Khol – Bhairab Aryal

अस्पतालको सगाल पलङमा
सेतो सुकिलो ओच्छ्यान पाई
नयाँ रोगी रम्दछ पहिले
खोल र तन्ना सुम्सुम्याई
अहा ! कस्तो सफा विच्छौना,
हातको मयल पनि सर्ला जस्तो
कति नरम औ कति मनोरम
खोपीभित्रको शैय्या जस्तो ।

तर जब ओल्टेकोल्टे गर्दा
तन्ना खोल अलि सर्न जान्छ ,
अनि रोगीको आँखा सहसा
भित्री तहमा पर्न जान्छ ।

ती सुकिला खोलहरूभित्र
कति थाङ्ना ती सिरह डसना
टाल्दैतुन्दै छोप्पिरहेको,
सयौं वर्षको अवशेषपना
छ्या! छ्या!! देख्दै डुङ्ग गनाउने
पीप रगतका टाटैटाटा
जति पल्टायो उति घिन लाग्दो
दिशापिशाबले कुहिँदा पाटा
देख्दछ जब यो रोगी
अनि पो खुल्दछ उसमा भित्री पोल
नब्य झैँ लाग्ने, भव्य झैँ लाग्ने,
ओछ्यान रहेछ केवल खोल
दारा किट्छ अनि त्यो रोगी
चिच्याउन लाग्छ च्यात्तै खोल
खोल खोलमै कति दिन धान्छौ
जगजीवनको मोल ।

तर नारी समाई भन्दछ डाक्टर
छैन यसको ब्रेन कन्ट्रोल
अनि धाइले प्याइदिन्छे
मुसुक्क हाँस्तै रङ्गिन झोल ।

Shahar Ko Nidrama – Tanka Subba

कोलाहलै कोलाहल पिएर
व्यथा बल्झाउछ
पहरेदारहरुसंग रातमा जाग्रम बस्छ
रङ्गीचङ्गी बेलुन भएर
आकासभरी रौनकतामा उड्छ
दिन र रात दुइपाउ भएर उभ्छ
तर यो सहर
आज गाढा निद्रामा परे झैं
छाएको छ सन्नाटामा
हराएको छ चहलपहलबाट
गलेको छ सहरवासीहरुको दुःखमा ।

निर्जन छ यो सहरको परिवेश
देखिन्नन् कुनै पदचिन्हहरु
ठिहीले रात जम्दा
अन्धकार हासे जस्तो
श्मशान जागे जस्तो
उज्यालो भागे जस्तो
क्षणहरुमा निदाएका छन् तमाम सहरवासीहरु
तर म एक्लै ब्युझे होला कसरी ?
अध्यारोको साम्राज्यलाई
चिरे होला कसरी ?

रात विथोल्ने कुनै आवाजहरु छैनन्
कुम्भकर्णका निद्राले छोपिरहेछ
सहरलाई
भाले डाक भैसक्यो
हटेको छैन अझै कालो चुक पोखिएको रात
औंसी परेछ कि कुन्नी
जून पनि लुकेको छ ।

उज्यालो बाचेको बेला
थिएन कुनै वेदना
थियो त केवल हजारौंको प्रेम
तर आज कथा जस्तै भएको छ
सहर अझैं ब्यूझेको छैन
चल्मलाएको छैन
आखा खोल्नै बिर्सने हो कि भनेर
झक्झकाउदै छु बारम्बार सहरलाई
संजीवनी भर्दैछु
बिहानीसंग ताजा भएर उठ्न सकोस् भनेर
तर अझै यो सहर गाढा निद्रामा परेको छ
ठिही परेको रातमा कठाङ्ग्रिएको छ ।

Shrawan Mukarung – Pirai Pir Ko Bhari Boki

पीरैपीरको भारी बोकी कता जाने तामाङ दाइ
उँभो लागे बिगु गुम्बा
उँधो लागे नीलो गङ्गा
जहाँ पुगे’नि सुख छैन सपना देख्ने मान्छेलाई

पहाड नाघ, जङ्घार तर भेटिने त उही सूर्य
बिसोनी हो यशोधरा तिम्रा लागि तिमी बुद्ध
पीरैपीरको भारी बोकी…

यो बाटोमा पसिनाको एकपछि अर्को हिमाल
जति आँसु बहे पनि आफ्ना लागि आफैँ रुमाल

Food – Jing Han

Food, food I love you so,
People say go on a diet, but what do they know.
Food, food you make me grow,
You are the one on that makes me glow.

Burgers and fries,
They are the one that stifles my hunger cries.
Popcorn chicken and buffalo wings,
Whenever I see you, with joy my heart sings.

Smoothies and milkshake,
They all go great with a nice chocolate cake.
Ice cream and whip cream,
Why couldn’t I get you out of my dream?

Food, food I love you so.
I will always love you wherever I go.
Food, food you may not know,
But in my life, you play the leading role.

The Food Of Love – Ernestine Northover

What would you like for supper,
Some steak, with chips and peas,
Maybe, a nice brewed cuppa,
Or me, with lips that please.

You could have something spicy,
Like a curry or sweet and sour,
But these can be a bit spicy
And not good, at this late hour.

Perhaps a glass of beer, or shandy,
Or a brandy to fill the gap,
But, of course, that might make you randy,
Hey! Have that as your nightcap!

There’s me, I’m sweet and slender,
And tender like the steak,
And if you put me in a blender,
A fantastic meal, I’d make.

There’s food enough for your pleasure,
So don’t say you aren’t well fed,
When you start to realise I’m a treasure,
You could have ‘hot crumpet’ in your bed!

Song Of The Palace – Bai Juyi

Tears utmost gauze cloth dream not succeed
Night deep before palace press song sound
Red cheek not old favour first cut
Slant lean on smoke cover sit arrive brightness
Her handkerchief all soaked in tears, she cannot dream,
In deepest night before the palace voices sing.
Her rosy cheeks aren’t old, but first love has been cut,
Leaning, wreathed in smoke, she sits until the dawn.

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.

Geography Lesson – Brian Patten

Our teacher told us one day he would leave 

And sail across a warm blue sea 

To places he had only known from maps, 

And all his life had longed to be. 

The house he lived in was narrow and grey 

But in his mind’s eye he could see 

Sweet-scented jasmine clinging to the walls, 

And green leaves burning on an orange tree. 

He spoke of the lands he longed to visit, 

Where it was never drab or cold. 

I couldn’t understand why he never left, 

And shook off the school’s stranglehold. 

Then halfway through his final term 

He took ill and never returned, 

And he never got to that place on the map 

Where the green leaves of the orange trees burned. 

The maps were redrawn on the classroom wall; 

His name was forgotten, it faded away. 

But a lesson he never knew he taught 

Is with me to this day. 

I travel to where the green leaves burn 

To where the ocean’s glass-clear and blue, 

To all those places my teacher taught me to love 

But which he never knew.

The Shepherd – Banjo Paterson 

He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met, 

An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet; 

His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone; 

Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly wandered home. 
I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now 

While his sheep were gently feeding ‘neath the rugged mountain brow. 

When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were gone; 

A brand new suit of tweed and “Doctor Dod” he had put on; 

Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain, 

To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne. 
I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace, 

Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his face. 

When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone, 

The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on; 

Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known track 

From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back. 
I saw him but a moment as he was walking by 

With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-dropp in his eye.

A Road To A Short War – HEG George

A white hot finger points your way, 

pushing air aside with each advancing message. 

The renting of air with thunder clap abroad 

makes too much noise, chattering like rattling lungs 
Whispers to an unacknowledged Lord 

bringing forward promised prayers. 

The elastic of fear bringing Him ever closer 
Listen, above the din, a whisper. 

Just a faint whisper in the grass. 

A tap on the shoulder, a poke in the chest 
Cold, so very cold, yet burning hot. 

With stench of faeces left too long, 

the shadow of death falls over this life. 

As yet unknown to its carrier 
This cold, sucking, life-withdrawing colourless odour. 

This all-pervading, all consuming watered soul, 

so thinly veiled with blood and flesh. 
This breathing vessel of emptied life. 

With ice rink stare upon which skaters cut 

figures to the reapers dance 
This day, this very focal point, 

where time no longer elapses, shall 

feel the clod but not the shovel. 

And keep a watch without relief

Sonnet – Amy Levy 

Most wonderful and strange it seems, that I 

Who but a little time ago was tost 

High on the waves of passion and of pain, 

With aching heat and wildly throbbing brain, 

Who peered into the darkness, deeming vain 

All things there found if but One thing were lost, 

Thus calm and still and silent here should lie, 

Watching and waiting, –waiting passively. 
The dark has faded, and before mine eyes 

Have long, grey flats expanded, dim and bare; 

And through the changing guises all things wear 

Inevitable Law I recognise: 

Yet in my heart a hint of feeling lies 

Which half a hope and half a despair.

Of Three Or Four In The Room – Yehuda Amichai

Out of three or four in the room 

One is always standing at the window. 

Forced to see the injustice amongst the thorns, 

The fires on the hills. 
And people who left whole 

Are brought home in the evening, like small change. 
Out of three or four in the room 

One is always standing at the window. 

Hair dark above his thoughts. 

Behind him, the words, wandering, without luggage, 

Hearts without provision, prophecies without water 

Big stones put there 

Standing, closed like letters 

With no addresses; and no one to receive them.

 

Poem – The Little Negro – Ann Taylor

Ah! the poor little blackamoor, see there he goes, 

And the blood gushes out from his half frozen toes, 

And his legs are so thin you may see the very bones, 

As he goes shiver, shiver, on the sharp cutting stones. 
He was once a negro boy, and a merry boy was he, 

Playing outlandish plays, by the tall palm tree; 

Or bathing in the river, like a brisk water rat, 

And at night sleeping sound, on a little bit of mat. 

But there came some wicked people, and they stole him far away, 

And then good bye to palm-tree tall, and merry merry play; 

For they took him from his house and home, and ev’ry body dear, 

And now, poor little negro boy, he’s come a begging here. 

And fie upon the wicked folks who did this cruel thing! 

I wish some mighty nobleman would go and tell the king; 

For to steal him from his house and home must be a crying sin, 

Though he was a little negro boy, and had a sooty skin.

Poem – The Spider – Ann Taylor

‘OH, look at that great ugly spider!’ said Ann; 

And screaming, she brush’d it away with her fan; 

”Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be, 

I wish that it would not come crawling on me. ‘ 
‘Indeed,’ said her mother, ‘I’ll venture to say, 

The poor thing will try to keep out of your way; 

For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain, 

It has much more occasion than you to complain. 
‘But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear? 

If it hurt you, there’d be some excuse for your fear; 

But its little black legs, as it hurried away, 

Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say. 
‘For them to fear us we must grant to be just, 

Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust; 

But certainly we have no cause for alarm; 

For, were they to try, they could do us no harm. 
‘Now look! it has got to its home; do you see 

What a delicate web it has spun in the tree? 

Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you: 

Come learn from this spider what patience can do! 
‘And when at your business you’re tempted to play, 

Recollect what you see in this insect to-day, 

Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true, 

That a poor little spider is wiser than you. ‘

Poem – The Big Heart  – Anne Sexton 

Big heart,

wide as a watermelon, 

but wise as birth, 

there is so much abundance 

in the people I have: 

Max, Lois, Joe, Louise, 

Joan, Marie, Dawn, 

Arlene, Father Dunne, 

and all in their short lives 

give to me repeatedly, 

in the way the sea 

places its many fingers on the shore, 

again and again 

and they know me, 

they help me unravel, 

they listen with ears made of conch shells, 

they speak back with the wine of the best region. 

They are my staff. 

They comfort me. 
They hear how 

the artery of my soul has been severed 

and soul is spurting out upon them, 

bleeding on them, 

messing up their clothes, 

dirtying their shoes. 

And God is filling me, 

though there are times of doubt 

as hollow as the Grand Canyon, 

still God is filling me. 

He is giving me the thoughts of dogs, 

the spider in its intricate web, 

the sun 

in all its amazement, 

and a slain ram 

that is the glory, 

the mystery of great cost, 

and my heart, 

which is very big, 

I promise it is very large, 

a monster of sorts, 

takes it all in— 

all in comes the fury of love.

Poem – Borderland – Amy Levy

Am I waking, am I sleeping? 

As the first faint dawn comes creeping 

Thro’ the pane, I am aware 

Of an unseen presence hovering, 

Round, above, in the dusky air: 

A downy bird, with an odorous wing, 

That fans my forehead, and sheds perfume, 

As sweet as love, as soft as death, 

Drowsy-slow through the summer-gloom. 

My heart in some dream-rapture saith, 

It is she. Half in a swoon, 

I spread my arms in slow delight.– 

O prolong, prolong the night, 

For the nights are short in June!

Poem – Tourists – Yehuda Amichai

Visits of condolence is all we get from them. 

They squat at the Holocaust Memorial, 

They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall 

And they laugh behind heavy curtains 

In their hotels. 

They have their pictures taken 

Together with our famous dead 

At Rachel’s Tomb and Herzl’s Tomb 

And on Ammunition Hill. 

They weep over our sweet boys 

And lust after our tough girls 

And hang up their underwear 

To dry quickly 

In cool, blue bathrooms.

Poem – Buffalo Country – Banjo Paterson

Out where the grey streams glide, 

Sullen and deep and slow, 

And the alligators slide 

From the mud to the depths below 

Or drift on the stream like a floating death, 

Where the fever comes on the south wind’s breath, 

There is the buffalo. 

Out of the big lagoons, 

Where the Regia lilies float, 

And the Nankin heron croons 

With a deep ill-omened note, 

In the ooze and the mud of the swamps below 

Lazily wallows the buffalo, 

Buried to nose and throat. 
From the hunter’s gun he hides 

In the jungle’s dark and damp, 

Where the slinking dingo glides 

And the flying foxes camp; 

Hanging like myriad fiends in line 

Where the trailing creepers twist and twine 

And the sun is a sluggish lamp. 
On the edge of the rolling plains 

Where the coarse cane grasses swell, 

Lush with the tropic rains 

In the noontide’s drowsy spell, 

Slowly the buffalo grazes through 

Where the brolgas dance, and the jabiru 

Stands like a sentinel. 
All that the world can know 

Of the wild and the weird is here, 

Where the black men come and go 

With their boomerang and spear, 

And the wild duck darken the evening sky 

As they fly to their nests in the reed beds high 

When the tropic night is near.

Poem – The Last Flight – Kabir 

The Swan Will Fly Away All Alone, 

Spectacle of the World Will Be a Mere Fair 

As the Leaf Falls from the Tree 

Is Difficult to Find 

Who Knows Where it Will Fall 

Once it is Struck with a Gust Of Wind 

When Life Span is Complete 

Then Listening to Orders, Following Others, Will Be Over 

The Messengers of Yama are Very Strong 

It’s an Entanglement with the Yama 

Servant Kabir Praises the Attributes of the Lord 

He Finds the Lord Soon 

Guru Will Go According to His Doings 

The Disciple According to His 

Poem – The Seeker – Gautam Buddha 

The SeekerRestraint in the eye is good, good is restraint in the ear,

in the nose restraint is good, good is restraint in the tongue. 

In the body restraint is good, good is restraint in speech, 

in thought restraint is good, good is restraint in all things. 

A Bhikshu, restrained in all things, is freed from all pain.
He who controls his hand, 

he who controls his feet, 

he who controls his speech, 

he who is well controlled, 

he who delights inwardly, 

who is collected, 

who is solitary and content, 

him they call Bhikshu. 
The Bhikshu who controls his mouth, 

who speaks wisely and calmly, 

who teaches the meaning and the law, 

his word is sweet. 
He who dwells in the law, 

delights in the law, 

meditates on the law, 

follows the law, 

that Bhikshu will never fall away from the true law. 
Let him not despise what he has received, nor ever envy others: 

a mendicant who envies others does not obtain peace of mind. 
A Bhikshu who, 

though he receives little, 

does not despise what he has received, 

even the gods will praise him, 

if his life is pure, 

and if he is not slothful. 
He who never identifies himself with name and form, 

and does not grieve over what is no more, 

he indeed is called a Bhikshu. 
The Bhikshu who acts with kindness, 

who is calm in the doctrine of Buddha, 

will reach the quiet place (Nirvana) , 

cessation of natural desires, and happiness. 
O Bhikshu, empty this boat! if emptied, it will go quickly;

having cut off passion and hatred thou wilt go to Nirvana. 
Cut off the five (senses) , leave the five, rise above the five. 

A Bhikshu, who has escaped from the five fetters, 

he is called Oghatinna, `saved from the flood.’ 
Meditate, O Bhikshu, and be not heedless! Do not direct thy 

thought to what gives pleasure that thou mayest not for thy 

heedlessness have to swallow the iron ball (in hell) , and that thou 

mayest not cry out when burning, `This is pain.’ 
Without knowledge there is no meditation, without meditation 

there is no knowledge: 

he who has knowledge and meditation is near unto Nirvana. 
A Bhikshu who has entered his empty house, 

and whose mind is tranquil, 

feels a more than human delight when he sees the law clearly. 
As soon as he has considered the origin and destruction of the 

elements (khandha) of the body, he finds happiness and joy which 

belong to those who know the immortal (Nirvana) . 
And this is the beginning here for a wise Bhikshu: watchfulness 

over the senses, contentedness, restraint under the law; keep noble 

friends whose life is pure, and who are not slothful. 
Let him live in charity, let him be perfect in his duties; then 

in the fulness of delight he will make an end of suffering. 
As the Vassika plant sheds its withered flowers, men should shed 

passion and hatred, O ye Bhikshus! 
The Bhikshu whose body and tongue and mind are quieted, who is 

collected, and has rejected the baits of the world, he is called quiet. 
Rouse thyself by thyself, examine thyself by thyself, thus self- 

protected and attentive wilt thou live happily, O Bhikshu! 
For self is the lord of self, self is the refuge of self; 

therefore curb thyself as the merchant curbs a good horse. 
The Bhikshu, full of delight, who is calm in the doctrine of 

Buddha will reach the quiet place (Nirvana) , 

cessation of natural desires, and happiness. 
He who, even as a young Bhikshu, 

applies himself to the doctrine of Buddha, 

brightens up this world, 

like the moon when free from clouds.

English Poem – To Isadore – Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe 19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849   Boston

Edgar Allan Poe
19 January 1809 – 7 October 1849
Boston


I. Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
Whose shadows fall before
Thy lowly cottage door–
Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves–
Within thy snowy clasped hand
The purple flowers it bore.
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land–
Enchantress of the flowery wand,
Most beauteous Isadore!

II. And when I bade the dream
Upon thy spirit flee,
Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
Of Love’s serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
Enthralled my soul to thee!

III. Ah! ever I behold
Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
Blue as the languid skies
Hung with the sunset’s fringe of gold;
Now strangely clear thine image grows,
And olden memories
Are startled from their long repose
Like shadows on the silent snows
When suddenly the night-wind blows
Where quiet moonlight lies.

IV. Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds for ever flown,–
Audible as the voice of streams
That murmur in some leafy dell,
I hear thy gentlest tone,
And Silence cometh with her spell
Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
When tremulous in dreams I tell
My love to thee alone!

V. In every valley heard,
Floating from tree to tree,
Less beautiful to me,
The music of the radiant bird,
Than artless accents such as thine
Whose echoes never flee!
Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:–
For uttered in thy tones benign
(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!

Look To This Day – Kalidasa

kalidasa
Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendour of achievement
Are but experiences of time.

For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn!

English Poem – Regeneration – Henry Vaughan

Award, and still in bonds, one day
I stole abroad,
It was high-spring, and all the way
Primros’d, and hung with shade;
Yet, was it frost within,
And surly winds
Blasted my infant buds, and sin
Like clouds eclips’d my mind.

Storm’d thus; I straight perceiv’d my spring
Mere stage, and show,
My walk a monstrous, mountain’s thing
Rough-cast with rocks, and snow;
And as a pilgrim’s eye
Far from relief,
Measures the melancholy sky
Then drops, and rains for grief,

So sigh’d I upwards still, at last
‘Twixt steps, and falls
I reach’d the pinnacle, where plac’d
I found a pair of scales,
I took them up and laid
In th’one late pains,
The other smoke, and pleasures weigh’d
But prov’d the heavier grains;

With that, some cried, Away; straight I
Obey’d, and led
Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy
Some call’d it Jacob’s Bed;
A virgin-soil, which no
Rude feet ere trod,
Where (since he slept there,) only go
Prophets, and friends of God.

Here, I repos’d; but scarce well set,
A grove descried
Of stately height, whose branches met
And mixed on every side;
I entered, and once in
(Amaz’d to see’t,)
Found all was chang’d, and a new spring
Did all my senses greet;

The unthrift sun shot vital gold
A thousand pieces,
And heaven its azure did unfold
Checker’d with snowy fleeces,
The air was all in spice
And every bush
A garland wore; thus fed my eyes
But all the ear lay hush.

Only a little fountain lent
Some use for ears,
And on the dumb shades language spent
The music of her tears;
I drew her near, and found
The cistern full
Of diverse stones, some bright, and round
Others ill’shap’d, and dull.

The first (pray mark,) as quick as light
Danc’d through the flood,
But, th’last more heavy than the night
Nail’d to the center stood;
I wonder’d much, but tir’d
At last with thought,
My restless eye that still desir’d
As strange an object brought;

It was a bank of flowers, where I descried
(Though ’twas mid’day,)
Some fast asleep, others broad-eyed
And taking in the ray,
Here musing long, I heard
A rushing wind
Which still increas’d, but whence it stirr’d
No where I could not find;

I turn’d me round, and to each shade
Dispatch’d an eye,
To see, if any leaf had made
Least motion, or reply,
But while I listening sought
My mind to ease
By knowing, where ’twas, or where not,
It whispered: Where I please.
Lord, then said I, On me one breath,
And let me die before my death!
Henry Vaughan
Henry-VaughanC

Poem – Broken Love

William  Blake  28 Nov 1757 – 12 Aug 1827  London

William Blake
28 Nov 1757 – 12 Aug 1827 London


MY Spectre around me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way;
My Emanation far within
Weeps incessantly for my sin.

‘A fathomless and boundless deep,
There we wander, there we weep;
On the hungry craving wind
My Spectre follows thee behind.

‘He scents thy footsteps in the snow
Wheresoever thou dost go,
Thro’ the wintry hail and rain.
When wilt thou return again?

’Dost thou not in pride and scorn
Fill with tempests all my morn,
And with jealousies and fears
Fill my pleasant nights with tears?

‘Seven of my sweet loves thy knife
Has bereavèd of their life.
Their marble tombs I built with tears,
And with cold and shuddering fears.

‘Seven more loves weep night and day
Round the tombs where my loves lay,
And seven more loves attend each night
Around my couch with torches bright.

‘And seven more loves in my bed
Crown with wine my mournful head,
Pitying and forgiving all
Thy transgressions great and small.

‘When wilt thou return and view
My loves, and them to life renew?
When wilt thou return and live?
When wilt thou pity as I forgive?’

‘O’er my sins thou sit and moan:
Hast thou no sins of thy own?
O’er my sins thou sit and weep,
And lull thy own sins fast asleep.

‘What transgressions I commit
Are for thy transgressions fit.
They thy harlots, thou their slave;
And my bed becomes their grave.

‘Never, never, I return:
Still for victory I burn.
Living, thee alone I’ll have;
And when dead I’ll be thy grave.

‘Thro’ the Heaven and Earth and Hell
Thou shalt never, quell:
I will fly and thou pursue:
Night and morn the flight renew.’

‘Poor, pale, pitiable form
That I follow in a storm;
Iron tears and groans of lead
Bind around my aching head.

‘Till I turn from Female love
And root up the Infernal Grove,
I shall never worthy be
To step into Eternity.

‘And, to end thy cruel mocks,
Annihilate thee on the rocks,
And another form create
To be subservient to my fate.

‘Let us agree to give up love,
And root up the Infernal Grove;
Then shall we return and see
The worlds of happy Eternity.

‘And throughout all Eternity
I forgive you, you forgive me.
As our dear Redeemer said:
“This the Wine, and this the Bread.”’

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings – Maya Angelou

maya-angelou-dies

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

A Rajput Love Song – Sarojini Naidu

Sarojini Naidu (13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949 / Hyderabad / India)

Sarojini Naidu
(13 February 1879 – 2 March 1949 / Hyderabad / India)


(Parvati at her lattice)
O Love! were you a basil-wreath to twine
among my tresses,
A jewelled clasp of shining gold to bind around my sleeve,
O Love! were you the keora’s soul that haunts
my silken raiment,
A bright, vermilion tassel in the girdles that I weave;

O Love! were you the scented fan
that lies upon my pillow,
A sandal lute, or silver lamp that burns before my shrine,
Why should I fear the jealous dawn
that spreads with cruel laughter,
Sad veils of separation between your face and mine?

Haste, O wild-bee hours, to the gardens of the sun set!
Fly, wild-parrot day, to the orchards of the west!
Come, O tender night, with your sweet,
consoling darkness,
And bring me my Beloved to the shelter of my breast!

(Amar Singh in the saddle)
O Love! were you the hooded hawk upon my hand
that flutters,
Its collar-band of gleaming bells atinkle as I ride,
O Love! were you a turban-spray or
floating heron-feather,
The radiant, swift, unconquered sword
that swingeth at my side;

O Love! were you a shield against the
arrows of my foemen,
An amulet of jade against the perils of the way,
How should the drum-beats of the dawn
divide me from your bosom,
Or the union of the midnight be ended with the day?

Haste, O wild-deer hours, to the meadows of the sunset!
Fly, wild stallion day, to the pastures of the west!
Come, O tranquil night, with your soft,
consenting darkness,
And bear me to the fragrance of my Beloved’s breast!

English Poem – I Knew A Man By Sight – Henry David Thoreau

I Knew A Man By Sight
I knew a man by sight,
A blameless wight,
Who, for a year or more,
Had daily passed my door,
Yet converse none had had with him.

I met him in a lane,
Him and his cane,
About three miles from home,
Where I had chanced to roam,
And volumes stared at him, and he at me.

In a more distant place
I glimpsed his face,
And bowed instinctively;
Starting he bowed to me,
Bowed simultaneously, and passed along.

Next, in a foreign land
I grasped his hand,
And had a social chat,
About this thing and that,
As I had known him well a thousand years.

Late in a wilderness
I shared his mess,
For he had hardships seen,
And I a wanderer been;
He was my bosom friend, and I was his.

And as, methinks, shall all,
Both great and small,
That ever lived on earth,
Early or late their birth,
Stranger and foe, one day each other know.

Henry David Thoreau

486px-Henry_David_Thoreau

 

English Poem – Friendship – Friedrich Schiller

Friend!–the Great Ruler, easily content,
Needs not the laws it has laborious been
The task of small professors to invent;
A single wheel impels the whole machine
Matter and spirit;–yea, that simple law,
Pervading nature, which our Newton saw.

This taught the spheres, slaves to one golden rein,
Their radiant labyrinths to weave around
Creation’s mighty hearts: this made the chain,
Which into interwoven systems bound
All spirits streaming to the spiritual sun
As brooks that ever into ocean run!

Did not the same strong mainspring urge and guide
Our hearts to meet in love’s eternal bond?
Linked to thine arm, O Raphael, by thy side
Might I aspire to reach to souls beyond
Our earth, and bid the bright ambition go
To that perfection which the angels know!

Happy, O happy–I have found thee–I
Have out of millions found thee, and embraced;
Thou, out of millions, mine!–Let earth and sky
Return to darkness, and the antique waste–
To chaos shocked, let warring atoms be,
Still shall each heart unto the other flee!

Do I not find within thy radiant eyes
Fairer reflections of all joys most fair?
In thee I marvel at myself–the dyes
Of lovely earth seem lovelier painted there,
And in the bright looks of the friend is given
A heavenlier mirror even of the heaven!

Sadness casts off its load, and gayly goes
From the intolerant storm to rest awhile,
In love’s true heart, sure haven of repose;
Does not pain’s veriest transports learn to smile
From that bright eloquence affection gave
To friendly looks?–there, finds not pain a grave?

In all creation did I stand alone,
Still to the rocks my dreams a soul should find,
Mine arms should wreathe themselves around the stone,
My griefs should feel a listener in the wind;
My joy–its echo in the caves should be!
Fool, if ye will–Fool, for sweet sympathy!

We are dead groups of matter when we hate;
But when we love we are as gods!–Unto
The gentle fetters yearning, through each state
And shade of being multiform, and through
All countless spirits (save of all the sire)–
Moves, breathes, and blends, the one divine desire.

Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade,
From the rude mongrel to the starry Greek,
Who the fine link between the mortal made,
And heaven’s last seraph–everywhere we seek
Union and bond–till in one sea sublime
Of love be merged all measure and all time!

Friendless ruled God His solitary sky;
He felt the want, and therefore souls were made,
The blessed mirrors of his bliss!–His eye
No equal in His loftiest works surveyed;
And from the source whence souls are quickened, He
Called His companion forth–ETERNITY!

Friedrich Schiller

friedrich-schiller-540x540 (1)

English Poem – Song of Nature – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.

I hid in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life,
And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers
My apples ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.

I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.

And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;

What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.

Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and baked the layers
Or granite, marl, and shell.

But he, the man-child glorious,–
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.

My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.

Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?

Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;

I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer’s pomp,
Or winter’s frozen shade?

I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.

Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day, and one of night,
And one of the salt sea-sand.

One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.

I moulded kings and saviours,
And bards o’er kings to rule;–
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.

Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones, and countless days.

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

ralph-waldo-emerson-2

English Poem – As I Grew Old – Langston Hughes

It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun—
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky—
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!
Langston Hughes

langston-hughes-1

 

English Poem – To Be A Woman – Hafiz Qasim

What is it to be a woman
Flashy light is to be a woman
Dandy gloss is to be a woman
Night and day is to be woman
Ripened fruit is to be a woman
Fairy tale is to be woman
Jasmine scent is to be woman
Rubicund mystique is to be woman
Orchid grain is to be a woman
Fleeting glance is to be a woman
Smiling feat is to be a woman
Hide and seek is to be a woman
Echoing green is to be a woman
Dandy dame is to be a woman
Rose and fig is to be a woman
Life and death is to be a woman
Bliss and grist is to be a woman
Glistening glide is to be a woman
Prettiest pearl is to be a woman
Life and blood is to be a woman
Sunniest scent is to be a woman
Handsome dream is to be a woman
Molded clay is to be a woman
What is it to be a woman
Liking lily is to be a woman
Pulpy fruit is to be a woman
All the crest is to be a woman
Dawn and dusk is to be a woman
Adam’s nurse is to be a woman
Hall of fame is to be a woman
Pushy aim is to be a woman
Comely face is to be a woman
Leave me not is to be a woman
Rising storm is to be a woman
Searching-soul is to be a woman
Materfamilias is to be a woman
Reverend mother is to be a woman
Nation’s fate is to be a woman
Tranquil vale is to be a woman
What is it to be a woman
Smart and hit is to be a woman
All the hit is to be a woman
Rising storm is to be a woman
Healing plant is to be a woman
Norm and form is to be a woman
Foam and fume is to be a woman
Tug of war is to be a woman
House and hold is to be a woman
Nicely told is to be a woman
Horse of hope is to be a woman

English Poem – Love – Hafiz Quasim

Love everything and love the love you love

Love is a word an incomparable anticipation
love is a mockery having wings to fly
Love is decorum of truth the legacy of attention
Love is not concocted story or a piece of bun
Love is what you are
what you do the whole nook of function
Let this love never stop in its infinite motion
Love is beauty for eternal one’s and ailment for an alien
Love is sombre of truth and desire nonetheless mitigation
Love is so on and so forth love is being and becoming
Love is genre of onerous charm and sea’s combustion
Love is holistic it is winsome will of norm
Love is bird’s chirping
love a clandestine click of commotion

English Poem – A Winter Nights – Robert Burns

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths upchoked,
Wild-eddying swirl,
Or thro’ the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.

List’ning, the doors an’ winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O’ winter war,
And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,
Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o’ spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing
An’ close thy e’e?

Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d,
Lone from your savage homes exil’d,
The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.
Robert Burns

robert burns

English Poem – A Red, Red Rose – Robert Burns

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

Robert Burns

iburnsr001p1

When that I was and a little tiny boy – William Shakespeare

When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, . . .
‘Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate
For the rain, . . .

But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, . . .
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain, . . .

But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, . . .
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain, . . .

A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, . . .
But that’s all one, our play is done.
And we’ll strive to please you every day.

William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare

English Poem – Be A Friend

Be a friend. You don’t need money;
Just a disposition sunny;
Just the wish to help another
Get along some way or other;
Just a kindly hand extended
Out to one who’s unbefriended;
Just the will to give or lend,
This will make you someone’s friend.

Be a friend. You don’t need glory.
Friendship is a simple story.
Pass by trifling errors blindly,
Gaze on honest effort kindly,
Cheer the youth who’s bravely trying,
Pity him who’s sadly sighing;
Just a little labor spend
On the duties of a friend.

Be a friend. The pay is bigger
(Though not written by a figure)
Than is earned by people clever
In what’s merely self-endeavor.
You’ll have friends instead of neighbors
For the profits of your labors;
You’ll be richer in the end
Than a prince, if you’re a friend.

Edgar Albert Guest

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English Poem – The Sorrow Of Love

THE brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man’s image and his cry.
A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;
Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man’s image and his cry.

William Butler Yeats

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English Poem – My Love Is Like To Ice

My love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congeal’s with senseless cold,
Should kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentle mind,
That it can alter all the course of kind.

Edmund Spenser
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English Poem – She Walks In Beauty

She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

George Gordon Byron
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Natya Siromani Balkrishna Sama

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Bal Krishna Samser janga bahadur Rana was born in 1902 as the second son to General Samer Shumshere Jung Bahadur Rana and Kirti Rajya Laxmi in Gyaneshwor, Kathmandu, Nepal. He was born in Rana family (equivalent to Royal family) of that time so he was able to pursue the best education available in the country.

He completed his high school from Bhanu School (Durbar High School) in Rani Pokhari and went to Tri Chandra college as a science student. Balkrishna Samser Janga bahadur Rana by birth had right to become military officer went to Dehradoon (India) training and became a Lieutenant Colonel. Then prime minister Chandra Shumshere did not find Sama’s interest in writing positively. Sama was not happy about the Rana rules and the regime.

He got married to Mandakini in 1921.

Balkrishna was distracted by cruelty of his grandfather to the servants and worker. His father was engaged in luxurious all the time. Sama had struggled finding time for him in peace. He selected learning art and literature to spend his time far from those violence and inhuman behaviors.

He started publishing his articles in good magazines like Sarada, Udhyog, Shahitya Shrot and others. He took out all the honorary names out of his long name and made it short as “Balkrihna Sama”. He did not want to associated himself with Rana autocracy in Nepal.

The drama “Bhater” published in Pragati in 1953 represents his feelings and concerned on human rights and freedom.

Bal Krishna Sama is known “Natya Siromani”. He was known to be “Shakespeare” of the era in Nepal. He was much more inspired by Shakespeare’s works. His dramas such as “Prem Pinda”, “Buhartan”, “Tapobhumi”, “Atyadhunikta”, and “Bhater” present the social context of the Rana era.

“Mukunda Indira” and “Mutuko Byatha” show the emotional and romantic side of Sama’s personality. Mukunda Indira is story of all Nepali people still in 21st century. “Amit Basana”, “Boksi”, “Talamathi”, and “Andhabeg” are based on the human psychology. And his dramas on historical personalities are “Amar Singh”, “Bhimsen Ko Antya”, and “Bhakta Bhanubhakta”. “Birami Ra Kuruwa” deals with philosophy while “Prahlad” and “Dhruba” are based on religious figures.

Sama’s contribution to Nepali literature and drama is things to be proud of.

Sama wrote stories, poems, essays, compositions, and biographies. His contemporaries Laxmi Prasad Devkota and Lekhnath Poudyal were involved in writing poetry. “Aago Ra Paani” and “Chiso Chulho” are his popular epics, he wrote an essay on Nepalese art entitled “Nepal Lalit Kala” as well as a biography Hamra Rastriya Bhibhutiharu and an autobiography Mero Kabita Ko Aradhana, Part I and II. “Kaikai” is his most well-known short story collection which was published in 1938.

Sama had very important role in changing the name “Gorkha Bhasa Prakashini Samiti” to “Nepali Bhasa Prakashini Samiti”. He felt “Gorkha” did not truly represent the people of Nepal. His wants all to become Nepali. He also became the chairman of the Samiti for several years and worked as a lecturer of Nepali language and literature in Tri Chandra College.

In 1955, he became director of Radio Nepal and chief editor of Gorkhapatra. In 1967, when the Royal Nepal Academy was established, he became a member and later on the vice chancellor of the academy.

Sama continued writing and published though his life several poems in magagines like Madhuparka, Ramjham and others. He had many unpublished works which he read out in literary programs. Among his unpublished dramas are “Gangalal”, “Aja”, “Milinad”, “Prem”, “Chinta”, “Prandaan”.

Sama was awarded with the Tribhuwan Puraskar from Nepal Rajakiya Pragya Prathistan in 1972. The same year he received the Bishesh Upadhi from Tribhuvan University and in 1978, the Prithvi Pragya Puraskar from Pragya Pratisthan.

He died in 1981. He physically left the world, but his works are still alive. His contribution to Nepali Sahitya(literature) is invincible.

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Bal Krishna Sama

English Poem – When You Love Someone – Vanessa Hernandez

When you love someone so deep inside,
It seems like it’s so easy to hide.
You’ve loved him for so very long,
You would think he could do no wrong.

Every day you would hope and pray,
That he would always stay this way.
He treated you like you should be treated,
You thought your life was finally completed.

You thought your love was growing true,
And then one day it was all so blue.
He started putting you down and it hurt,
You thought all you were to him was dirt.

He started ignoring you and you wondered why,
All you wanted to do was curl up and die.
You thought your relationship would never end,
But that was all so fake and pretend.

One night he was so sweet to you,
You thought all those things were maybe untrue,
Two days later he was back the same,
You thought you were the one to blame.

He thought the relationship was getting too serious
And that you had become a little too curious.
By this time you knew it wouldn’t last,
All the nice things he said were in the past.

You thought that you would marry him some day,
But this time God wanted to get his way.
You wanted things back how they were before,
But you knew this couldn’t happen anymore.

It was a Saturday night about ten o’clock,
You heard the news and it wasn’t a shock.
You knew this was going to happen soon,
As you laid there and cried in the pale lit moon.