One Can Never Trust a Cloud
Sometimes even in a slight touch of the wind
It cannot keep steady
Whereas sometimes even in a fiercely blowing storm
it stands fixed and self possessed
it is a matter of its own desire
one can never trust a cloud.
A cloud has no color of its own
Sometimes it spreads itself, assuming a dark shape
covering every corner of the sky
sometimes it suspends from the bottom of the sky
in beautiful white spots
when it borrows the rays of the sun in the dawn and dusk
it turns out yellow and golden
when its countenance is filled with anger
it assumes a radish face too
it depends on its whim
One can never trust a cloud.
A cloud has no shape
Sometimes it may divided itself
By splitting into small parts
different allusions may be created
just because of the different shapes it assumes
it sometimes stands at the pinnacle of a temple
sometimes it assumes the face of a tiger
it depends on its desire
one can never trust a cloud.
One should never rely on those
Who have no permanent color of their own
Who have no fixed shape of their own
It is sure, the cloud has no color of its own
The cloud has no shape of its own
Therefore one can never trust a cloud.
translation: Govindraj Bhattarai
I look at flowers,
and compare life to them,
A question springs within me –
Why isn’t life beautiful like flowers ?
The river is flowing in forceful currents,
I want to see life living like the river
a revolt speaks within me –
Why isn’t life agile like a river ?
Numerous pains speak in peoples’ faces
life is living helplessly like a tortured face
life, in fact, should have been a bright flame
I am debating with myself –
Why isn’t life as bright as a flame ?
In fact,
I am asking myself –
Why isn’t life beautiful like flowers ?
Why isn’t life agile like a river ?
Why isn’t life as bright as a flame ?
I am caught in a debate with myself –
Why isn’t life as exciting as a journey ?
Why isn’t life melodious like music?
Why isn’t life like poetry ?
translation : Mehesh Paudyal
I don’t like night at all
Hey night, why do you come ?
Embracing the tired body
And drowsy eyes with love,
Carrying a queue of sweet dreams
Bringing the moments of
Loneliness and eerie silence
You trick me.
I don’t like night at all
Hey, night, why do you come ?
You say –
In the shade of moon
There is nothing happier than
Walking with your lover, holding hands.
You say –
Standing on the balcony
There is nothing more pleasurable than a
conversation with the stars in silence.
In these made-up imagination
Why do you trap people ?
I don’t like night at all
Hey, night, why do you come ?
It’s been long, till we tolerated night
It’s been long, till we deserted the night
No one is ready to wrap themselves in the night’s ropes
Now, no one is ready to be limited to the night’s boundary
Night means darkness
And no one likes darkness
That’s why we can’t come to
agreement with the night
Night is the death of light
and we all deeply love light
We all like light
I don’t like night at all
Hey, night, why do you come ?
Today, I have a lot to talk to myself about;
Leave me alone for a while.
I play –
With the soft rays of the dawn
I enjoy the flakes of the earth
I talk to the leaves of the trees
I look at the flowering plants
In the bright light of the moon’s beams
I exchange the tranquility of the
Night with my sleep
Nothing is different;
Like everyday, like everybody
I quarrel with myself.
Even then,
I don’t know why, this mind
drifts away from myself ?
I don’t know why, this mind
Runs away from myself ?
Leave me alone for a while;
Today I have something to ask my mind !
I, who used to enjoy the dreams
Nowadays, I get frightened by the dreams.
Repeating the boring routine
of day and night
I am cheating myself
In the same old cover
In the same old exterior
I listen –
To the tunes of misfortunes
Like those who have accepted death
I silently / I… silently gaze blankly.
There is no difference;
Like everybody, Like everyday
I really on myself.
Even then,
I don’t know why, this conscience
Nowadays I quarrel with myself ?
I don’t know why, this conscience
Nowadays I question myself ?
Leave me alone for a while;
Today I have to find some answers
With my conscience !
I am feeling –
The hill is standing alone
And, it is living with satisfaction.
The tree is standing alone
And, it is beaming with happiness.
The river is also alone
And, it is flowing in its own way.
The sun is also alone
And, it rises and sets in its own manner.
Here, I have arrived to a conclusion
Is it that everyone can live
without marriage when alone ?
Today I have to ask my mind !
Today I have to search for an answer
From my conscience !!
Today, leave me alone –
I have to talk lots and lots to myself !!!
translation: Devesh Pradhan
Bamboo also starts singing
When it receives the affectionate touch of the wind
It looks so beautiful
When the birds leave the grove singing songs in the dawn.
Bamboo, swaying in the wind
With a single voice and rhythm
Looks like a flowing river
In fact, bamboo is more affectionate than man.
Bamboo stoops and bows
When it gets older and mature.
But if never feels hurt and inferior
In this sense the bamboo is very different from man.
Bamboo is never alone, unlike man.
It germinates, grows and matures in the grove.
It gets dry in the sun and wet in the rain.
But it stands continuously without any pain.
In fact it is stronger than man.
It is always faithful to man.
It does not even leave a dead man.
But man has never been useful to bamboo.
Thinking about man, the bamboo is very worried.
translation: Dinesh Shrestha
She was silent;
I observed her hands –
Her hands, shaken to alertness at the first crow of the rooster !
Her hands, active till the first quarter of the night !
The finger bases worn out by water
I caressed and saw – the palms stiff like rocks
and scars,
procured in wages for domestic and farm works !
Around the right forefinger,
She had a brass ring bought at last year’s village-fair.
Holding her cheeks in my hands,
I made her turn towards me,
and tried to read both of her eyes.
How amazingly they were slithering with various tales of pain and sorrow
I drew a simile – she and sky
But her eyes didn’t match the sky Û
There was no resemblance
She was standing !
I squatted, facing her
and started inspecting both of her feet –
oomph Û nothing had the mark of beauty
the heels cracked all around,
slender fingers
and a doughy, raised upper part.
It was telling in a mute language
”Sweet is the wages of labor !”
I stood again –
and scanned the entire face for once
nothing was on it !
The pierced earlobes
had been healed like scabs around old wounds.
Dangling from the nose was a bastardized ring,
bought in the same fair.
I observed the lips –
they have turned black and dry,
the locks, without oil, were modest.
There was no trace
of beauty in them
like words in a lexicon
and yet, there was an enticement,
an attraction
I gradually cuddled her
and buried my head in her bosoms
and kept listening to her heartthrob…
an antique song kept resounding there
songs full of commitments.
to keep relentlessly struggling for humanity…
I kept binding her up in my arms.
(stealing some beauty out of nature
her creator had made her too,
but, she was prettier than nature…)
translation: Mahesh Paudyal
Poetry and Jungle
or jungle and poetry
are one and the same.
Letters like leaves,
Leaves like letters.
Words like twigs,
or twigs like words.
Lines resembling trees,
or trees resembling lines.
Really, to me
poetry and jungle
or jungle and poetry
are one and the same.
I read a poem
and experience a delight
one feels walking alone in the forest.
I stroll about in the forest
and experience a pleasure
that springs from reading
a poem all alone in the room.
To get lost deliberately in the forest,
and to delve deep down in a poem,
reap the same delight.
You agree or not,
But to me,
Poetry and jungle
or jungle and poetry are similar,
one and the same…
You are at liberty to call it anything.
But I put a question to you;
Isn’t jungle too a poem of nature ?
translation: Mukul Dahal
Pramod Pradhan is a poet from Nepal.
