—Poetry by Sushant Thapa, Biratnagar, Nepal
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
YOU ARE MY BIRD
In creating your idol
I will leave something from my side.
Take my wishes
And be mute.
Just talk with your eyes.
I will cross the height of imperfection
To show you the top of the real round world.
I have not sinned against your life
Can a fool in disguise truly hurt?
The idol of you
Isn't a conspiracy
It is my heart that I am making.
A temple in the soul
Will ring bells and make the mind free.
Spirituality has wings and
You are my bird.
I can kiss the stars and
Sit under the shade of the moon
Make not a figure of disbelief
When our shadows do not talk of separation.
In creating your idol
I will leave something from my side.
Take my wishes
And be mute.
Just talk with your eyes.
I will cross the height of imperfection
To show you the top of the real round world.
I have not sinned against your life
Can a fool in disguise truly hurt?
The idol of you
Isn't a conspiracy
It is my heart that I am making.
A temple in the soul
Will ring bells and make the mind free.
Spirituality has wings and
You are my bird.
I can kiss the stars and
Sit under the shade of the moon
Make not a figure of disbelief
When our shadows do not talk of separation.
AS IT IS
Ups and down
Like the road;
Everything has a measure.
A home waits for a journey;
I sit with a longing.
Faraway an echo by the sea waves
I mistake not
For your goodbyes.
The bar is lit,
I have no more heart to lose.
Before the final count
The time is my companion
Which passes before I know.
Call it a trespasser
Or a mighty dancer.
The performance by a time
Is a recollection
In the stage of perfection.
Learning is evolving
It is a countless breath
Making alive
This one mortal soul.
Ups and down
Like the road;
Everything has a measure.
A home waits for a journey;
I sit with a longing.
Faraway an echo by the sea waves
I mistake not
For your goodbyes.
The bar is lit,
I have no more heart to lose.
Before the final count
The time is my companion
Which passes before I know.
Call it a trespasser
Or a mighty dancer.
The performance by a time
Is a recollection
In the stage of perfection.
Learning is evolving
It is a countless breath
Making alive
This one mortal soul.
NIGHT AWAKE
The tea got cold,
I was heartily reading.
The music was flowing
My heart was running
I felt the raindrops
Touching the floor.
The sky closed its curtain
The melancholy
Chose not to cry
The air blew knowing its maze;
The puzzle of the day
Waits to be solved.
It is almost the end of the evening.
The Jazz names my habit
The aura of the biting blizzard
Keeps me awake in the windy night.
Alphabets in the books
Promise me to keep the night awake.
REMNANTS
One proper art
Shines against illusion.
The painting hung on the wall
Sets my tough sun easy,
Wide in the sky of workmanship.
Fruits of survival
Wait to be plucked.
Sight and sound
Depth and dip
One proper art
Survives the deserted storm.
Ages have trespassed
From invited immemorial time.
I couldn't stop the thunder.
The rain that soaks the imagination
Is sipping like a sprinkling fate
The shoulders that carry the heavy world
Seek a resting bone.
Fragments connect in a moment,
Time is a remnant of a burning effigy;
What remains is enough to see the spark.
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper.
―Ursula K. Le Guin
_________________________
—Medusa, welcoming Sushant Thapa back to the Kitchen, and many thanks for today’s fine poetry!
One proper art
Shines against illusion.
The painting hung on the wall
Sets my tough sun easy,
Wide in the sky of workmanship.
Fruits of survival
Wait to be plucked.
Sight and sound
Depth and dip
One proper art
Survives the deserted storm.
Ages have trespassed
From invited immemorial time.
I couldn't stop the thunder.
The rain that soaks the imagination
Is sipping like a sprinkling fate
The shoulders that carry the heavy world
Seek a resting bone.
Fragments connect in a moment,
Time is a remnant of a burning effigy;
What remains is enough to see the spark.
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper.
―Ursula K. Le Guin
_________________________
—Medusa, welcoming Sushant Thapa back to the Kitchen, and many thanks for today’s fine poetry!
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