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Global Poet : Bhuwan Thapaliya 

Bhuwan Thapaliya    |   Monday, 07 June 2021 | Print

Global Poet : Bhuwan Thapaliya 

Bhuwan Thapaliya

Bhuwan Thapaliya of Nepal

Nepalese poet Bhuwan Thapaliya works as an economist and is the author of four poetry collections. His poems have been widely published in international magazines and journals such as Kritya, Foundling Review, FOLLY, Trouvaille Review, Pandemics Literary Journal, Pandemic Magazine, The Poet, Valient Scribe, Strong Verse, Ponder Savant, International Times, Taj Mahal Review, Poetry Life and Times, VOICES (Education Project), Longfellow Literary Project, Poets Against the War, among many others. Thapaliya has read his poetry and attended seminars in venues around the world, including South Korea, India, the United States, Thailand, Cambodia, and Nepal.


Poetry by Bhuwan Thapaliya 


Forsaken Village

Parched fields,
rusted farm fences,
forlorn stone
and mud-thatched houses.
Rotting scarecrows
except the dancing squirrels
nothing moves.
Danuwar communities
that once pulsed life
atop these plains
have been swallowed
by the cavernous city mouths
and the half-baked Arab dreams.
Where shops and stores
once stood,
only the forgotten
dreams and the ghosts
of long dead
ancestors remain.
And somewhere
in the undulating tide
of grass and grit
rests one man’s integrity,
his chance to reckon
with an unsettled history.

Grandfather’s Grey Beard

Long before the dawn,
my grandfather’s
whooping cough
mingled with
the cuckoo’s song
and the prayers
of the flowing river
woke me up.
A fat stubborn fog
dances over the horizon.
It’s not that chilly yet
but I don’t want to
sleep anymore.
Every once in a while
a pristine bubble
of democracy
in the distance
would emerge
from the fog,
only to dissolve again
against the backdrop
of my grandfather’s
grey beard.

Barren Paper

A pallid
sheet of paper
teases me
with its randy glare,
pellucid, parched
and humid gaze of a widow
craving for my poetic semen
to fill its womb.
its wary eyes
expose suspicion
forged by
the calm of an empty street
and as persistent stains
from the wet cups and glasses
at the local tea stalls
in the narrow lanes of the Mangal Bazaar,
it has dappled my heart for life.
But barren paper,
who would whisper in your ears?
Hunger and poetry
cannot stay in the same hut.

A Glass of My Mind

All these years,
I have been telling wine, not to drink me.
“If you drink me, then my friend,
you shall not be able to walk at all.”
Wine, it always laughs and says,
“Nothing can intoxicate me,
I am the mother of intoxication.”
But earlier today, all of a sudden,
wine came, parched, dry and dehydrated
and drank a glass of my mind.
It shuddered and sighed
and dropped to the ground,
trailing its heart in the dust.

Where Are You Now?

I miss your rippled smiles,
that reflect the setting sun,
in interplay to the dusk and the dawn.

I miss our little arguments,
where the authentic taste,
of every religion is embodied.

I miss your double-layered glares,
purple dreams on one side,
green hope on the other,
and the way you change,
the sides frequently.

And I miss your desiccated lips,
that open up to something else,
when I hold you in my arms.
Where are you now?

Ginger tea

I am sitting by the window now,
and there is nothing to hinder
my irrational thoughts
from wondering as much as I please.
Life laughs at me, of course,
but one expects that in jealousy.
I may spend all my afternoon
looking outside
though I am not interested
in such a time- prone,
statistics- aware society,
or I could simply pull dad’s
stuff out of a storage box
and bask them in the sun.
Dad’s favorite coffee glass
may come out again first.
But I have a feeling that
from now on I’d be having
ginger tea, not coffee.
The next few days,
I’m going swimming.
I will plunge into the
bottomless chasm
of my memories
and drown
my fathers
favorite coffee glass.
Let me rejoice,
my renaissance.

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Posted 11:46 pm | Monday, 07 June 2021

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