कुनै बाटोमा तिमी – प्रकाश सायमी     

कुनै बाटोमा तिमी एक्लै

कुनै बाटोमा म एक्लै

आकाश त एउटै छ हाम्रो

तर धर्ती बेग्लाबेग्लै

तिमी नदी भई बग्छौ

म पहाड भई छेकिन्छु

तिमी पहाड हुँदा

म मैदानमै रोकिन्छु

अस्ताइरहेछ घाम-जून

साँझ बिहान एक्लैएक्लै
उच्छ्वासहरु उठेका

शून्य निस्तब्ध पथमा

हिँडिरहेछ जीवन

चक्कै छुटेको रथमा

पुग्छौँ कहाँ कहाँ खै

छलेर आफैलाई
पत्थरको चोट भन्दा

नमिठो एक्लोपन छ

साथी छुटेर यात्रा

दुखिरहेको मन छ

कहाँ थियो म जानु

फर्कें कहाँ म एक्लै
आकाश त एउटै छ हाम्रो

तर धर्ती बेग्लाबेग्लै

शकुन्तला नम्बर दुइ – प्रकाश सायमी    

तिलस्मी दाँतलाईकृत्रिम माजनले चमक दिएर

एक अस्वभाविक मुस्कानकासाथ

फोसिल उडेको बेल्जियमी ऐनामा

आफ्नो अनुहारको भूगोल हेर्दै

हठात् अाजलीले आफ्नो हराएको औंठी सम्झी

त्यो औंठी

उनले पोखरीमा कतै पोखरामा हराएकी थिई

मनमा उत्ताल पोखरीहरु पौडिरहेको बेला

अाजली त्यो औंठीसित खेल्थी र भन्थी-

म कदापि शकुन्तला बन्न चाहन्नँ ।

समयले उनलाई

आज शकुन्तलाको अर्को रुप दिएको छ

औठी हराएकी शकुन्तला

स्वर वर्णमालाको पहिलो अक्षरमा नाम धारण गरेकी


कक्षा कोठामा

क्लास टीचरले हाजिरीकापी

पल्टाउने बित्तिक्कै उठ्थी

र ऊ बस्दा

अरु उठ्ने क्रममा हुन्थे


कक्षा कोठामा उनी रोलनम्बर एक थिई

र त्यो नै तिनको परिचय थियो

आज इतिहासले

तिनलाई रोलनम्बर दुई बनाइदिएको छ ।
नजीर भन्छ –

ऊ गाउनको लागि होइन

ऊ गुन्गुनाउनको लागि जन्मिएकी हो

सँधै ऊ बिहानीमा घिमिरेको हिमालकी छोरी बन्थी

तर समय सरगमले

आज उनलाई

गीतमा होइन गणितमा अल्झाइदिएको छ ।

Uncle Jim – Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis

‘I got no time fer wasters, lad,’ sez ‘e, 

‘Give me a man wiv grit,’ sez Uncle Jim. 

‘E bores ‘is cute ole eyes right into me, 

While I stares ‘ard an’ gives it back to ‘im. 

Then orl at once ‘e grips me ‘and in ‘is: 

‘Some’ow,’ ‘e sez, ‘I likes yer ugly phiz.’ 
‘You got a look,’ ‘e sez, ‘like you could stay; 

Altho’ yeh mauls King’s English when yeh yaps, 

An’ ‘angs flash frills on ev’rythink yeh say. 

I ain’t no grammarist meself, per’aps, 

But langwidge is a ‘elp, I owns,’ sez Unk, 

‘When things is goin’ crook.’ An’ ‘ere ‘e wunk. 
‘Yeh’ll find it tough,’ ‘e sez, ‘to knuckle down. 

Good farmin’ is a gift—like spoutin’ slang. 

Yeh’ll ‘ave to cut the luxuries o’ town, 

An’ chuck the manners of this back-street gang; 

Fer country life ain’t cigarettes and beer.’ 

‘I’m game,’ I sez. Sez Uncle, ‘Put it ‘ere!’ 
Like that I took the plunge, an’ slung the game. 

I’ve parted wiv them joys I ‘eld most dear; 

I’ve sent the leery bloke that bore me name 

Clean to the pack wivout one pearly tear; 

An’ frum the ashes of a ne’er-do-well 

A bloomin’ farmer’s blossomin’ like ‘ell. 
Farmer! That’s me! Wiv this ‘ere strong right ‘and 

I’ve gripped the plough; and blistered jist a treat. 

Doreen an’ me ‘as gone upon the land. 

Yours truly fer the burden an’ the ‘eat! 

Yours truly fer upendin’ chunks o’ soil! 

The ‘ealthy, ‘ardy, ‘appy son o’ toil! 
I owns I’ve ‘ankered fer me former joys; 

I’ve ‘ad me hours o’ broodin’ on me woes; 

I’ve missed the comp’ny, an’ I’ve missed the noise, 

The football matches an’ the picter shows. 

I’ve missed—but, say, it makes me feel fair mean 

To whip the cat; an’ then see my Doreen. 
To see the colour comin’ in ‘er cheeks, 

To see ‘er eyes grow brighter day be day, 

The new, glad way she looks an’ laughs an’ speaks 

Is worf ten times the things I’ve chucked away. 

An’ there’s a secret, whispered in the dark, 

‘As made me ‘eart sing like a flamin’ lark. 
Jist let me tell yeh ‘ow it come about. 

The things that I’ve been thro’ ‘ud fill a book. 

Right frum me birf Fate played to knock me out; 

The ‘and that I ‘ad dealt to me was crook! 

Then comes Doreen, an’ patches up me parst; 

Now Forchin’s come to bunk wiv me at larst. 
First orf, one night poor Mar gits suddin fits, 

An’ floats wivout the time to wave ‘good-byes.’ 

Doreen is orl broke up the day she flits; 

It tears me ‘eart in two the way she cries. 

To see ‘er grief, it almost made me glad 

I never knowed the mar I must ‘ave ‘ad. 
We done poor Muvver proud when she went out 

A slap-up send-orf, trimmed wiv tears an’ crape. 

An’ then fer weeks Doreen she mopes about, 

An’ life takes on a gloomy sorter shape. 

I watch ‘er face git pale, ‘er eyes grow dim; 

Till—like some ‘airy angel—comes ole Jim. 
A cherub togged in sunburn an’ a beard 

An’ duds that shouted ”Ayseed!’ fer a mile: 

Care took the count the minute ‘e appeared, 

An’ sorrer shrivelled up before ‘is smile, 

‘E got the ‘ammer-lock on my good-will 

The minute that ‘e sez, ‘So, this is Bill.’ 
It’s got me beat. Doreen’s late Par, some way, 

Was second cousin to ‘is bruvver’s wife. 

Somethin’ like that. In less than ‘arf a day 

It seemed ‘e’d been my uncle orl me life. 

‘E takes me ‘and: ‘I dunno ‘ow it is,’ 

‘E sez, ‘but, lad, I likes that ugly phiz.’ 
An’ when ‘e’d stayed wiv us a little while 

The ‘ouse begun to look like ‘ome once more. 

Doreen she brightens up beneath ‘is smile, 

An’ ‘ugs ‘im till I kids I’m gettin’ sore. 

Then, late one night, ‘e opens up ‘is scheme, 

An’ passes me wot looks like some fond dream. 
‘E ‘as a little fruit-farm, doin’ well; 

‘E saved a tidy bit to see ‘im thro’; 

‘E’s gittin’ old fer toil, an’ wants a spell; 

An’ ‘ere’s a ‘ome jist waitin’ fer us two. 

‘It’s ‘ers an’ yours fer keeps when I am gone,’ 

Sez Uncle Jim. ‘Lad, will yeh take it on?’ 
So that’s the strength of it. An’ ‘ere’s me now 

A flamin’ berry farmer, full o’ toil; 

Playin’ joo-jitsoo wiv an’ ‘orse an’ plough, 

An’ coaxin’ fancy tucker frum the soil, 

An’ longin’, while I wrestles with the rake, 

Fer days when me poor back fergits to ache. 
Me days an’ nights is full of schemes an’ plans 

To figger profits an’ cut out the loss; 

An’ when the pickin’s on, I ‘ave me ‘an’s 

To take me orders while I act the boss; 

It’s sorter sweet to ‘ave the right to rouse…. 

An’ my Doreen’s the lady of the ‘ouse. 
To see ‘er bustlin’ ’round about the place, 

Full of the simple joy o’ doin’ things, 

That thoughtful, ‘appy look upon ‘er face, 

That ‘ope an’ peace an’ pride o’ labour brings, 

Is worth the crowd of joys I knoo one time, 

An’ makes regrettin’ ’em seem like a crime. 
An’ ev’ry little while ole Uncle Jim 

Comes up to stay a bit an’ pass a tip. 

It gives us ‘eart jist fer to look at ‘im, 

An’ feel the friendship in ‘is warm ‘and-grip. 

‘Im, wiv the sunburn on ‘is kind ole dile; 

‘Im, wiv the sunbeams in ‘is sweet ole smile. 
‘I got no time fer wasters, lad,’ sez ‘e, 

‘But that there ugly mug o’ yourn I trust.’ 

An’ so I reckon that it’s up to me 

To make a bloomin’ do of it or bust. 

I got to take the back-ache wiv the rest, 

An’ plug along, an’ do me little best. 
Luck ain’t no steady visitor, I know; 

But now an’ then it calls—fer look at me! 

You wouldn’t take me, ’bout a year ago, 

Free gratis wiv a shillin’ pound o’ tea; 

Then, in a blessed leap, ole Forchin lands 

A missus an’ a farm fair in me ‘ands.

War Song – Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis

Sing a song o’ Hempire 

Mother’s took a fit, 

Nasty Germans buildin’ ships, 

An’ never mentioned it. 

Buildin’ beastly warships, 

Quite a tidy few; 

Mother’s got an awful start 

Baby’s got it too. 
The King was in the Customs House, 

But couldn’t find a penny ; 

The Lords were at their country seats 

And didn’t offer any; 

A millyun paupers mooned about 

With nothin’ much to eat, 

When down comes Australyer 

With a Dreadnought fer the fleet. 

Sing a song o’ Warships, 

‘Orrid ole Bulow, 

Layin’ down ‘is Dreadnoughts 

An’ didn’t let us know 

Didn’t advertise it, 

Till the Cablegram 

Spread the awful tidings 

An’ the Empire shouted, ‘Damn!’ 
Sing a song o’ Hempire, 

Mother’s up a tree; 

But the Melbourne Stock exchange 

‘As swore to set ‘er free. 

Does the German caitiff 

Build upon the sly? 

Then seventeen suburban may’rs 

Will know the reason why! 
Seventeen suburban may’rs 

Of the Bulldog Breed 

Fly to succor Hingland 

In her hour of need. 

What of ‘Constant Reader’? 

‘Pro Bono Publico’? 

Will ‘Subscriber’ see old Hingland 

Flabbergasted? No!! 
A reeiy, trooly battleship, 

With guns an’ things galore, 

And splendid sails of calico 

From MacMillan’s store 

The Stock Exchange will float it 

On a sea of gush. 

Wot’s two millyun quid to us? 

We don’t care a rush! 
(But – whisper – little mother, 

If, later on, some day, 

We want ter sorter float a loan, 

To ‘elp us on our way 

Borrer of it back, like 

After wot ‘as passed, 

Don’t you go an’ crool our pitch, 

Like you did the last.) 
Sing a song o’ Britain’s fleet 

(‘Ow the Tories raged!) 

That’s goin’ to guard Australyer 

(If not otherwise engaged). 

Sing of ‘Umpty Dumpty 

‘Im that ‘ad the fall. 

Rob Australian Peter 

To pay old Hinglish Paul. 
Sing o’ topsy-turvey; 

Sing of inside-out, 

Of back-to-front and upside-down 

An’ t’other way about. 

Spend ten bloomin’ millyun, 

Buy yer ships galore, 

An’ send them all to Hingland 

To guard Australyer’s shore. 
Sing a song o’ Hempire! 

We’ve got ter guard ‘the heart.’ 

If it gets a limb lopped off, 

That ain’t a vital part. 

Learn ter think Imperially 

Shriek with courage grim 

Fer ‘the heart’ must be protected 

Tho’ it’s tough if we’re the limb.

To A Dead Mate  – Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis

There’s many a man who rides today 

In the lonely, far out-back; 

There’s many a man who makes his way 

On a dusty bushland track; 

There’s many a man in bush and town 

Who mourns for a good mate gone; 

There are eyes grown sad and heads cast down 

Since Henry has passed on. 
A mate he was, and a mate to love, 

For mateship was his creed: 

With a strong, true heart and a soul above 

This sad world’s sordid greed. 

He lived as a mate, and wrote as a mate 

Of the things which he believed. 

Now many a good man mourns his fate, 

And he leaves a nation grieved. 
True champion he of the lame and halt: 

True knight of the poor was he, 

Who could e’er excuse a brother’s fault 

With a ready sympathy. 

He suffered much, and much he toiled, 

With his hand e’er for the right: 

And he dreamed and planned while the billy boiled 

In the bushland camp at night. 
Joe Wilson and his mates are sad, 

And the tears of bushwives fall, 

For the kindly heart that Henry had 

Had made him loved of all. 

There’s many a man who rides today, 

Cast down and sore oppressed; 

And thro’ the land I hear them say: 

‘Pass, Henry, to your rest.’

Wanderers Lost  – Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis

Oh, we are the phantoms of rovers lost 

See how the mocking mirages play! 

Men who have ventured and paid the cost. 

Lone, waiting women, ’tis vain to pray! 

We dies unshriven, as rovers die, 

And no man knows where our white bones lie. 

Black birds gather when rovers stray, 

Out where the mocking mirages play. 
A maiden has waited a long year thro’. 

Mark where a crow from the northward flies! 

‘Ah, can he be false that had sworn so true?’ 

They say that a wanderer woos with lies. 

A maiden has waited and counted the days, 

Since a lover went roving the northward ways. 

What do they profit – unheeded sighs? 

Mark where a crow from the northward flies! 
Out in the desert a still thing lies. 

Westward the sun is sinking low. 

Who is to mourn when a rover dies? 

Hark! ‘Tis the caw of a sated crow. 

Who is to tell of a mad’ning thrist 

Of a lonely death in a land accurst? 

Merciful God! Is she ne’er to know? 

(Hark to the caw of a sated crow.) 
Oh, we are the legion that never came back 

Ever have rovers to count the cost. 

Men who went out on the waterless track. 

Curst is the plain that was ne’er recross’d! 

Restless to roam o’er the desert our doom, 

Till our end shall be known and our bones find a tomb. 

Mourn for the souls of wanderers lost, 

Ever have rovers to count the cost.