Sushant Thapa
—Poetry by Sushant Thapa, Biratnagar, Nepal
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
THE SETTING MOON
Have you ever noticed a setting moon?
White, as if washing all the
Colour of the starry night.
With the setting moon my morn begins.
It is like a secret fate
Waking up the afterlife in me.
Never is a setting moon written
Never it is romanticized
The setting moon is just a vision
Noticed for a time being.
The moon does not hide the wide sky
It gives light to the azure blue cosmos
Maybe it is just bidding goodbye
To the night sky.
Who knows what departure
The setting moon casts;
It only opens the curtain for the day.
Have you ever noticed a setting moon?
White, as if washing all the
Colour of the starry night.
With the setting moon my morn begins.
It is like a secret fate
Waking up the afterlife in me.
Never is a setting moon written
Never it is romanticized
The setting moon is just a vision
Noticed for a time being.
The moon does not hide the wide sky
It gives light to the azure blue cosmos
Maybe it is just bidding goodbye
To the night sky.
Who knows what departure
The setting moon casts;
It only opens the curtain for the day.
MUSIC
Sometimes, when I write I am not the
Centre of description in my writings;
Although I describe something else
I am happier in the nature of art.
My eyes do not always blink for a poetic scene
Which I see.
Papers have always been closer to me
Than your photographs.
It may sound funny how the red wine
Tastes like blue ink tonight and
How I secretly scribble words for
Music in my ears.
A beat that blows in the dust,
Heat that sticks to the face of pathos
Burns the cover of the same un-shed skin.
A broken touch is breathing the feelings,
It is again music that wafts like air.
Again a black and blue sky night
Looks tipsy in the red bar.
It is a music which footsteps do not hear
Although they resound every beat of the walk
Which definitely reaches somewhere.
Gone with the footsteps are the music
Where footsteps stood un-knocking your
Door.
Sometimes, when I write I am not the
Centre of description in my writings;
Although I describe something else
I am happier in the nature of art.
My eyes do not always blink for a poetic scene
Which I see.
Papers have always been closer to me
Than your photographs.
It may sound funny how the red wine
Tastes like blue ink tonight and
How I secretly scribble words for
Music in my ears.
A beat that blows in the dust,
Heat that sticks to the face of pathos
Burns the cover of the same un-shed skin.
A broken touch is breathing the feelings,
It is again music that wafts like air.
Again a black and blue sky night
Looks tipsy in the red bar.
It is a music which footsteps do not hear
Although they resound every beat of the walk
Which definitely reaches somewhere.
Gone with the footsteps are the music
Where footsteps stood un-knocking your
Door.
IF POETRY COULD BE ANSWERED
If poetry could be answered
I would imagine something real.
As real as my life
Whatever the cost of imagining
Against the grain
Or against the voices of coherence.
Imagination is so plain and smooth sometimes
It is a surface of pleasure
I am all set to search the depth in it.
If poetry could be answered
I would not be alone
Or should I say not feel alone?
There is no disparity in the form itself
The persona is still real.
There is a matter of fact evidence
Which cracks like a hatching egg.
Poetry is all that there isn't and
If it is to be responded to
It is all that there is.
What pain poets talk is never questioned
Is that pain part of life or larger than life?
What abstraction poets reach
And the lens of depth
Zooms and clarifies like every bit of reality again.
Poet is not an unreal swimmer
But he chooses not to count the fishes in the sea
And just be in the depth or the surface.
MOMENTS
The other moment you are gone
Seems okay.
But the moment of you
That I caged in my heart
Wants to be free forever.
Should I open my heart
And let the moment fly?
I cannot know what the moment
When you will be gone again
After I open the cage
Will feel like.
Should I be caging the moments
Forever?
The other moment you are gone
Seems okay.
But the moment of you
That I caged in my heart
Wants to be free forever.
Should I open my heart
And let the moment fly?
I cannot know what the moment
When you will be gone again
After I open the cage
Will feel like.
Should I be caging the moments
Forever?
NATURAL SHOWER
Chasing only meanings
Is like the way of old lullabies.
These high scrapers may stand still
But they do not sleep in meanings.
What works throughout the time
Is not a tiny tick of the clocks
But still a beast of burden.
Somewhere what fits as a harmony
Is a city beat
Rhyming with the suburb evening.
Somewhere civilization is at its best
And there are speed ghosts;
They don't fly but rotate with the earth.
The world is carried on formal tuxedo shoulders
Fitted in a cabin.
An earth man again dreams of the rain
Although his personal shower
Can be a form of a safe disguise.
The earth still needs its natural shower.
Chasing only meanings
Is like the way of old lullabies.
These high scrapers may stand still
But they do not sleep in meanings.
What works throughout the time
Is not a tiny tick of the clocks
But still a beast of burden.
Somewhere what fits as a harmony
Is a city beat
Rhyming with the suburb evening.
Somewhere civilization is at its best
And there are speed ghosts;
They don't fly but rotate with the earth.
The world is carried on formal tuxedo shoulders
Fitted in a cabin.
An earth man again dreams of the rain
Although his personal shower
Can be a form of a safe disguise.
The earth still needs its natural shower.
MOVEMENTS OF RESOLVE
There is no point recalling
The pain, the crack in the pot.
When a voice goes numb
It becomes a word.
Daring is the face
Of such words scripted later.
It takes courage to weave words,
A substitute for some pain
Is not the medicine.
How sure are we
To remain alone or to be free alone?
The sky is alone and
The moon attends no lectures
For shining in the dark
Yet, many classes miss their students
Who gaze at the real world like an outlaw.
The reality will chew you like a betel leaf
And unreal red blood will be spit somewhere.
Again, a real world is polluted
With every drop of unreal assumptions.
This morning, when the rain began to make music
A disc jockey began to shake loose
The moving muscles of his hip and others.
Something will change,
If movements can really resolve.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.
—George Carlin
____________________
Welcome to the Kitchen, Sushant! Sushant Thapa (26 Feb, 1993) holds a Master’s degree in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar, Nepal, and is the author of the poetry collection, The Poetic Burden and Other Poems, published by Authorspress, New Delhi, India, in 2020. His English poems are featured in Trouvaille Review, Litehouse Exophonic Magazine (Portugal), International Times (United Kingdom), New York Parrot (New York, USA), My Republica (Kathmandu, Nepal), The Kathmandu Post (Kathmandu, Nepal), Sahitto Bilingual Literary Magazine (Bangladesh), Indian Periodical (India), Ponder Savant (California, USA), Grey Thoughts (New Jersey, USA), The Gorkha Times (Kathmandu, Nepal), The Piker Press (USA), Lothlorien Poetry Journal (France), Offline Thinker (Kathmandu, Nepal), Sahitya Post (Kathmandu, Nepal), Atunis Poetry (Belgium), EKL Review (India), Harbinger Asylum (USA), Dumpster Fire Press (USA), Impspired Magazine (UK), Sindh Courier (Pakistan), Aksharang (Lalitpur, Nepal), Kabita Minar (Odisha, India), Suryodaya Literary Foundation (India), Visible Magazine, WILLIWASH (Nigeria), The Beatnik Cowboy (South Dakota, USA), Synchronized Chaos Journal (San Lorenzo, California, USA) and Vscorpiozine’s Blog (USA).
There is no point recalling
The pain, the crack in the pot.
When a voice goes numb
It becomes a word.
Daring is the face
Of such words scripted later.
It takes courage to weave words,
A substitute for some pain
Is not the medicine.
How sure are we
To remain alone or to be free alone?
The sky is alone and
The moon attends no lectures
For shining in the dark
Yet, many classes miss their students
Who gaze at the real world like an outlaw.
The reality will chew you like a betel leaf
And unreal red blood will be spit somewhere.
Again, a real world is polluted
With every drop of unreal assumptions.
This morning, when the rain began to make music
A disc jockey began to shake loose
The moving muscles of his hip and others.
Something will change,
If movements can really resolve.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.
—George Carlin
____________________
Welcome to the Kitchen, Sushant! Sushant Thapa (26 Feb, 1993) holds a Master’s degree in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar, Nepal, and is the author of the poetry collection, The Poetic Burden and Other Poems, published by Authorspress, New Delhi, India, in 2020. His English poems are featured in Trouvaille Review, Litehouse Exophonic Magazine (Portugal), International Times (United Kingdom), New York Parrot (New York, USA), My Republica (Kathmandu, Nepal), The Kathmandu Post (Kathmandu, Nepal), Sahitto Bilingual Literary Magazine (Bangladesh), Indian Periodical (India), Ponder Savant (California, USA), Grey Thoughts (New Jersey, USA), The Gorkha Times (Kathmandu, Nepal), The Piker Press (USA), Lothlorien Poetry Journal (France), Offline Thinker (Kathmandu, Nepal), Sahitya Post (Kathmandu, Nepal), Atunis Poetry (Belgium), EKL Review (India), Harbinger Asylum (USA), Dumpster Fire Press (USA), Impspired Magazine (UK), Sindh Courier (Pakistan), Aksharang (Lalitpur, Nepal), Kabita Minar (Odisha, India), Suryodaya Literary Foundation (India), Visible Magazine, WILLIWASH (Nigeria), The Beatnik Cowboy (South Dakota, USA), Synchronized Chaos Journal (San Lorenzo, California, USA) and Vscorpiozine’s Blog (USA).
Four English poems written by Sushant have been translated into Uzbek (the language of Uzbekistan) and published in the online literary magazine, Nodirabegim of Uzbekistan. He has also been anthologized in two English poetry collections, entitled Pandemic Poetry 2020 and An Anthology of Poetry for Children. One of Sushant’s poems is also forthcoming in The Literary Parrot Anthology published by New York Parrot, New York, USA. Another one of his poems, entitled “Festivities”, has been included in school books used to teach English to Grade 6 students in Nepal. Sushant’s second poetry book, entitled Abstraction and Other Poems, will soon be released from Impspired in the United Kingdom.
Thanks for visiting the Kitchen, Sushant, and don’t be a stranger!
_____________________
—Medusa
Thanks for visiting the Kitchen, Sushant, and don’t be a stranger!
_____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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Just remember:
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clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
