Nepali Translated Poems

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Manjul Translator: Maya Watson Village Solitude I am here. I 'll be here. I won't go to the city, I have no part there The sound of a flute touches my every part. I am innocent like the flute boy's eyes, the flute boy's heart, I won't go to the city. A dog has barked or a stream has flowed, the wind touched or has not touched the trees: I am in the foam of every ripple on the waters, I am in every leaf on all the branches, I have no place in the noise of the city crowd. Cocks crow or don't, someone whistle or doesn't: wherever you put your hand, there you've touched my heart. Where men have walked and have not walked I am down both roads. father heavens and mother horizon, happy and satisfied, I won't go to the city. Welcome, whoever comes from there but don't lug the city with you or I'll have no part, not even in people's hearts. Country Road Don't put me down as a muddy track, don't I reach the hills and fields, don't I reach the solitudes and towns?

I go to where country roads end and where roads are entering the highways I disappear, striding forward in the heart. Evening sometimes rests on my shoulder, and sometimes the dawn, moonlight sometimes rests on my shoulder, and sometimes the sun sometimes a fog, the dew the stars sleep on my shoulder, sometimes I stride as heart-felt song. Don't put me down as a muddy track. The Dead There are ravines and cascades, there are the small green groves and there is black rock, there is the occasional crow of the cock, and the sparrow's chirp, there is a distant look in the eyes, the is a local tongue you can't comprehend, a cold breeze, the morning paths where no one has walked, white prayer flags flap with the wind: symbols of the dead, memories of the dead, but where are the living? Fog Five minutes ago nothing was, now a thick fog rises, I was born into the world thus, although the fog rose from nothing, emptiness was. Our coming and going is thus.

School On the road to the new school site more sheep than people walk, sheep like people people like sheep, innocent, hopeless ignorant, loveable on the road to the new school site more sheep than people walk. There is the old school building but the door is closed. The school's doors opens but the classrooms are empty, black boards, desks, and chairs like sheep, and when the headmaster leaves for town they are sheep without a shepherd. Even when the new school is finished probably there will still be more sheep than people here. Village Stream I am the village stream, no one can stop my flowing, I sing but not to tell you anything, not to make you understand, but those who listen hear their own sorrows, feel their own worries they even get answers. Amazing ! But to tell you something I never sing, I sing for singing, natures tongue those who try to understand, understand. Those who don't can't. I am the village stream, no one can stop

my flowing. Mist and Smoke I see I am lesser to the mist that, rising from a ravine, spreads across the slope, starting out low, goes only up. I see I am lesser to the mist that from a small crevice gets larger larger and dissolves. And below the mist, a mist-like smoke that, rising from the fire mixes with the clouds. I see it too go upward never traveling down. I see smoke rising from a fire that is damp, and doesn't burn well but I see that the roiling smoke rises up up. Village Princess Princess River flowing pressed between the dark, princely boulders, They try to hold, to block me but smashing the barriers, singing, dancing to the boom of my own rhythm, I flow. If I get angry, hoisting the flood on my back, I roll over the rocks, carrying them before me, smashing their embrace, right and left. If I'm happy, I come singing songs for everyone,

I trundle down the mountain to the tune of my own echo. The Poet In a secluded spot, the Poet speaks with the sky and the horizon with the sunlight and the shadow; he speaks with the cliffs and the jungle he speaks with the river and the fields of rice and corn; he speaks with the birds and the flags fluttering flags he speaks with the cattle and the clucking and crowing of the fowl; he talks with nothingness and so if he happened upon a friend think how he would talk! But the poet isn't lonely. Yet when the moonlight floods everything or for example on the darkest night when there is a lonely flute or a tungna the Poet's heart takes flight to the place where people love and think of him. He can't sleep. He is speechless. The Poet weeps, and inside him an ordinary man also weeps. He wants to occupy the spaces between the stars or else the topmost layer of pitch black night. The Poet cannot sleep. He is speechless. Tungna [1] My wife rises from the playing tungna she is dancing

or weeping with dishevelled hair I can't tell her heart rises from the playing tungna. What loving couple anywhere in the world wish to part in their happiness or even in their sorrow? My wife's eyes rise from the playing tungna when she looks at me I melt. I left her alone to come here, and when the tungna plays, I repent Innocence The village looks at me from untutored eyes, but the shadow of knowledge is there. I look back with eyes of the scholar but the shadow of ignorance is there. If our knowing and unknowing meet what an indescribable thing will be born! I prefer its gaze to my own. Bridge When the heart has been shattered and the river of tears has flowed how can the bridge between the two banks stand? In two of the biggest boulders holes must be drilled, a cable inserted and bound. On both banks pits must be dug, and the boulders buried there, covered with other stones, and a wall of mud and rock erected. Will that suffice? And then sometimes everything has to be plastered with cement as well.

When the heart of the land has been shattered and the river of tears has flown, to hold the bridge that joins the banks, we need moorings stronger than the bridge. Night Sky Like the first words of lovers the night sky slowly opens. Ah! slowly slowly so many stars hundreds thousands of elated blazings stark clear happiness flashed across that lover's sky, but as if stolen gradually one by one why are the stars lost with dawn? and a blank white face comes into view wearing a red tika like the village bride at day break rising for her work. Clear Water water virginity's face water the eyes of a woman raped water a child snatched from death's bony mouth held in warm arms water the baby lying fearlessly in mother's lap water

truth's truth life's life does this water turn its gaze on you as it does on me? Ravines here, the bigger the ravines the bigger the shadows that sleep in them while the glowing sun rests on the mountains' feet the bigger the ravines the bigger the shadows that sleep in them how big a hole do sorrow helplessness loneliness dig in the village of the heart? no matter how the sun of happiness blazes darkness still sleeps in the bottom of the pit to rid the village the chest of shadow the holes must be filled in level or the sun must be brought directly above. It's difficult to do. The Village Light Village light, herself beaming, lover of my heart's glow; I gave my torch to her. I said "know that whoever walks in this beam, my loving hand is with them." "Ah, what a beautiful thing to say," the words leapt from her lips. I said "darkness isn't only outside, it is in the heart. Turn this beam there also, I am with you in the struggle to bring light." Her eyes filled with tears, only her silence spoke.

"You won't cry when I go," I said because you have light to dry your tears." And I couldn't look at her face. Rebirth From the pungent scent of the soil it seems in my last life I was here. A rooster crows, brother Lama [2] meets his palms in namaskar, [3] myself I smile, all the joys of that life coming close. I don't see dreams of being chased or of lovers leaving me. I see my image innocent in the eyes of a woman in the field breaking clods. From the pungent scent of the soil it seems I'm in my last life even now, and in my next life, how will I be born? As a human child? A poet? Sun and Shadow On the mountain ridges sun and cloud sit together, light and shadow the slope's inseparable parts. In me only do the bright and dark quarrel as they sit, never agreeing, never, as if they were no part of me, and wanted no part of each other. I see the mountain ridges I see my hear, I am shocked by the difference When I see the mountain ridges,

I'm shocked at myself. The Dance When you take someone's hand mountains on the horizon join, when you laugh a breeze quivers, when you walk a murmuring stream flows. It's not you dancing on the mountain ridge, the ridge dances dancing dances, smiling--there is sun serious--shadows come: you become the mountain. Farewell leaving the village walking the path of tears going on ahead you feel the village following glancing back you feel your self left behind leaving the village walking the path of tears leaves seem to speak when you sit heavy hearted lost at every resting spot leaving the village walking the path of tears looking over the river you feel your self has reached the opposite bank then having crossed your self is abandoned on the bank behind while the real is imaginary you imagine the real leaving the village walking the path of tears

Remembering I'm being played on the village flute, from Pinky's eyes I'm watching the demonic village night, as Phurba grips the harrow's handle I'm plowing the pungent soil, darling, don't be angry that I'm not now bound in your embrace, darling, don't worry that I'm not held between your lips, while Birados plays the tungna I'm leafing through the layers of his feeling, I'm being played on the village flute, though for six days and six nights Kanchi Tamang cowered in the jungle, sleeping hungry hiding in the rocks,she was made to marry. Becoming her, I'm swallowing tears of hate, spitting on the name "wife" they forced her to take, I'm being played on the village flute, from Yangdorje's eyes I'm watching not just the present but the future of grandsons, great grandsons, In Nasir Tamang's song I'm rising, spreading, I'm being played on the village flute. [1]

tungna: a Nepali four-stringed folk guitar.

[2]

Lama: name of a caste living in the hills of Nepal.

[3]

namaskar: a respectful greeting.

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