या जानिईदैन भनेर बक्नू ?
स्त्रीको चरित्रै छ नजानिसक्नू ।
क्या हो सबैले त नछोडि सक्न्या ?
यै हो दुराशा अरू कीन बक्न्या ।।२४।।

कुन् हो पशूतुल्य भनी कह्याको ?
विद्या नभै मूर्ख पडी रह्याको ।
सज्ज्नहरू कस्सित सङ् नगर्नू ?
खल्-पापि-निच्का नगिचै नपर्नू ।।२५।।

कस्ता पुरुष् मुक्त भएर तर्छन् ?
सत्सङ्ग-भक्तीहरु जो त गर्छन् ।
छोटो कउन् हो नजलाइ माग्न्या,
कुन् हो बडो ? जो धनमा नलाग्न्या । २६।।

जन्म्यो कउन् ? जन्मनु फेर् नपर्न्या
मर्न्या कउन् हो ? मरि फेर् नमर्न्या ।
कस्लाइ लाटो छ भनेर भन्छन् ?
जो ता बखत्मा पनि चुप् रहन्छन् ।।२७।।

बैह्रो कउन् हो ? हित बात् नसुन्या
कुन् हो अविद्या मित नारि मान्न्या ।
कुन् तत्त्व साँचो छ भनेर खोज्न ?
साँचा शिवै छन् शिवलाइ रोज्नू ।।२८।।

उत्तम् भन्याको भन आज कुन् हो ?
सज्जनहरूको सुचरित्र जुन् हो ।
कुन् कर्मले शोक्हरू दूर हुन्छन् ?
श्री विष्णुका पूजनले ति टर्छन् ।।२९।।

कुन् शत्रु हुन् खुब् वलवान् भयाका ?
कामादि हुन् सब् नरले कह्याका ।
कुन् हो कसै पूर्ण गरी नसक्नू ?
कामै छ त्यस्तो अरु कीन बक्नू ।।३०।।

कुन् दु:खको मूल भनेर जान्नू ?
मेरो म हुम् भन्नु छ तेहि मान्नू ।
कुन् हो जगत्को गहना बन्याको ?
विद्यै छ सब्को गहना बन्याको ।।३१।।

कुन् सत्य हो सत्य कसोरि जान्नू ?
जुन् प्राणिको हित् छ उ सत्य मान्नू ।
कुन् छाडिदीन्या सुखि हुन्छ भन्छन् ?
स्त्री छाड्न सक्न्या सुखिमा गनिन्छन् ।।३२।।

ठूलो छ दान् कुन् गरि ताप हर्न्या ?
सब् प्राणिको निर्भय जो त गर्न्या ।
कुन् हो बुझ्यओ निश्चय नाश हून्या ?
त्यो भक्तको मन् छ भनेर जान्न्या ।।३३।।

कस्तो भयामा भय छुट्टि हुन्छन् ?
मुक्तै भयामात्र ति पाप टर्छन् ।
वाण्तुल्य कुन् हो अति दु:ख दीन्या ?
जुन् मूर्खता हो उहि जानि लीन्या ।।३४।।

कस्का सधैं दास् भइ पाउ पर्नू ?
बूढा गुरूमा लगि चित्त धर्नू ।
प्राणान्तका समयमा कति कर्म गर्नू ?
सम्पूर्ण छोडि रघुनाथ्-तिर चित्त धर्नू ।।३५।।

कुन् चोर हो इ जनको भनि चोर जान्नू ?
जुन् वासना त छ असत् उहि चोर मान्नू ।
शोभायमान भयि बस्छ सभाविषे को ?
सब् को प्रसन्न मन गर्दछ शास्त्रले जो ।।३६।।

मातासरी सुख दिन्या कुन चीज् छ जान्नू ?
विद्यै छ त्यस्तो अरु कौन खोज्नू ।
कुन् हो जती-जति दियो उति बढ्न जान्या ?
विद्यै रहेछ बुझि निश्चय तेहि मान्या ।।३७।।

कुन् काम हो अति डरायर दूर सार्नू ?
लोकापवाद् छ घटिया कहिल्यै न धर्नू ।
कुन् कर्म गर्दछ भन्या उहि बन्धु मान्नू ?
आफ्नो सहाय यदि गर्दछ बन्धु जान्नू ।।३८।।

कस्ता मनुष्यकन पित्रि भनेर जान्नू ?
जसले त पालन गर्यो उहि पित्रि मान्नू ।
कुन् चीज जानिकन चीज् रहँदैन जान्नू ?
यो चीज् त नित्य परमेश्वरलाइ मान्नू ।।३९।।

कुन् चीह्निया सकल चीजहरू चिह्निइन्छन् ?
ईश्वर चिह्न्या सकल वाँहि चिह्नी सकिन्छन् ।
कुन् चीज् रहेछ अति दुर्लभ खोजि हान्नू ?
सत्सङ्ग हो अधिक दुर्लभ तेहि मान्नू ।।४०।।

कुन् त्याग् कहिन्छ ? शिवको सब तत्त्व जान्नू,
कुन् जीत्न सक्नु छ कठिन् ? उ त काम मान्नू ।
कुन् हो पशूसरि भनी नरले कह्याको ?
आत्मा नजानिकन मूर्ख पडी-रह्याको ।।४१।।

अम्मृत्सरी अघि भई पछि वीष बन्न्या,
कुन् हो ? स्त्रि हुन् किन अरू चिजलाइ भन्न्या ।
कुन् शत्रु हुन् अघि त मित्र सरी रह्याका ?
पुत्रादि हुन् सकल सज्जनले कह्याका ।।४२।।

कुन् चीज् छ चञ्चल यहाँ क्षण एक् घरीको ?
आयुष्य यौवन बुझ्या बिजुली सरीको ।
कुन् दान् ठहर्छ अति मुख्य यहाँ गर्याको ?
जुन् दान् छ पात्रहरुका मुखमा पर्याको ।।४३।।

प्राण् जान खोज्दछ भन्या पनि कन् नगर्नू ?
संसार् अनित्य बुझि पाप् कहिल्यै नगर्नू ।
कुन् हो अघी सरिसरीकन गर्नु पर्न्या ?
पूजा सदाशिबजिको सब पाप हर्न्या ।।४४।।

कुन् कर्म मुख्य भनि सद्गुरुले कहन्छन् ?
जुन् कर्मले त परमेश्वर खुश् रहन्छन् ।
कुन् स्थानमा बसुँ भनीकन दील् नदीनू ?
संसारमा भनि अवश्य चिह्नेर लीनू ।।४५।।

रात् दिन् निरन्तर कतातिर चित्त धर्नु ?
संसार् अनित्त्य बुझि तत्त्व-विचार गर्नू ।

घांसी – भानु भक्त आचार्य

भानु भक्त आचार्य  १८१४ - १८६८  चुँदी रम्घा तनहुँ , नेपाल

भानु भक्त आचार्य
१८१४ – १८६८
चुँदी रम्घा तनहुँ , नेपाल


भर् जन्म घाँस तिर मन् दिई धन कमायो
नाम क्यै रहोस् पछि भनेर कुवा खनायो
घाँसी दरिद्र घरको तर बुद्धि कस्तो
म भानुभक्त धनी भैकन किन यस्तो

मेरा ईनार न त सत्तल पाटिकै छन्
जे धन चीजहरु छन् घर भित्रनै छन्
त्यस घाँसीले कसरी आज दिए छ अर्ति
धिक्कार हो म कन बस्नु न राखि किर्ति

Poem – Lucy’s Song – Charles Dickens

How beautiful at eventide 

To see the twilight shadows pale, 

Steal o’er the landscape, far and wide, 

O’er stream and meadow, mound and dale! 
How soft is Nature’s calm repose 

When ev’ning skies their cool dews weep: 

The gentlest wind more gently blows, 

As if to soothe her in her sleep! 
The gay morn breaks, 

Mists roll away, 

All Nature awakes 

To glorious day. 

In my breast alone 

Dark shadows remain; 

The peace it has known 

It can never regain.

Poem – A Fine Old English Gentleman – Charles Dickens

I’ll sing you a new ballad, and I’ll warrant it first-rate, 

Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate; 

When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate 

On ev’ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev’ry noble gate, 

In the fine old English Tory times; 

Soon may they come again! 
The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains, 

With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains, 

With rebel heads, and seas of blood once hot in rebel veins; 

For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains 

Of the fine old English Tory times; 

Soon may they come again! 
This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes, 

And ev’ry English peasant had his good old English spies, 

To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies, 

Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries, 

In the fine old English Tory times; 

Soon may they come again! 
The good old times for cutting throats that cried out in their need, 

The good old times for hunting men who held their fathers’ creed, 

The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed, 

Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed. . . . 

Oh the fine old English Tory times; 

When will they come again! 
In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark, 

But sweetly sang of men in pow’r, like any tuneful lark; 

Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark; 

And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark. 

Oh the fine old English Tory times; 

Soon may they come again! 
Those were the days for taxes, and for war’s infernal din; 

For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win; 

For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin,

Because they didn’t think the Prince was altogether thin, 

In the fine old English Tory times; 

Soon may they come again! 

But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing’d in the main; 

That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain; 

The pure old spirit struggled, but Its struggles were in vain; 

A nation’s grip was on it, and it died in choking pain, 

With the fine old English Tory days, 

All of the olden time. 
The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land, 

In England there shall be dear bread — in Ireland, sword and brand; 

And poverty, and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand, 

So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand, 

Of the fine old English Tory days; Hail to the coming time!

Full Moon – Victoria Sackville-West

She was wearing the coral taffeta trousers 

Someone had brought her from Ispahan, 

And the little gold coat with pomegranate blossoms, 

And the coral-hafted feather fan; 

But she ran down a Kentish lane in the moonlight, 

And skipped in the pool of the moon as she ran. 
She cared not a rap for all the big planets, 

For Betelgeuse or Aldebaran, 

And all the big planets cared nothing for her, 

That small impertinent charlatan; 

But she climbed on a Kentish stile in the moonlight, 

And laughed at the sky through the sticks of her fan.

A Saxon Song – Victoria Sackville West

Tools with the comely names, 

Mattock and scythe and spade, 

Couth and bitter as flames, 

Clean, and bowed in the blade,– 

A man and his tools make a man and his trade. 
Breadth of the English shires, 

Hummock and kame and mead, 

Tang of the reeking byres, 

Land of the English breed,– 

A man and his land make a man and his creed. 
Leisurely flocks and herds, 

Cool-eyed cattle that come 

Mildly to wonted words, 

Swine that in orchards roam,– 

A man and his beasts make a man and his home. 
Children sturdy and flaxen 

Shouting in brotherly strife, 

Like the land they are Saxon, 

Sons of a man and his wife,– 

For a man and his loves make a man and his life.

Poem – A Mountaineer – Padraic Colum

ERE Beowulf’s song 

Was heard from the ships, 

Ere Roland had set 

The horn to his lips: 
In Ogham strokes 

A name was writ: 

That name his name 

Lives in yet. 
The strokes on the edge 

Of the stone might count 

The acres he has 

On this bare mount; 
But he remembers 

The pillar-stone, 

And knows that he is 

Of the seed of Eoin.

Poem – The Doubt Of Future Foes – Queen Elizabeth I

The Doubt Of Future FoesThe doubt of future foes exiles my present joy, 

And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy; 

For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects’ faith doth ebb, 

Which should not be if reason ruled or wisdom weaved the web. 

But clouds of joys untried do cloak aspiring minds, 

Which turn to rain of late repent by changed course of winds. 

The top of hope supposed the root upreared shall be, 

And fruitless all their grafted guile, as shortly ye shall see. 

The dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds, 

Shall be unsealed by worthy wights whose foresight falsehood finds. 

The daughter of debate that discord aye doth sow 

Shall reap no gain where former rule still peace hath taught to know. 

No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port; 

Our realm brooks not seditious sects, let them elsewhere resort. 

My rusty sword through rest shall first his edge employ 

To poll their tops that seek such change or gape for future joy.

Poem – Death Fugue – Paul Celan

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown 

we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night 

we drink it and drink it 

we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined 

A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents 

he writes 

he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden 

hair Margarete 

he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are 

flashing he whistles his pack out 

he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a 

grave 

he commands us strike up for the dance 

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night 

we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at 

sundown 

we drink and we drink you 

A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents 

he writes 

he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair 

Margarete 

your ashen hair Sulamith we dig a grave in the breezes 

there one lies unconfined 

He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you 

others sing now and play 

he grabs at the iron in his belt he waves it his 

eyes are blue 

jab deper you lot with your spades you others play 

on for the dance 

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night 

we drink you at at noon in the morning we drink you 

at sundown 

we drink and we drink you 

a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete 

your ashen hair Sulamith he plays with the serpents 

He calls out more sweetly play death death is a master 

from Germany 

he calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then 

as smoke you will rise into air 

then a grave you will have in the clouds there one 

lies unconfined 

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night 

we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany 

we drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink 

and we drink you 

death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue 

he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true 

a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete 

he sets his pack on to us he grants us a grave in 

the air 

He plays with the serpents and daydreams death is 

a master from Germany 

your golden hair Margarete 

your ashen hair Shulamith 

Poem – The Negro Mother – Langston Hughes

Children, I come back today 

To tell you a story of the long dark way 

That I had to climb, that I had to know 

In order that the race might live and grow. 

Look at my face – dark as the night – 

Yet shining like the sun with love’s true light. 

I am the dark girl who crossed the red sea 

Carrying in my body the seed of the free. 

I am the woman who worked in the field 

Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield. 

I am the one who labored as a slave, 

Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave – 

Children sold away from me, I’m husband sold, too. 

No safety, no love, no respect was I due. 
Three hundred years in the deepest South: 

But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth. 

God put a dream like steel in my soul. 

Now, through my children, I’m reaching the goal. 
Now, through my children, young and free, 

I realized the blessing deed to me. 

I couldn’t read then. I couldn’t write. 

I had nothing, back there in the night. 

Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears, 

But I kept trudging on through the lonely years. 

Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun, 

But I had to keep on till my work was done: 

I had to keep on! No stopping for me – 

I was the seed of the coming Free. 

I nourished the dream that nothing could smother 

Deep in my breast – the Negro mother. 

I had only hope then, but now through you, 

Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true: 

All you dark children in the world out there, 

Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair. 

Remember my years, heavy with sorrow – 

And make of those years a torch for tomorrow. 

Make of my pass a road to the light 

Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night. 

Lift high my banner out of the dust. 

Stand like free men supporting my trust. 

Believe in the right, let none push you back. 

Remember the whip and the slaver’s track. 

Remember how the strong in struggle and strife 

Still bar you the way, and deny you life – 

But march ever forward, breaking down bars. 

Look ever upward at the sun and the stars. 

Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers 

Impel you forever up the great stairs – 

For I will be with you till no white brother 

Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother.

Poem – Democracy – Langston Hughes

Democracy will not come 

Today, this year 

Nor ever 

Through compromise and fear. 
I have as much right 

As the other fellow has 

To stand 

On my two feet 

And own the land. 
I tire so of hearing people say, 

Let things take their course. 

Tomorrow is another day. 

I do not need my freedom when I’m dead. 

I cannot live on tomorrow’s bread. 
Freedom 

Is a strong seed 

Planted 

In a great need. 
I live here, too. 

I want freedom 

Just as you.

Poem – A Drink With Something In It – Ogden Nash 

There is something about a Martini, 

A tingle remarkably pleasant; 

A yellow, a mellow Martini; 

I wish I had one at present. 

There is something about a Martini, 

Ere the dining and dancing begin, 

And to tell you the truth, 

It is not the vermouth– 

I think that perhaps it’s the gin.

Poem – Common Cold – Ogden Nash

Go hang yourself, you old M.D.! 

You shall not sneer at me. 

Pick up your hat and stethoscope, 

Go wash your mouth with laundry soap; 

I contemplate a joy exquisite 

I’m not paying you for your visit. 

I did not call you to be told 

My malady is a common cold. 
By pounding brow and swollen lip; 

By fever’s hot and scaly grip; 

By those two red redundant eyes 

That weep like woeful April skies; 

By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff; 

By handkerchief after handkerchief; 

This cold you wave away as naught 

Is the damnedest cold man ever caught! 
Give ear, you scientific fossil! 

Here is the genuine Cold Colossal; 

The Cold of which researchers dream, 

The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme. 

This honored system humbly holds 

The Super-cold to end all colds; 

The Cold Crusading for Democracy; 

The Führer of the Streptococcracy. 
Bacilli swarm within my portals 

Such as were ne’er conceived by mortals, 

But bred by scientists wise and hoary 

In some Olympic laboratory; 

Bacteria as large as mice, 

With feet of fire and heads of ice 

Who never interrupt for slumber 

Their stamping elephantine rumba. 
A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth! 

Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth; 

Don Juan was a budding gallant, 

And Shakespeare’s plays show signs of talent; 

The Arctic winter is fairly coolish, 

And your diagnosis is fairly foolish. 

Oh what a derision history holds 

For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!

Poem – Always Marry An April Girl – Ogden Nash

Praise the spells and bless the charms, 

I found April in my arms. 

April golden, April cloudy, 

Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy; 

April soft in flowered languor, 

April cold with sudden anger, 

Ever changing, ever true — 

I love April, I love you.

कविता – गोलि हो – लक्ष्मी प्रसाद देवकोटा

लक्ष्मी प्रसाद देवकोटा  Nov 12, 1909 – Sept 14, 1959

लक्ष्मी प्रसाद देवकोटा
Nov 12, 1909 – Sept 14, 1959


गोली हो यो गोली हो,
काननेर गाउँछ सुइँय ! रणको बोली हो
आजको यो निम्ता भाइ !
बल्दो भोलि हो !

चण्डीको यो गिडगिडी, रुद्रको यो तान
ध्वनिले डाक्छ ध्वनिको ढेर, मुग्ध आज प्राण !
जीतहारको छ आज द्धन्द्ध नृत्य, द्धन्द्ध नृत्य,
हेर ! हेर !
लाल आज उग्र लाग,
सम छ बलिदान !
प्रलय डमरु बज्छ डिमडिम,
खुल्छ रुद्रधाम !
गोलीसाथ बोल्छ गोली,
‘के छ भोलि हो ?’
आउँदा युगको गान हो यो,
राग होली हो !

भेटे यसले देउता पार्छ, छलिए दिन्छ राज !
यसले जिउन, अमृत पिउन, लाउन देवताज !
काननेर गाउँछ सुइँय !
आत्मा नै उडाउँछ हुइयँ !
पुरुखाहरुको माझ !
छातीले धकेले स्वर्ग
पीठले पिछोले नर्क,
केवल मुटुको जाँच !
भूचरी या नभचरी, दुईमा एक आज !
जो अमूल्य मिल्छ भाइ ! ज्यान मारेनी हो !

छायाबाट तर्सिएका, मायाबाट पर्सिएका
खुम्चिए, डरे !
कालले घिसार्छ बोको, कालले घिसार्छ बोको,
फेरि त्यो भरे !
शहीदलाई खोज के छ ? वीरलाई मोज के छ ?
बोक्रो यो झरे ?
गुदी देखाउँला नेपालीको, गुदी देखाउँला नेपालीको,
मातृदूध रे !
कालसाहू ऋण तिरेर प्वाँखजस्तो हलुका बन्दा घट्छ के भरे ?
एक लहर चिडिया उड्लान्, प्रातः बोली हो !
मानवको यो स्वर्गतर्फ एक टोली हो !

सबको भाइ, मेरो भाइ,
सबकी बहिनी, मेरी बहिनी,
सबको घर हो मेरो घर !
यत्ति राखौं मनमा सबले,
एक्लिँदैनौ केको डर
गै बसौँला सबका छानामनि रे एक जहाज बनी,
पूजाकोठा भर !
बादलको त्यो ढोकाभित्र हेर ! घाम छ, घाम छ, घाम छ,
शङ्का छैन, डर !
स्वप्नमा घुसौँला हामी, यादमा बोलौँला हामी,
नेपालीको कान छ ! जान्छ
वाचाल हाम्रो स्वर !
माटी चोली फ्याँकी लाउनु सुनकी चोली हो !

लहडदास, कीर्तिप्यास
सर्पले हान्या होइन यो त !
तार तान्या होइन यो त !
यो त देखाएको नर !
यो त रेटिएकाहरुको आत्मा बिउँझ्या, आत्मा जाग्या,
विधिको अचूक सर !
बीउ फुटेको, मृत् टुटेको
उबजनी अमर !
मूर्छाबाट बिउँती चल्नेहरुको बोली हो !

दालभात दालभात गाँसबास !
नेपालीको नाङ्गो जीउमा केवल एक कपास !
मानव–हक औ मानव–आस !
यही कदम हो, यही कदम हो, यही कदम हो,
भोकको दम हो,
प्यासको वेग हो !
मानवताको द्धार घचघच, एक ढयाङ्ग, एक ढम्म हो !
बोल्छ प्राण–नलीको भेरी,
‘कुइरो नाश ! कुइरो नाश !’ एक नयाँ प्रकाश !
वेदनाको ज्वाला मुख हो, न्याय बोली हो !

आँखाको यो दोष होला
अन्धतासँग रोष रोला
बम्किएको होश होला
दीर्घ नींदको बलि !
हिउँमा पाइला, झारमा पाइला, तीरमा पाइला !
नाङ्गा हड्डी क्रूर भाइ ला !
यो युवकको अञ्जुली !
जो जिएथे, जो मरेनन्, रातमा बोली हो !

क्याँग ती बूटले खान्थी
काँढा झाँग ती, बालू ढयाँग ती !
हाइ लडे, मर्काई आँग ली !
तिनको लाल छाप हेर !
फेर्छ पृथ्वी भोलि हो !
व्यर्थ हुन्न ! चल अगाडि !
बाढी, बाढी !
एक रोज होला फेरि नेपालीको यो आकाश
छयाँगछयाँगती !
युगले फेर्ला चोली हो !
कदम कदम हो, क्रान्ति, क्रान्ति
राष्ट्र शान्ति ! राष्ट्र शान्ति !
यी किरण फुटेर मेट्छन् भूतभ्रान्ति भूतभ्रान्ति !
फेर्ने चोली हो !

तारालाई बाटो लाउने, दिल उदाउने
न्यायशील !
छौ कि भूमा ? छौ भुवनमा ? छौ कि स्वरमा ?
लेऊ यो अपिल !
हकको शिशा छिन्नेमाथि !
मानवलाई किन्नेमाथि
हेर आँशु–झील !
आमा भोकी, बाटो रोकी, कोही हिँडयो कि !
सुन्निएका डील ?
ती रुलाउने, ती गिज्याउने, ती भिजाउने
लाई गिद्ध–चील !
आज तय होस्, आज तय होस्, आज तय होस्,
हकको टोली हो !

पाठो छिर्केको बिहान छ !
यो रगतले रात जान्छ !
कुम्भकर्ण माटो खान्छ !
रावण जा !
जिन्दगी !
तेल ढली, औ तेल जली !
बन्दछन् दीपावली !
सारा शिखर देशका जल्छन् भोलि हो !

सनसनी आनन्द कसको ?
वीररसको !
ज्यानको दाता उही,
ज्यान उसको
भेडा मर्छ घाँसमाथि, जिन्दगी नै रोग उसको !
अब नृसिंह गर्जिदो छ, खम्बा फोरी दीर्घ युगको,
दैत्य झस्क्यो ! दैत्य झस्क्यो
साध नरको चोली हो !

आयो मजा क्यै ? वीरहरु हो !
काल कुश्ती ?
भोलि क्या कहानी भन्लान्
हरिया बस्ती !
गोली हो यो !
दासदलको अन्त्य बोली !
अन्त्य बोली हो !
एकलौटी शक्ति रुन्छे, लोहा बिन्दु धोली हो !

भीम भाइ हो ! भीम भाइ हो ! भीम भाइ हो !
दाह्रा फर्रे !
काँधले धकेल्छौं पर्वत,
यो उखाड्छौं, यो उकेल्छौं
ढुङ्गा पर्रे !
दाना, दाना, पुरुखा झिल्के, पुरुखा झिल्के
जनको राज ! जनको राज !
या त भोलि या त आज !
पन्छी हो ! पन्छी हो !
हुर्रे ! हुर्रे !
आयो आज अन्तरात्मा दुष्टताको पोली हो !

बढ अगाडि, बढ अगाडि, बढ अगाडि !
निराश ताडी, आश छाडी,
बाढी ! बाढी !
काँढा गिज्याई, कुल्ची झाडी,
मानवको यो झन्डा पछाडि !
एक वीर, एक बज्र, चट्क बोली हो !

के दधीचि केही बुझ्यौ त ?
हड्डी चट्की
बाजलाई चोक्टा दिनुको
के त आज शौक भड्की ?
थर्र संसार पार्नु के यो
हाम्रो थोरै शान हो ?
मानिस पड्की, वायु रड्की, पृथ्वी गड्की,
वज्रको यो गान हो !
भोलि नेपाल आँखा मिच्ला
बिउँझी आँखा खोली हो !

गाउँछ गोली गोली जो !
स्वागतको बोली हो !
क्यै न बोले बाह्रमासे
फुल नित्य भोलि हो !
बोल्न पाए ‘जनतन्त्र’
धूवाँ फाट्दा खार छाड्दा
रुद्ध कण्ठ खोली हो !
गोली हो यो गोली हो !
तिनका मर्लान्,
असिना पर्लान्, पग्ली झर्लान् !
हाम्रा चाहिं जुगजुगलाई
गाइरहलान् होली हो !

Poem – A Girls Thoughts – Isaac Rosenberg

Dim apprehension of a trust 

Comes over me this quiet hour, 

As though the silence were a flower, 

And this, its perfume, dark like dust. 
My individual self would cling 

Through fear, through pride, unto its fears : 

It strives to shut out what it hears, 

The founts of being murmuring. 
0 ! Need, whose hauntings terrorize; 

Whether my maiden ways would hide, 

Or lose and to that need subside, 

Life shrinks and instinct dreads surprise.
 

Poem – The Old Lizard – Federico García Lorca

In the parched path 

I have seen the good lizard 

(one dropp of crocodile) 

meditating. 

With his green frock-coat 

of an abbot of the devil, 

his correct bearing 

and his stiff collar, 

he has the sad air 

of an old professor. 

Those faded eyes 

of a broken artist, 

how they watch the afternoon 

in dismay! 
Is this, my friend, 

your twilight constitutional? 

Please use your cane, 

you are very old, Mr. Lizard, 

and the children of the village 

may startle you. 

What are you seeking in the path, 

my near-sighted philosopher, 

if the wavering phantasm 

of the parched afternoon 

has broken the horizon? 
Are you seeking the blue alms 

of the moribund heaven? 

A penny of a star? 

Or perhaps 

you’ve been reading a volume 

of Lamartine, and you relish 

the plateresque trills 

of the birds? 
(You watch the setting sun, 

and your eyes shine, 

oh, dragon of the frogs, 

with a human radiance. 

Ideas, gondolas without oars, 

cross the shadowy 

waters of your 

burnt-out eyes.) 
Have you come looking 

for that lovely lady lizard, 

green as the wheatfields 

of May, 

as the long locks 

of sleeping pools, 

who scorned you, and then 

left you in your field? 

Oh, sweet idyll, broken 

among the sweet sedges! 

But, live! What the devil! 

I like you. 

The motto ‘I oppose 

the serpent’ triumphs 

in that grand double chin 

of a Christian archbishop. 
Now the sun has dissolved 

in the cup of the mountains, 

and the flocks 

cloud the roadway. 

It is the hour to depart: 

leave the dry path 

and your meditations. 

You will have time 

to look at the stars 

when the worms are eating you 

at their leisure. 

Go home to your house 

by the village, of the crickets! 

Good night, my friend 

Mr. Lizard! 
Now the field is empty, 

the mountains dim, 

the roadway deserted. 

Only, now and again, 

a cuckoo sings in the darkness 

of the poplar trees.

Poem – Train Ride –  Federico García Lorca

After rain, through afterglow, the unfolding fan 

of railway landscape sidled onthe pivot 

of a larger arc into the green of evening; 

I remembered that noon I saw a gradual bud 

still white; though dead in its warm bloom; 

always the enemy is the foe at home. 

And I wondered what surgery could recover 

our lost, long stride of indolence and leisure 

which is labor in reverse; what physic recall the smile 

not of lips, but of eyes as of the sea bemused. 

We, when we disperse from common sleep to several 

tasks, we gather to despair; we, who assembled 

once for hopes from common toil to dreams 

or sickish and hurting or triumphal rapture; 

always our enemy is our foe at home. 

We, deafened with far scattered city rattles 

to the hubbub of forest birds (never having 

‘had time’ to grieve or to hear through vivid sleep 

the sea knock on its cracked and hollow stones) 

so that the stars, almost, and birds comply, 

and the garden-wet; the trees retire; We are 

a scared patrol, fearing the guns behind; 

always the enemy is the foe at home. 

What wonder that we fear our own eyes’ look 

and fidget to be at home alone, and pitifully 

put of age by some change in brushing the hair 

and stumble to our ends like smothered runners at their tape; 

We follow our shreds of fame into an ambush. 

Then (as while the stars herd to the great trough 

the blind, in the always-only-outward of their dismantled

archways, awake at the smell of warmed stone 

or the sound of reeds, lifting from the dim 

into the segment of green dawn) always 

our enemy is our foe at home, more 

certainly than through spoken words or from grief- 

twisted writing on paper, unblotted by tears 

the thought came: 

There is no physic 

for the world’s ill, nor surgery; it must 

(hot smell of tar on wet salt air) 

burn in fever forever, an incense pierced 

with arrows, whose name is Love and another name 

Rebellion (the twinge, the gulf, split seconds, 

the very raindrops, render, and instancy 

of Love). 

All Poetry to this not-to-be-looked-upon sun 

of Passion is the moon’s cupped light; all 

Politics to this moon, a moon’s reflected 

cupped light, like the moon of Rome, after 

the deep well of Grecian light sank low; 

always the enemy is the foe at home. 

But these three are friends whose arms twine 

without words; as, in still air, 

the great grove leans to wind, past and to come.

Poem – Man in Space – Billy Collins

All you have to do is listen to the way a man sometimes talks to his wife at a table of people 

and notice how intent he is on making his point 

even though her lower lip is beginning to quiver, 
and you will know why the women in science 

fiction movies who inhabit a planet of their own 

are not pictured making a salad or reading a magazine 

when the men from earth arrive in their rocket, 
why they are always standing in a semicircle 

with their arms folded, their bare legs set apart, 

their breasts protected by hard metal disks.

प्रश्न – गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल

गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल  २१ मई १९१८ - २४ अक्टोबर १९७३ , काठमाडौँ नेपाल

गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल
२१ मई १९१८ – २४ अक्टोबर १९७३ , काठमाडौँ नेपाल


नेपाली तिमी यहाँ किन आयौ ?
गो–रखाली हौ,
गो–रक्षाको भार लिई
बढ्दैबढ्दै आयौ ? नेपाली
तिम्रै गुफा कन्दराहरुमा
देखेथ्यो जगले पहिलो सपना,
तिम्रै वनमा पलेटी कसेर
सफल भएथ्यो ऋषिहरुको जपना,
पाएथे अन्धजगत्मा
बल्दो उज्वल दीप
के त्यही दीप लिई तिमी
बढ्दै आयौ दुनियाँमा ? नेपाली
आदर्शझैँ उच्च,
विस्तृत विशाल हृदयझैँ,
सत्य छुन बढेका,
या सतयका रुप भै उठेका
मनका लहरझैं सुन्दर
हिमालको रुपमा
अमरापुरीको पथ तिम्रै–
के सबैले स्वर्ग पुगेर
स्वर्गको सुन्दर कहानी भनेर,
फूलको माला लिन
घुम्दै आयौ यहाँ ? नेपाली
या बिजुलीका कणझैं प्राण वरिपरि
पञ्चभूतको आवरण बेह्री
तिमी बर्सने बादलझैँ
आह्र्लँदा कर्म–जगतमा,
कुनै विपरीत हुरीले
फेरो मार्यो र पथमा ?
नेपाली

मृत्यु – गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल

गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल  २१ मई १९१८ - २४ अक्टोबर १९७३ , काठमाडौँ नेपाल

गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल
२१ मई १९१८ – २४ अक्टोबर १९७३ , काठमाडौँ नेपाल


पानीको छलबलमा
छरिइरहेको घामझैँ
हरियोमाथि फुलहरु तार्किएझैं खेलिरहेका थिए हावामा ।
तिनीहरुको चञ्चल छाया
मृत्युको कालो हाँसोजस्तो थियो
त्यो दृश्य नै यही भन्दथ्यो ।
दुई दिनपछि
घाममा हाँसिरहेका ती फूलहरु
छायामा निदाउरिँदै सुक्दै गए ।

जब कल्पनाको सुनौलो संसार
जूनकीरीसरि अँध्यारोमा
पिलपिलिँदै हराउँदै जान्छ
अनि मृत्यु देखिन्छ यही देखें ।

एउटा तोते कलिलो बादल
हाम्रो प्यारको अङ्गालोमा हुक्र्यो
वसन्तको आगमन फुलेफलेसरि
हाँगोको अङ्गालोमा ।
तर त्यो मर्यो
हामी मृत्युलाई त प्रेम गर्दैनौँ
जोसित प्यारो कानेखुसी गरी बढ्छौ
संसारदेखि लुकीलुकी ?

Poem – Japan – Billy Collins

Today I pass the time reading 

a favorite haiku, 

saying the few words over and over. 
It feels like eating 

the same small, perfect grape 

again and again. 
I walk through the house reciting it 

and leave its letters falling 

through the air of every room. 
I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it. 

I say it in front of a painting of the sea. 

I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf. 
I listen to myself saying it, 

then I say it without listening, 

then I hear it without saying it. 
And when the dog looks up at me, 

I kneel down on the floor 

and whisper it into each of his long white ears. 
It’s the one about the one-ton temple bell 

with the moth sleeping on its surface, 
and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating 

pressure of the moth 

on the surface of the iron bell. 
When I say it at the window, 

the bell is the world 

and I am the moth resting there. 
When I say it at the mirror, 

I am the heavy bell 

and the moth is life with its papery wings. 
And later, when I say it to you in the dark, 

you are the bell, 

and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you, 
and the moth has flown 

from its line 

and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.

Poem – Nightclub – Billy Collins

You are so beautiful and I am a fool to be in love with you 

is a theme that keeps coming up 

in songs and poems. 

There seems to be no room for variation. 

I have never heard anyone sing 

I am so beautiful 

and you are a fool to be in love with me, 

even though this notion has surely 

crossed the minds of women and men alike. 

You are so beautiful, too bad you are a fool 

is another one you don’t hear. 

Or, you are a fool to consider me beautiful. 

That one you will never hear, guaranteed. 
For no particular reason this afternoon 

I am listening to Johnny Hartman 

whose dark voice can curl around 

the concepts on love, beauty, and foolishness 

like no one else’s can. 

It feels like smoke curling up from a cigarette 

someone left burning on a baby grand piano 

around three o’clock in the morning; 

smoke that billows up into the bright lights 

while out there in the darkness 

some of the beautiful fools have gathered 

around little tables to listen, 

some with their eyes closed, 

others leaning forward into the music 

as if it were holding them up, 

or twirling the loose ice in a glass, 

slipping by degrees into a rhythmic dream. 
Yes, there is all this foolish beauty, 

borne beyond midnight, 

that has no desire to go home, 

especially now when everyone in the room 

is watching the large man with the tenor sax 

that hangs from his neck like a golden fish. 

He moves forward to the edge of the stage 

and hands the instrument down to me 

and nods that I should play. 

So I put the mouthpiece to my lips 

and blow into it with all my living breath. 

We are all so foolish, 

my long bebop solo begins by saying, 

so damn foolish 

we have become beautiful without even knowing it.

Poem – The Twin Verses – Gautam Buddha 

What we are is the result of what we have thought, 

is built by our thoughts, is made up of our thoughts. 

If one speaks or acts with an impure thought, 

suffering follows one, 

like the wheel of the cart follows the foot of the ox. 
What we are is the result of what we have thought, 

is built by our thoughts, is made up of our thoughts. 

If one speaks or acts with a pure thought, 

happiness follows one, 

like a shadow that never leaves. 
‘They insulted me; they hurt me; 

they defeated me; they cheated me.’ 

In those who harbour such thoughts, 

hate will never cease. 
‘They insulted me; they hurt me; 

they defeated me; they cheated me.’ 

In those who do not harbour such thoughts, 

hate will cease. 
For hate is never conquered by hate. 

Hate is conquered by love. 

This is an eternal law. 

Many do not realise that we must all come to an end here; 

but those who do realise this, end their quarrels at once. 
Whoever lives only for pleasures, 

with senses uncontrolled, 

immoderate in eating, lazy, and weak, 

will be overthrown by Mara, 

like the wind throws down a weak tree. 
Whoever lives not for pleasures, 

with senses well controlled, 

moderate in eating, has faith and the power of virtue, 

will not be overthrown by Mara, 

any more than the wind throws down a rocky mountain.
Whoever would put on the yellow robe 

without having cleansed oneself from impurity, 

disregarding self-control and truth, 

is not deserving of the yellow robe. 
But whoever has cleansed oneself from impurity, 

is well grounded in all the virtues, 

and is possessed of self-control and truth, 

is deserving of the yellow robe. 
Those who imagine truth in untruth 

and see untruth in truth 

never arrive at truth but follow vain desires. 

Those who know truth as truth and untruth as untruth 

arrive at truth and follow true desires. 
As rain makes its way into a badly roofed house, 

so passion makes its way into an unreflecting mind. 

As rain does not make its way into a well roofed house,

so passion does not make its way into a reflecting mind. 
Wrong-doers grieve in this world, 

and they grieve in the next; they grieve in both. 

They grieve and are afflicted 

when they see the wrong they have done. 
The virtuous find joy in this world, 

and they find joy in the next; they find joy in both. 

They find joy and are glad 

when they see the good they have done. 
Wrong-doers suffer in this world, 

and they suffer in the next; they suffer in both. 

They suffer when they think of the wrong they have done. 

They suffer even more when going on the wrong path. 
The virtuous are happy in this world, 

and they are happy in the next; they are happy in both. 

They are happy when they think of the good they have done. 

They are even happier when going on the good path. 
Even if the thoughtless can recite many of the scriptures, 

if they do not act accordingly, 

they are not living the holy life, 

but are like a cowherd counting the cows of others. 
Even if the faithful can recite 

only a few of the scriptures, 

if they act accordingly, 

having given up passion, hate, and folly, 

being possessed of true knowledge and serenity of mind, 

craving nothing in this world or the next, 

they are living the holy life.

Poem – Punishment – Gautam Buddha 

Everyone trembles at punishment; everyone fears death. 

Likening others to oneself, 

one should neither kill nor cause killing. 
Everyone trembles at punishment; everyone loves life. 

Likening others to oneself, 

one should neither kill nor cause killing. 
Whoever seeking one’s own happiness 

inflicts pain on others who also want happiness 

will not find happiness after death. 
Whoever seeking one’s own happiness 

does not inflict pain on others who also want happiness

will find happiness after death. 
Do not speak anything harsh. 

Those who are spoken to will answer you. 

Angry talk is painful, and retaliation will touch you. 

If you make yourself as still as a broken gong, 

you have attained nirvana, for anger is not known to you. 
Just as a cowherd with a staff 

drives the cows into the pasture, 

so old age and death drive the life of living beings. 
A fool committing wrong actions does not know 

that the stupid person burns through one’s own deeds, 

like one burned by fire. 
Whoever inflicts punishment 

on those who do not deserve it 

and offends against those who are without offense 

soon comes to one of these ten states: 

cruel suffering, infirmity, injury of the body, fearful pain, 

or mental loss, or persecution from the ruler, 

or a fearful accusation, loss of relations, 

or destruction of possessions, 

or lightning fire burning one’s houses, 

and when one’s body is destroyed the fool goes to hell. 
Neither nakedness nor matted hair nor mud 

nor fasting nor lying on the ground 

nor rubbing with dust nor sitting motionless 

purify a mortal who is not free from doubt and desire. 
Whoever though dressed in fine clothes, lives peacefully, 

is calm, controlled, restrained, pure, 

and does not hurt any other beings, 

that one is holy, an ascetic, a mendicant. 
Is there in the world anyone 

who is so restrained by modesty 

that they avoid blame like a trained horse avoids the whip? 

Like a trained horse when touched by a whip, 

be strenuous and eager, and by faith, by virtue, by energy, 

by meditation, by discernment of the truth 

you will overcome this great sorrow, 

perfected in knowledge, behaviour, and mindfulness. 
Engineers of canals guide the water; 

fletchers make the arrow straight; 

carpenters shape the wood; 

good people mould themselves.

Poem – The Brahmin – Gautam Buddha 

Stop the stream valiantly, drive away the desires, O Brahmana! 

When you have understood the destruction of all that was made, 

you will understand that which was not made. 
If the Brahmana has reached the other shore in both laws (in restraint and contemplation), 

all bonds vanish from him who has obtained knowledge. 
He for whom there is neither this nor that shore, nor both, him, 

the fearless and unshackled, I call indeed a Brahmana. 
He who is thoughtful, blameless, settled, dutiful, without

passions, and who has attained the highest end, 

him I call indeed a Brahmana. 
The sun is bright by day, the moon shines by night, the warrior 

is bright in his armour, the Brahmana is bright in his meditation; 

but Buddha, the Awakened, is bright with splendour day and night. 
Because a man is rid of evil, therefore he is called Brahmana; 

because he walks quietly, therefore he is called Samana; 

because he has sent away his own impurities, 

therefore he is called Pravragita (Pabbagita, a pilgrim). 
No one should attack a Brahmana, but no Brahmana (if attacked) 

should let himself fly at his aggressor! Woe to him who strikes a 

Brahmana, more woe to him who flies at his aggressor!
It advantages a Brahmana not a little if he holds his mind back from the pleasures of life; 

when all wish to injure has vanished, pain will cease. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who does not offend by body, word, 

or thought, and is controlled on these three points. 
After a man has once understood the law as taught by the Well- 

awakened (Buddha), let him worship it carefully, 

as the Brahmana worships the sacrificial fire. 
A man does not become a Brahmana by his platted hair, by his 

family, or by birth; in whom there is truth and righteousness, 

he is blessed, he is a Brahmana. 
What is the use of platted hair, O fool! what of the raiment of 

goat-skins? Within thee there is ravening, 

but the outside thou makest clean. 
The man who wears dirty raiments, who is emaciated and covered 

with veins, who lives alone in the forest, 

and meditates, him I call indeed a Brahmana. 
I do not call a man a Brahmana because of his origin or of his 

mother. He is indeed arrogant, and he is wealthy: but the poor, who 

is free from all attachments, him I call indeed a Brahmana. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who has cut all fetters, who never 

trembles, is independent and unshackled. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who has cut the strap and the thong, 

the chain with all that pertains to it, 

who has burst the bar, and is awakened. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who, though he has committed no 

offence, endures reproach, bonds, and stripes, 

who has endurance for his force, and strength for his army. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who is free from anger, dutiful, 

virtuous, without appetite, who is subdued, 

and has received his last body. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who does not cling to pleasures, 

like water on a lotus leaf, 

like a mustard seed on the point of a needle. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who, even here, knows the end of his 

suffering, has put down his burden, and is unshackled. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana whose knowledge is deep, 

who possesses wisdom, 

who knows the right way and the wrong, 

and has attained the highest end. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who keeps aloof both from laymen and 

from mendicants, who frequents no houses, and has but few desires. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who finds no fault with other 

beings, whether feeble or strong, 

and does not kill nor cause slaughter. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who is tolerant with the intolerant, 

mild with fault-finders, and free from passion among the passionate. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana from whom anger and hatred, pride 

and envy have dropt like a mustard seed from the point of a needle. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who utters true speech, instructive 

and free from harshness, so that he offend no one. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who takes nothing in the world that 

is not given him, be it long or short, small or large, good or bad. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who fosters no desires for this 

world or for the next, has no inclinations, and is unshackled. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who has no interests, and when he 

has understood (the truth), does not say How, how? 

and who has reached the depth of the Immortal. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who in this world is above good and evil, 

above the bondage of both, free from grief from sin, and from impurity. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who is bright like the moon, pure, 

serene, undisturbed, and in whom all gaiety is extinct. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who has traversed this miry road, 

the impassable world and its vanity, who has gone through, and reached 

the other shore, is thoughtful, guileless, free from doubts, free from 

attachment, and content. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who in this world, leaving all desires, 

travels about without a home, and in whom all concupiscence is extinct. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who, leaving all longings, travels 

about without a home, and in whom all covetousness is extinct. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who, after leaving all bondage to men, 

has risen above all bondage to the gods, and is free from all and every bondage. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who has left what gives pleasure and 

what gives pain, who is cold, and free from all germs (of renewed 

life), the hero who has conquered all the worlds. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who knows the destruction and the 

return of beings everywhere, who is free from bondage, welfaring 

(Sugata), and awakened (Buddha). 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana whose path the gods do not know, 

nor spirits (Gandharvas), nor men, 

whose passions are extinct, and who is an Arhat (venerable). 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who calls nothing his own, whether 

it be before, behind, or between, 

who is poor, and free from the love of the world. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana, the manly, the noble, the hero, the 

great sage, the conqueror, the impassible, the accomplished, the awakened. 
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who knows his former abodes, who 

sees heaven and hell, has reached the end of births, is perfect in 

knowledge, a sage, and whose perfections are all perfect.

कविता – पापको गुनासो – लक्ष्मी प्रसाद देवकोटा

लक्ष्मी प्रसाद देवकोटा Nov 12, 1909 – Sept 14, 1959

लक्ष्मी प्रसाद देवकोटा
Nov 12, 1909 – Sept 14, 1959


क.
‘पाप’ हो है नाम मेरो !
पुरुष बाबा, प्रकेति आमा !
देश नरनारीको घेरो !
मासु मन्दिर, बास खास !
मज्जा खोपी !
मन, चमन !
पन्छी, पशुको छुन्न जङ्गल !
मानवता सिमाना मेरो !
त्यसको इतिहास सेरोफेरो !

ख.
नित्य वाञ्छित !
नित्य निन्दित ! नित्य लाञ्छित !
कम्र्म मेरो !
अधिकांश दिलको ओट पाई,
‘मीठो’ भनाई,
नाउँ एउटा खोट मेरो !
जाँच सब दुनियाँको अन्तर !
राज मेरो !
दिनको उज्यालोले लुकाउँछ,
ताज मेरो !
ओठ झूठाको थकाई
आज मेरो !
‘पाप’ हो नाउँ अभागी !
साथी ! मेरो !

ग.
एकान्तमा पक्री मलाई
भन्न आउँछौ, “आ न साथी !
डुल्न जाऊँ आज राति !”
भोलि बिहान दुनियाँ सामु
गर्दछौ गाली नजाती !
नीचता हो पापभन्दा नीच साथी !
इन्कार गरिदिऊँ साथ चल्न,
लौ त दुनियाँ बाँचोस् आधी !
नेता बाँचून् ! जेता बाँचून् !
साधु बाँचून् !
अपार सहन हो धम्र्म मेरो !
सच्चा साधु कसले हे¥यो ?
गर्दैनन् पूजा रे दिनमा !
‘पाप’ हो प्रख्याति मेरो !

घ.
धम्र्मको गादी चढायौ,
बस्दिएँ !
मम्र्म शठका ठुँग् भनेथ्यो,
डस्दिएँ !
रौंचिरा पण्डितहरुकन
नश दिएँ !
‘सूक्ष्म रुपले !’ जो भनेथ्यौ
रस लिएँ !
बेहोशमा बखर छ दुनियाँ !
खुश रहें !
‘सुष्टिमा बस्, रँगा !’ भनेथ्यौ !
रँगिदिएँ ।
ईश्वर ! मेरो पाप के हो ?
श्राप के यो ?
निन्दा सधैंको ?
ठस्किएँ !

ङ.
मासुको गुलाफ–बागमा
मनु महाराज शैर गर्छन्,
लेख्छन् ढेरी !
परामर्शदाता मैं थिए तब !
मेरो निन्दा आज फेरि ?
गोल अनुभवलाई चिर्दै
धम्र्म, पापै फ्याक पारे !
छाया, उज्याला सृष्टि हो त,
छाया हुनाले के बिगारेँ ?
मेरा निन्दाले बनून् सब !
हे महाजन ! आशीर्वाद
लेऊ घनेरो !
ज्ञान भन्नु, केवल चिन्नु
रुप मेरो !

च.
विधिको रथको बायाँ पाङ्ग्रो !
काम मेरो निन्दा गर्छ
जगत् ग्वाङ्ग्रो !
मै विना अवतार हुन्नन् !
बादल हुन्नन् !
वज्रले भूलाई छुन्नन् !
मै विना, ईश्वर नउठ्छन्,
नित्य सुत्छन् !
उराठलाग्दो हुन्छ दुनियाँ,
रङ्गविनाको बोधो धैरो !
इन्द्रेनीझैं महिमा मेरो कसले हे¥यो ?
पाप, निन्दित अभिधा मेरो !

छ.
दुनियाँ खिचडी खान्छ भाई !
मरे मशीहा चिन्नलाई !

ज.
के उज्यालो मात्र सुन्दर ?
जो अँध्याराले जिलाउँछ ?
सृष्टिमा आत्माले, हेर !
माटोको पोशाक लाउँछ !
कामको हुँ दिव्य छोरो !
घृणित केवल नाम मेरो !

झ.
कामलाई पाप भन्छौ ?
पापका छौ पुत्र सारा
पापविनु यो चल्ला जगतेका
अविरल धारा ?

ञ.
काम जल्दा, शिव, उमाका,
पाचुके भै गो ?
लीला गै गो ?
सन्यास लिए पनि
शठ थिए शिव ?
पुत्र भै गो !
शम्भुलाई पार्वतीले के खिंचिनन् ?
नत्र संसार कसरी सर्छ ?
त्रिकोण यसमा हिल्नैपर्छ !
त्रिशूल यसमा हिल्नैपर्छ !
इन्दिय्र का म्खु पार्छन् बन्द ?
पशुपालक ती मालिकले ?
पापधर्म–बुना छन् प्रकृति !
चिन्छन् मलाई हाय ! कति !

ट.
प्रलयहरुले माया खाए !
सृष्टिहरुले जगाए !
माटोभित्र आत्मा डुलेर,
पाप र धम्र्म छुट्टयाए !
तर दुनियाँमा लटा बढाई
कतिले गाँजा उडाए !

ठ.
पछुताउले छुँदै धरम छ !
आगो निभेर मलम छु !
विरोध दुईले बन्दछ विश्व
समान–अन्तर रेखा मिल्छन् !
तृतीय तत्व, शाम्यको विन्दु,
पुग्दा, सारा पाप र धम्र्म,
एकतामा आई, गल्छन्
घृणित अस्तित्व खै तब मेरो !
कसले हेरयो ?
‘पाप’ अभागी नाउँ हो मेरो !

ड.
धम्र्म बताउँछन् सजिलो गल्ली
विशाल बन के बाटो होइन ?
काँढा, खाडी बीचमा पर्नु
पनि के अनुभव राम्रो हुँदैन ?
बाटा खुला छन्, बाटा अनन्त !
कुन ईश्वरले लाउँछ बार ?
विश्वविद्यालय छ विशाल,
विषय अपार !
निषेधहरु हुन् कृत्रिम बार !
अध्ययन नै कसरी हेय ?
आफु नछकिनु तिम्रो श्रेय !
बलाइरहेछन् तर अन्धाले
मेरो झूठो आकार !

ढ. ईश्वर कहिल्यै बोल्दैनन्
यस्तो गर्नु ! उस्तो नगर्नु !
तिम्रा दिलमा सिवाय !
अनुभवविनाको धम्र्म हुँदैन
अनुभवविनाका पाप !
पछुताउविनाको माप !

ण.
हामी अरुका मानव इशारा
—हरुले मिरमिर केही देख्छौँ !

त.
राजाले तर ऐन तोड्नु
भन्दैन !
मानिस आफैं आफ्नो पुलिस हो,
आपूm आफ्नै न्यायाधीश !
आफु आफ्नो अभियुक्त !

थ.
मानिस भित्र आफु पुगे, यदि
मैनै छैन,
वार फुके !
सम्बन्ध लुके !
जवाफदेही सारा चुके !

द.
आँखा खोल्नु धम्र्म भए यदि,
चिम्लनु पनि ता होला मोज !
तर त्यो कस्तो ?
भोलि बताउला आफ्नो खोज !

ध.
ज्ञान भनेको चिन्दै बढ्नु, चिन्दै बढ्नु,
आफु र अरुको तादात्म्य,
अथवा अन्तर,
कम्र्महरुको पथमा अनन्त !
विश्व हो एउटा वृक्ष विशाल !

न.
रुखका हामी पाप भई,
रुख लडाए पाप !
रुख अडाए धम्र्म !
त्यसका जरामा जो गर्छौ काम,
रसको नाम !
हाम्रो त्यही हो परमै धाम !
ज्ञान सुनाएँ अलिकति हेर !
पाप अभागी नाउँ छ मेरो !

प.
केवल उज्यालो चिनाउने छाया
निन्दा मेरो तर क्या हेर !
दायाँ, बायाँ !
मूर्ख देख्छु जनको घेरो !
‘पाप’ अभागी नाउँ हो मेरो !

Poem – Old Age – Gautam Buddha 

Lord Gautam Buddha  563 BC - 480 BC

Lord Gautam Buddha
563 BC – 480 BC


Why is there laughter, why is there joy 

while this world is always burning? 

Why do you not seek a light, 

you who are shrouded in darkness? 
Consider this dressed-up lump covered with wounds, 

joined with limbs, diseased, and full of many schemes 

which are neither permanent nor stable. 

This body is wearing out, a nest of diseases and frail; 

this heap of corruption falls apart; life ends in death. 
What pleasure is there 

for one who sees these white bones 

like gourds thrown away in the autumn? 

A fortress is made out of the bones, 

plastered over with flesh and blood, 

and in it lives old age and death, pride and deceit. 
The glorious chariots of the kings wear out; 

the body also comes to old age; 

but the virtue of good people never ages; 

thus the good teach each other. 
People who have learned little grow old like an ox; 

their flesh grows, but their knowledge does not grow. 
I have run through a course of many births 

looking for the maker of this dwelling and did not find it; 

painful is birth again and again. 

Now you are seen, the builder of the house; 

you will not build the house again. 

All your rafters are broken; your ridgepole is destroyed; 

your mind, set on the attainment of nirvana, 

has attained the extinction of desires. 
People who have not practiced proper discipline 

who have not acquired wealth in their youth, 

pine away like old cranes in a lake without fish. 

People who have not practiced proper discipline, 

who have not acquired wealth in their youth, 

lie like broken bows, sighing after the past.

Poem – Good And Bad – Gautam Buddha 

Lord Gautam Buddha 563 BCE - 480 BCE

Lord Gautam Buddha
563 BCE – 480 BCE


A person should hurry toward the good 

and restrain one’s thoughts from the bad. 

If a person is slow in doing good, 

one’s mind will find pleasure in wrong. 
If a person does what is wrong, let one not do it again. 

Let one not find pleasure in wrong. 

Painful is the accumulation of bad conduct. 
If a person does what is good, let one do it again. 

Let one find joy in it. 

Happiness is the result of good conduct. 
Even a wrong-doer sees happiness 

as long as one’s wrong action does not ripen; 

but when the wrong action has ripened, 

then does the wrong-doer see bad. 
Even a good person sees bad 

as long as one’s good action does not ripen; 

but when one’s good action has ripened, 

then the good person sees the good. 
Let no one underestimate evil, 

thinking, ‘It will not come near me.’ 

Even a water-pot is filled by the falling of drops of water. 

A fool becomes full of evil 

even if one gathers it little by little. 
Let no one underestimate good, 

thinking, ‘It will not come near me.’ 

Even a water-pot is filled by the falling of drops of water. 

A wise person becomes full of goodness 

even if one gathers it little by little. 
Let a person avoid wrong actions, as a merchant, 

who has few companions and carries much wealth, 

avoids a dangerous road; 

as a person who loves life avoids poison. 
Whoever has no wound on one’s hand 

may touch poison with that hand; 

poison does not affect one who has no wound; 

nor does evil one who does no wrong. 
Whoever does wrong to an innocent person 

or to one who is pure and harmless, 

the wrong returns to that fool 

just like fine dust thrown against the wind. 
Some people are born again in the womb; 

wrong-doers go to hell; 

the good go to heaven; 

those free from worldly desires attain nirvana. 
Neither in the sky nor in the middle of the ocean 

nor by entering the caves of mountains 

is there known a place on earth 

where a person can escape from a wrong action. 
Neither in the sky nor in the middle of the ocean 

nor by entering the caves of mountains 

is there known a place on earth 

where a person can escape from death.

Poem – Flowers – Gautam Buddha 

Lord Gautam Buddha  563 BC - 480 BC

Lord Gautam Buddha
563 BC – 480 BC


Who shall conquer this world 
and the world of death and the gods? 

Who shall find the clear path of truth, 

as a skillful person finds the flower? 
The wise student will conquer this world 

and the world of death and the gods. 

The wise student will find the clear path of truth, 

as a skillful person finds the flower. 
Whoever knows that this body is like foam 

and has learned that its nature is a mirage, 

will break the flourishing arrows of Mara 

and never see the king of death. 
Death carries off a person who is gathering flowers, 

whose mind is distracted, 

like a flood carries off a sleeping village. 

Death terminates a person who is gathering flowers, 

whose mind is distracted, 

before one is even satiated in pleasures. 
As the bee collects nectar and departs 

without harming the flower or its colour or scent, 

so let the sage live in a village. 

Not the faults of others 

nor their errors of commission or omission, 

but one’s own errors and omissions should the sage consider. 
Like a beautiful flower, full of colour, but without scent, 

are the fine but fruitless words 

of those who do not act accordingly. 

But like a beautiful flower, full of colour and full of scent,

are the fine and fruitful words 

of those who do act accordingly. 
As many kinds of garlands 

can be made from a heap of flowers, 

so many good works may be achieved by a mortal after birth. 

The scent of flowers does not travel against the wind, 

not even that of sandalwood, rose-bay or jasmine, 

but the fragrance of good people 

travels even against the wind. 

A good person pervades everywhere. 
Sandalwood or rose-bay or lotus or jasmine– 

among these perfumes, the perfume of virtue is unsurpassed. 

Limited is the scent of rose-bay or sandalwood; 

but the perfume of the virtuous 

rises up to the gods as the highest. 
Mara never crosses the path of those who are virtuous,

who live without thoughtlessness, 

and who are liberated by true knowledge. 

Just as on a heap of rubbish thrown upon the highway 
the lotus will grow sweetly fragrant, delighting the soul, 

so also among those who are like rubbish 

the wise student of the truly enlightened Buddha 

shines brightly with wisdom above the blinded crowd.

Poem – Awareness – Gautam Buddha 

Gautam Buddha   563 BCE -  480 BC

Gautam Buddha
563 BCE – 480 BC


Awareness is the path of immortality; 

thoughtlessness is the path of death. 

Those who are aware do not die. 

The thoughtless are as if dead already. 
The wise having clearly understood this, 

delight in awareness 

and find joy in the knowledge of the noble ones. 

These wise ones, meditative, persevering, 

always using strong effort, 

attain nirvana, the supreme peace and happiness. 
If a person is awake, aware, mindful, pure, considerate,

self-restrained, and lives according to duty, 

that person’s glory will increase. 

By awakening, by awareness, by restraint and control, 

the wise may make for oneself 

an island which no flood can overwhelm. 
Fools follow after vanity, are ignorant and careless. 

The wise keep awareness as their best treasure. 

Do not follow after vanity 

nor after sensual pleasure nor lust. 
Whoever meditates with awareness obtains great joy. 

When the wise conquer thoughtlessness by awareness, 

climbing the terraced heights of wisdom, 

free from sadness viewing the sad crowd below, 

they gaze upon the fools, like one on the mountain peak 

gazes upon those standing on the plain. 
Aware among the thoughtless, awake among the sleepy, 

the wise advances, like a racehorse leaves behind the slow. 

By awareness Indra rose to become chief of the gods. 

People praise awareness; thoughtlessness is always blamed. 
A mendicant who finds joy in awareness, 

who looks with fear on thoughtlessness, 

moves about like fire, 

burning all restrictions, small or large. 

A mendicant who finds joy in awareness, 

who looks with fear on thoughtlessness, 

cannot fall away, but is close to nirvana.

Poem – Anger – Gautam Buddha 

Lord Gautam Buddha 563 BCE - 480 BCE

Lord Gautam Buddha
563 BCE – 480 BCE


Give up anger; renounce pride; 

transcend all worldly attachments. 

No sufferings touch the person 

who is not attached to name and form, 

who calls nothing one’s own. 

Whoever restrains rising anger like a chariot gone astray, 

that one I call a real driver; 

others merely hold the reins. 
Overcome anger by love; overcome wrong by good; 

overcome the miserly by generosity, and the liar by truth. 

Speak the truth; do not yield to anger; 

give even if asked for a little. 

These three steps lead you to the gods. 
The wise who hurt no one, who always control their body, 

go to the unchangeable place, 

where, once they have gone, they suffer no more. 

Those who are always aware, who study day and night,

who aspire for nirvana, their passions will come to an end. 
This is an old saying, Atula, not just from today: 

‘They blame the person who is silent; 

they blame the person who talks much; 

they also blame the person who talks in moderation; 

there is no one on earth who is not blamed.’ 

There never was, nor ever will be, nor is there now 

anyone who is always blamed or anyone who is always praised. 
But the one whom those who discriminate praise 

continually day after day as without fault, 

wise, rich in knowledge and virtue, 

who would dare to blame that person, 

who is like a gold coin from the Jambu river? 

That one is praised even by the gods, even by Brahma.
Be aware of bodily anger and control your body. 

Let go of the body’s wrongs 

and practice virtue with your body. 
Be aware of the tongue’s anger and control your tongue. 

Let go of the tongue’s wrongs 

and practice virtue with your tongue. 
Be aware of the mind’s anger and control your mind. 

Let go of the mind’s wrongs 

and practice virtue with your mind. 
The wise who control their body, 

who control their tongue, 

the wise who control their mind are truly well controlled.

Poem – Thirst – Gautam Buddha 

Lord Gautam Buddha 563 BCE - 480 BCE

Lord Gautam Buddha
563 BCE – 480 BCE


The thirst of a thoughtless man grows like a creeper; he runs 

from life to life, like a monkey seeking fruit in the forest. 

Whomsoever this fierce thirst overcomes, full of poison, in this 

world, his sufferings increase like the abounding Birana grass. 
He who overcomes this fierce thirst, difficult to be conquered in 

this world, sufferings fall off from him, like water-drops from a lotus leaf. 
This salutary word I tell you, `Do ye, as many as are here 

assembled, dig up the root of thirst, as he who wants the sweet- 

scented Usira root must dig up the Birana grass, that Mara (the 

tempter) may not crush you again and again, as the stream crushes the reeds.’ 
As a tree, even though it has been cut down, is firm so long as 

its root is safe, and grows again, thus, unless the feeders of thirst 

are destroyed, the pain (of life) will return again and again. 
He whose thirst running towards pleasure is exceeding strong in 

the thirty-six channels, the waves will carry away that misguided man, 

viz. his desires which are set on passion. 
The channels run everywhere, the creeper (of passion) stands 

sprouting; if you see the creeper springing up, cut its root by means of knowledge. 
A creature’s pleasures are extravagant and luxurious; sunk in 

lust and looking for pleasure, men undergo (again and again) birth and decay. 
Men, driven on by thirst, run about like a snared hare; held in 

fetters and bonds, they undergo pain for a long time, again and again. 
Men, driven on by thirst, run about like a snared hare; let 

therefore the mendicant drive out thirst, by striving after

passionlessness for himself. 
He who having got rid of the forest (of lust) (i.e. after having 

reached Nirvana) gives himself over to forest-life (i.e. to lust), and 

who, when removed from the forest (i.e. from lust), runs to the forest 

(i.e. to lust), look at that man! though free, he runs into bondage. 
Wise people do not call that a strong fetter which is made of 

iron, wood, or hemp; far stronger is the care for precious stones and 

rings, for sons and a wife. 
That fetter wise people call strong which drags down, yields, but 

is difficult to undo; after having cut this at last, people leave the 

world, free from cares, and leaving desires and pleasures behind. 
Those who are slaves to passions, run down with the stream (of 

desires), as a spider runs down the web which he has made himself; 

when they have cut this, at last, wise people leave the world free 

from cares, leaving all affection behind. 
Give up what is before, give up what is behind, give up what is 

in the middle, when thou goest to the other shore of existence; if thy 

mind is altogether free, thou wilt not again enter into birth and decay. 
If a man is tossed about by doubts, full of strong passions, and 

yearning only for what is delightful, his thirst will grow more and 

more, and he will indeed make his fetters strong. 
If a man delights in quieting doubts, and, always reflecting, 

dwells on what is not delightful (the impurity of the body, &c.), he 

certainly will remove, nay, he will cut the fetter of Mara. 
He who has reached the consummation, who does not tremble, who is 

without thirst and without sin, he has broken all the thorns of life: 

this will be his last body. 
He who is without thirst and without affection, who understands 

the words and their interpretation, who knows the order of letters 

(those which are before and which are after), he has received his last 

body, he is called the great sage, the great man. 
`I have conquered all, I know all, in all conditions of life I am 

free from taint; I have left all, and through the destruction of 

thirst I am free; having learnt myself, whom shall I teach?’ 
The gift of the law exceeds all gifts; the sweetness of the law 

exceeds all sweetness; the delight in the law exceeds all delights; 

the extinction of thirst overcomes all pain. 
Pleasures destroy the foolish, if they look not for the other 

shore; the foolish by his thirst for pleasures destroys himself, as if 

he were his own enemy. 
The fields are damaged by weeds, mankind is damaged by passion: 

therefore a gift bestowed on the passionless brings great reward. 
The fields are damaged by weeds, mankind is damaged by hatred: 

therefore a gift bestowed on those who do not hate brings great reward. 
The fields are damaged by weeds, mankind is damaged by vanity: 

therefore a gift bestowed on those who are free from vanity brings great reward. 
The fields are damaged by weeds, mankind is damaged by lust: 

therefore a gift bestowed on those who are free from lust brings great reward.

Poem – Thought – Gautam Buddha 

Gautam Buddha   563 BCE -  480 BC

Gautam Buddha
563 BCE – 480 BC


As fletchers make their arrows straight, the wise make straight their wavering and unsteady thought, 

which is difficult to guard and difficult to restrain. 

Like a fish taken from its watery home 

and thrown on the dry ground, 

our thought quivers all over 

in order to escape the dominion of Mara 

It is good to control the mind, 

which is difficult to restrain, fickle, and wandering. 

A tamed mind brings happiness. 

Let the wise guard their thoughts, 

which are difficult to perceive, tricky, and wandering. 

Thoughts well guarded bring happiness. 

Those who restrain their mind, 

which travels far alone without a body, hiding in a cave,

will be free from the restrictions of death. 
If a person’s mind is unsteady, 

if it does not know the true path, 

if one’s peace of mind is troubled, 

wisdom is not perfected. 
There is no fear for the one whose thought is untroubled, 

whose mind is not confused, 

who has ceased to think of good and bad, 

who is aware. 
Knowing that this body is like a jar, 

and making one’s thought strong as a fortress, 

attack Mara with the weapon of wisdom, 

protect what is conquered and stay always aware. 

Before long, unfortunately, this body will lie on the earth, 

rejected, without consciousness, like a useless log. 
Whatever an enemy may do to an enemy, 

or a hater to a hater, 

a wrongly directed mind will do greater harm. 

Neither a mother nor a father 

nor any other relative will do so much; 

a well-directed mind will do us greater service