I began translating poetry from the Nepali (where possible with the authors themselves) in 1992. My translations of poems by Banira Giri, Manju Kanchuli, Manjul, Benju Sharma and Purna Bahadur Vaidya appear on line in thedrunkenboat (winter 03).Translations of Nepali poets, including Mohan Koirala and Basu Sashi, appear in the Muse Apprentice Guild (fall 03) and in Dialogue of Nations Through Translation of Poetry. Translations of poems by Dinesh Adhikari appear in Other Voices. Two poems by Purna Vaidya and links to his Library of Congress recordings in Nepal Bhasa can be found at the CULTURAL EARTH web site.

Days in the life: translations from Nepali and Nepal Bhasa was published in Kathmandu in July 2011.

Poems by Banira Giri, Benju Sharma and Manju Kanchuli in translation and in the original Nepali can be found at the Poetry international website:


days in the life cover Days in the Life
Translations from Nepali and Nepal Bhasa
by Wayne Amtzis
The Printhouse, 2011
153 pages
Rs 375

Blind Man On A Revolving Chair
Mid-Day In A Cold Sleep
Evening New Road A Burlesque Of Life
Cursed House
On The Dark Road Of Life

The Restless Urge For Equality
Yes, All My Rivers Are Lahureys
Ditched Till the Earth Trembles

Sovereign Woman

Men ! Let's Free The Land From The Vultures
Underground Friend

Manjul's Quest

Small Question to a Big Man
Harka Bahadur

The Aborigines And The Jungle

Siddicharan Shrestha, Laxmiprasad Devkota and Mohan Koirala
Three Poems

These translations have appeared in: The Minnesota Review: "The Aborigines And The Jungle"; Seneca Review: "Blind Man On A Revolving Chair"; Another Chicago Magazine: "Mid-Day In A Cold Sleep"; Manoa : The Restless Urge for Equality; Real; "Cursed House" and "Dark Road Of Life"; Kabita, "Small Question To A Big Man".


Blind Man On A Revolving Chair
by Bhupi Sherchan


All day
like dry bamboo
dozing on its own hollowness,
all day
like a sick dove
pecking its own breast
scratching sores;
all day
alone like a pine stand
sobbing with unexpressed pain
all day
like a flat mushroom
far from the vast display of earth and sky
planting his legs in a small place,
covering himself with a tiny umbrella;
in the evening
when Nepal shrinking into Kathmandu
Kathmandu cast aside on New Road
and New Road -trampled
beneath the feet of many people,
into stalls shops and vendors of news tea and betel;
rumors dressed up in a motley array
walk back and forth,
clucking like a hen that has laid an egg
newspapers shuffle by
and darkness here and there
settles on the footpath
by the glare of the cars
A beehive collapses in my brain
and terrified of drone and sting
I rise
like the souls on Judgment Day
and lost without "Lethe" of oblivion
I dive into a glass of wine
and forget the days that brought me here
my previous incarnation and death
In this way always
the sun rises from a tea kettle
and always in an emptied glass of wine
the sun sets
The earth on which I sit is revolving--as usual
I alone am not acquainted with
the changes all around,
a stranger to the passing scenes,
the attractions,
like a blind man at a fair
strapped down in a revolving chair

translated by Wayne Amtzis with Sulochana Musyaju


Midday In A Cold Sleep
 by Bhupi Sherchan


In the newspaper's want ads
I seek out the face of my tomorrows,
In every procession, meeting, speech
and in the files of each new plan
I search for a foothold
On the lips of the new budget
I look for assurance
From the radio announcements I solicit
a few words of consolation
I gauge with today's pay scale
the age of my family;
Notice of each vacancy
heralds my youth
With the upshot of each interview
life, like the sweat of my armpit, stinks
Someone stirs chagrin into mother's concern,
a sigh dispirits father's encouragement
I sense my sister's parted hair
fears a wife's vermilion
I feel my wife
serves me irony on the plate
An age has passed
as bearing my face like a letter of request
from door to door
I have called at each house in turn
A cold sleep
draws me into its coils,
I know
this time if I fall asleep
I will never wake again
So --
Hey, you, who line up like caterpillars!
Hey, you, letters of a slogan!
Chant those slogans louder, more, shout them out
Jump to it!  Don't let me sleep
It's the middle of the day
Wake me up, wake me!

translated by Wayne Amtzis with Sulochana Musyaju



by Bhupi Sherchan


New Road, tidied up, made over at dusk,
while women stroll, as if under the arm of a sleeveless blouse,
through that place, that neighborhood, Kichapokhari,
midst houses thrust forth like hairs in its armpits alleys,
obscenely dark, fetid--in the wide eyes of the shops,
Suzy Wong look alikes, charmed and contraceptive,
arms treaded with centipedal pricks, hasten
towards darkening lanes

Trip-enthralled in the clutch of her beat prince,
belly-bare in saffron sari and blouse, overripe melons
hoisted before her, flower baby hippie maiden
strolls down New Road--all eyes embedded in her navel
The loitering godsons of the Bo tree
spouting hard-ons, throng the benches there
Filth discarded by Public Service Commission Drainage
and jaundiced eyes rifling a newspaper
look towards the coming day

A beggar stands sentry at a newsstand
Having X-rayed the empty pockets of suited Mr. Penniless Nepali,
she asks for a penny, and Mr. Penniless Nepali
looks towards Lucky Lottery, spitting on himself as he lets fly
a balloon of abuse into the Kathmandu sky

I, on New Road,
with no reason to hang round,
New Road on my back;
to enunciate "home" with meaning
--home in the afternoon --tenant of a bar at night
I turn the wages from my latest verse
into beer and drink,
and then take the measure of New Road
plotting my next poem,
and without deliberation stride off towards the parade grounds
tossing a Bhairahawa Sugar Mills smile to the throng

I stop short on reaching Martyrs Gate
and lighting my last Lucky Strike
thrusting Kathmandu's
hollowness into the empty packet
I toss it away,
and, gazing at the Martyrs
I fling a mute question towards Martyrs Gate;
with a wan smile Martyrs Gate looks at me
and disappears into the mist

translated by Wayne Amtzis with Maya Rai



by Bhupi Sherchan


Whenever the neighbors to the left and right
fling stones on each other's roof
the glasses of the old woman
sunning herself on the roof of this house
and the bangles of the bride looking out from the terrace
break. When at midnight the neighbors
from wherever with whatever they can grab hold of
strike out at each other...
the next morning the arthritic old man of this house
wakes to find his walking stick broken
It's like this this cursed house
This house like a plant sprouted in the midst of fire
a plant that ignites

translated by Wayne Amtzis



by Bhupi Sherchan



On the dark road of life
I feel success
is lit like a lamp with the dynamo of a bicycle
So long as
my legs rise and fall
pushing the pedal
speeding on
the lamp-lit-path falls beneath me
But as soon as I tire
and my feet slow to a halt
in front of me jumps darkness

translated by Wayne Amtzis


The Restless Urge For Equality
by Purna Vaidya


The Newar poet Purna Bahadur Vaidya has written a remarkable collection of poems in Nepal Bhasa: LA LA KHA (WATER IS WATER: a collection of 84 poems refracted through water). These intently crafted poems written over a twenty-year period reflect a mind intimately involved with its own reflection as it is refracted and clarified through a single element in its manifest and various forms. The long-term commitment made to the art of poetry and to insight gained through repeated encounters with a single theme should stand as a guideline for writers. Vaidya's threefold commitment--to the language he writes in, the society he lives in and to the person he would become hones itself with and against necessity. Water when seen as an elemental force, when investigated in its own right, clarifies human endeavor. It is finally not nature Vaidya is concerned with, but human nature. The mirroring force of his poetry demands that one attend to and appreciate the details of living and not turn from the inevitability and power of necessary action, be it personal, political or social.

In "The Restless Urge For Equality" a description of a river flowing through land characterized as an ongoing encounter between the freeing force of nature and bounding enclosure of civilization resolves itself with a statement of self recognition that carries with it social acquiescence and political commitment. The relentless force of water is tempered by all that resists it, but it flows on, it tempers that which resists it, and it is that tempering, that leveling that draws it on.

The Restless Urge For Equality

Before moving water rounds itself
and rises ever so slightly
with an eye to sorting out where the land slopes
where depth lies
Encountered, the world gives it flow, direction, speed
As always water's intention is to fill and raise
Where boundaries create you & me
where between yours & mine walls rise --it revolts
Gathering strength it flows,
and wherever it flows
as day follows day walls collapse,
boundaries are dismissed
In the absence of boundaries and walls
we see wider land --where water calmly, naturally, moves on
This struggle tells me
that the character of the land is uneven
Tempered by the speed of the flow
my own innate desire
is the equality I seek

In LA LA KHA, Purna Bahadur Vaidya, avoiding the rhetoric of his contemporaries, can be read as the most unlikely of political poets and the most unassuming of spiritual ones, even as his exacting descriptions purifies the basis for poetic language in Nepal today. For he has identified in nature a force that cannot be denied; staying close to that force and recognizing its qualities, he has clarified his own vocation as a poet. Through understanding nature--not praising its majesty nor playing with its illusive forms--he has explored what it is to be human. Clear yet sensual; understated, yet political--underpinning commitment with a sure sense of what is and an intent to continue until limits are unbounded and privilege is undone--these water poems distill from Nepal Bhasa a fine and bracing liquor ready to be decanted. An elixir whose essence returns us to the source and whose qualities fortify us for what needs to be done.
From Seeing Water As Water. the JOURNAL OF NEPALI LITERATURE, ART AND CULTURE. 4.1 2001.


Yes, All My Rivers Are Lahureys
by Purna Vaidya


For the tiniest refuge,
these rivers stir. Hastily running night and day
despite jungle and hills 

Finding a place of rest
where their whole self can stay,
there, to calmly abide,
their restless waves asleep

But, in my land, (harbored and held
by mountains and icy peaks)
there is no place
           to remain

Cruel hills and steep
cliffs pushing down, allow no rest,
banishing all to the lowlands

Forced out of their native realm
for a foreign land

So, rubbing earthly dust onto their chests,
they leave their own place

exhausted in the ocean of sacrifice
for no end,
               for nothing at all

Ditched Till the Earth Trembles
by Purna Vaidya


Into a gully water flows,
scratching the wall-skin all around,
indifferently rippling
            trapped tiger
                       caged bird

it shivers…
            excited ripples,
                       trembling body,

slowly it thins
and flattens

Anxious, limited, bound,
fearful of desiccation--a freedom fighter
enduring a life sentence
Free flying birds his heart ascend!
His very dream… a stream’s ongoing force
But bound by rock hard limits
necessity stands. Water caught in a rift
curtailed by mountains and hills
cannot fly nor flow

A lump. Immovable flesh
Its time-borne current lost within
As pining birds peck at water,
aroused, trembling, and yet
again, sleep presses down
silence stills, he foregoes his goal

Finally from that dry hard enclave
there’s nothing to attain
No free man’s fate,
            unless from the depths
            an upheaval…
                        sends him forth

Translated by Wayne Amtzis with the author

Sovereign Woman
On the poetry of Banira Giri


(from the Introduction to FROM THE LAKE, LOVE)

When a voice of assured affirmation anchors itself in an act of violation and violence as victim, the words "transformation" and "overcoming" can only approximate the writer's intention. In the poem "Wound", Banira Giri does more than raise a voice against rape and the personal wound the victim bears, she transforms through the powers of language and the inner strength of adversity overcome, the stigmata of violation into an emblem of power. "Wound"--already the softening occurs, the doubling of the act, the vowels, not the disavowal, the "V" for violation, like a flag waving in the wind, like something touched not with one lip but two. And so the tongue takes over: man misleads, sentences us; woman miraculizes, brings forth out of emptiness.. and we take note --of the images drawn through the eye of her affirmation. Creation borne out of memory. Where innocence is victimized, where rape follows upon avowals of friendship, where chance meeting where brute strength overwhelms, what remains is the ad infinitum of Violation, the signs of blood of "cruel intimacy.... spread on the gravel of the crossroads like an unclaimed corpse."

From the outset
your every thrust
blazed as fire,
tore through the skin as thorns do,
pierced as a blade,
appeared as the night of the dark moon
But these days
your every stroke,
a mere touch,
and as for my self
I've become
oven that contains the flame,
bush that raises up thorns,
sheath that holds the blade,
fangs for the cobra's deadly poison,
darkness of the night that swallows the moon

Only intensity of language and conciseness of imagery can assimilate what has happened. The stigmata of rape like an unhealing wound, like a brand claiming an animal is turned round not at the point of entry but from the deepest recesses of consciousness. It is there that woman triumphs. Man cannot go deep enough, he can not find her to claim her, for the vehicle of his claiming lacks depth, for it is always in retreat even as it attacks. Violation is all that he is. Wound is the source of her triumph, and in that triumph resistance cries out: you have done this to me, you will not do it again.

Wound! Maul and smother me
Lick with your slathering flames
Your force converted
for I'm hardened to it
Where your weapons of thrust and violation are stored,
I burrow and hide, grazed from all angles guns afire
Flameburst upon flameburst here and everywhere
But it is surely so, violator
Violation! tearing your ears, listen
Your armory will be emptied --I will not
your armory will be emptied --I will not

Giri's voice insistent in its climactic victory resounds with an insurgent force. In "From The Lake Love" the author works with an imagined act of violence. A high mountain lake is taken to be the body of a woman that all are drawn to and partake of in a ritual of rape and dismemberment. The aware reader recoils as she is drawn in. The woman of the lake in forced submission to the many gives herself to the one who fathoms to the depths her worth. Against a preconscious memory marked by collective violation, legend would have its readers overcome trauma within the amnesia of love and the cultural rites of marriage. Beneath the beauty of the language one asks: Is this not rape? Is this not violation? Is this what culture conceals?

a woman without compare...
immersed herself, emerging
her gentle comely form turned to gold
Then and there a gaggle of youths
grabbed her, tore her to pieces
and shared her among themselves
...among them a youthful hunter
...stole away with her heart.
...On full moon nights
in the dreamlike shimmering of Sarover
...transformed into white swans
murmuring their love talk,
...waiting for the wedding procession,
hand-woven leaves for the feast.

For Giri and for the culture she seeks to reclaim in her poetry, a crime more consequential than violation is abandonment. Within her writing the ideal of wholeness, of man and woman complementing and completing, of world and beings sustaining and surpassing, is seen as a given within nature and when seen well, when understood, is taken up and affirmed in human creation and in culture. In "Pashugayatri" she portrays the cultural loss when the task of sustaining has been abandoned.

in this holy land of Pashupati,
completely helpless, bereft and naked,
pitiful Bagmati... ...stagnant within
...only scars of memory...
the rush of her waters, an encrusted scab
... through the dry banks of her chest
(she) whispers the Pashugayatri mantra..
and she is shocked
"Ay ai, Men are men after all,
though they throw a flood of filth into the Bagmati,
though they make the Bagmati a River-Of-Sand
...who is she to have them listen...?"
She herself feels ashamed, troubled, sobs
In preparation to enter the underworld for ever,
seen by no one, for the last time,
stops for a moment during the still of night,
tries to wash the feet of Lord Pashupati, but cannot
Bagmati, of only a thin line, only a name,
breathless, weak, waterless, Bagmati
disheartened while trying to bid farewell to Pashupati
the whips of sand
chase her
the whips of sand
drive her out

In a world where culture mattered, where symbol embodied living force, the writing of Banira Giri would be recognized for its sustaining power, for its capacity to project enduring sources of creativity into a mode of awareness. At the heart of her enterprise the Sovereign Female reigns. Where it should be praised, it has been diminished; where it should be established, it is abandoned; where it should be protected it is assaulted. Unfortunately the power of her voice, the intensity of her language and her willingness to take up the forms of traditional culture and revitalize them from a more deeply realized source does not warn nor awaken those who will not hear it. Where man appropriates, woman creates; where creation itself is violated, what use is poetry?


Men! Let's Free The Land From The Vultures
by Manjul


In the field
farmers are ploughing with oxen
To the length of the land the soil is turned
How surely they work planting their crops!
Enlivened by the farmers' vigor,
I feel the broad plains
joyfully spread their wings of a nine-colored bird

In the field
farmers barefooted are kneading the earth
To the length of the land the soil is turned
In jest with laughter splattered with mud
how enthralled they are!
From rooted depths song arises
I feel the broad plains rise on the sweet voiced mynahs'
lustrous outstretched wings

In the field
farmers are harvesting rice
beating rice on the smooth flat surface of the land
Heaped straw and rice where once the soil was turned!
At that time taken by the farmers' joy
to be singing and dancing in the moonlit night,
I feel the broad plains
celebrate the iridescent wings of a peacock
turning with happiness

In the fields
farmers are carrying heaps of rice to the landlord's house
Beneath that burden their faces sad and frustrated
Their children fear the haughty
whose sons and daughters shadow the length of the land
There and then borne by dusk's terrifying loneliness,
I feel the despised vultures' terrible claws
hook into the broad and open plain

Men! Let's free the land from the vultures

translated by Wayne Amtzis with the author


Underground Friend
by Manjul


Smiling he entered my room
secure in intent like a boat gently moving towards shore
and like the confluence, the meeting of rivers
we embraced; he one river and I another

From afar through darkness he had come
eluding those pursuing him;
like a great mountain range at dusk
he sank into my bed to rest

Though the mountain seems to cave in
truly it doesn't fall - on his chest trees move in the wind,
and the rivers flowing there flow continuously

How long we talked! At the time of parting
I, the cutting edge of a sword
slightly sharp, but like a blade so sharpened
he sharpened me still

Now without halting he has gone afar
midst trouble and narrow escape unexpectedly encountered,
but as he is a tree which will not topple in storm,
a rock unmoved when struck by waves,
a bridge which will not break beneath the turbulent waves,
he moves on without fail

Afar to the scattered villages
arousing them, awakening them,
and taking with him the newly aware,
he commits himself
to free the oppressed and suffering,
to regain rights snatched away
from those who have no one to speak for them
and no voice to speak with

My friend is moving among us,
giving of himself
that which we are searching for
He is nudging us awake. If he hasn't yet,
one day he will, without fail,
come knocking on the door of your house
He will come. To say what is so,
verifying fact with reality.

My friend grasped my hand as he left
and said "Go on writing." Yes, but
no matter how much I write,
by his bold, charismatic, unwavering life
in every instance
he surpasses each poem

translated by Wayne Amtzis with the author


by Manjul



The poet Manjul has written more than eighty poems under the collective title The Siddicharans. Ostensibly based on the life of the Newar-born Nepali poet Siddicharan Shrestha, these poems treat Siddicharan as the eponymous name for poet. Manjul weaves into the fabric of these whimsical narratives details and encounters not only from the life of the historical Siddicharan but from his own life and the lives, real and imagined, of other poets. Manjul has taken a central figure--well-known and respected in Nepali literature--to stand for not just himself and other poets, but for their collective creative enterprise. Thus, for Manjul, The Siddicharans are an extension, exploration and praise of that ongoing enterprise and a declaration of what poetry in this small landlocked country can and should be.

Gulping and gobbling the street Siddhicharans are walking

Swallowing bluegrey pieces of sky, clouds,

fields, birds, trees, shadows...

Vision becomes word

and plummets Stands upright in front of Siddhicharan

Feeling extends into a line draped like a banner in front of Siddhicharan

In Manjul's previous work the world directly experienced is not as pliable as language would make it. Nature has its own mind, the village its social order and the city, for all its fluidity, offers only anomie and disillusionment. Enamored of the natural world, Manjul passes his eye over the surface of things, appropriating nature's capacity to appear other than what it is. The social world, however, diminishes man, and when opposed closes in on the poet, pursues or marginalizes him. Where the rhetoric of direct engagement fails, the transformation of the senses as portrayed in Devkota's "Pagal" appeals to Manjul--the poet's visionary madness frees. Through the power of language Manjul intends to be at one with the village and at the same time to transform its unchanging and (therefore) unjust social order, and, as that fails, to invoke nature as a realm of freedom, even as he finds his place in the larger more complex world of the city.

The dynamic at work in Rimal's "Aamaako Sapanaa" offers a key to Manjul's ongoing identity as a poet. The voice adhered to is both protective and admonitory. The poet enters the world with a mother's blessing to transform it as if he were the very son in Rimal's poem. To come of age, the poet must become a hero. To that end, however, whether he uses insistent rhetoric or illusive imagination as the source of engagement, the world resists or when change occurs, it is, as if through one of nature's tricks, mere surface illusion, not fundamental. Nature and the imitating poet play with illusion; man and the powers that be (mis)use it for their own ends.

The gyrations between consciousness and the world, between perception and admonition, between admonition and a recalcitrant social order emphasize the need to either undermine that order or transform the self as nature would. Wherever Manjul's poems reveal a tension between the world as it is and the world as the poet wants it to be, whether he is writing about nature or the village or man, it is how the poet experiences and his rendering of that experience that has become primary. Despite the poet's rhetoric and evocative sympathies, the social order remains unjust and every man's place in it unrecognized. Despite his intention, the poet's personal voice is never allowed a kingdom of its own.

In The Siddicharans the distinction between consciousness and the world collapses. Aesthetics become ontology; poetics inclusive of politics. The equivocations of perception found in Manjul's nature poems invade the world of man. The poet's power of utterance overcomes these contradictions. Perception and admonition become one. The world is as the poet describes it. That is the natural order. All discourse is mythic. All action heroic. The poet's story is the story of everyman.

"Siddicharan he

who tumbled from the pine's hollow

sighing aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh

In the streets

acting out his life

which is theirs"

For Manjul, the world fully rendered reveals the simplicity and openness of a child, a poetry that aspires to be one of social engagement or imitation of nature; his poems of transition represent a consciousness abandoned by the world yet searching for legitimacy there; his Siddicharan poems represent a consciousness transcending outside influence, a world shaped by a mythic father figure. Nature, village, city, troubadour and partisan partake of the same realm: the mythic, the legendary. As a bona fide denizen of the World of the Father Creator, the poet can rely without fault on the magic power of words.

"For Siddicharan is neither

a madman nor a liar. He is that

which effortlessly

appears other than what it is."

It no longer matters whether the world changes or not, or if he remains homeless within it; for Manjul the poem has become the world.

(Taken from The Quest For Influence: Assertion, Recognition and Transformation in the Poetry of Manjul . Journal of Nepalese Studies Vol. 1 # 1 March 96 .)


by Dinesh Adhikari


You are a big man
Only after entering the bathroom in the morning
have you time to read the papers
Without a note sent in you can't be seen
Ai! ai!! The applause for you rises everywhere
In welcome, now "Namaste" isn't enough
you also need a handful of flowers

Now: from two to three places per day
you draw an extra allowance,
for an inauguration you're a must,
closing ceremonies are your domain,
a speech is synonymous with your name
What can't be done by your will now?
Who does not follow your every gesture?
Now, even your wandering thoughts
are to be taken as a must If you commit a crime
it's proclaimed a service to the nation
Really! Now you've become the heavens,
the worshipped one. Over the radio
on television--it's you we listen to and see
I swear it's true!
Now you have become a big shot

But sir!
Even after winning all, what have you won?
After becoming Mr. Big, have you, even for a night,
slept deeply -- not flea-bitten by rupees?
Not jealously plotting harm?
Have you for a moment
been able to be happy with your family?
If not, what's the meaning of being a big man?"
Alas, now even for your own son
you've become a phantom, and now in your wife's eyes you
have been left a photo
slightly bigger

than the one wreathed in the frame

translated by Wayne Amtzis and Manjul


by Dinesh Adhikari


He is known by many names
They call him “boonie”, they say he's
skin and bones; none blacker than he
To hear his real name spoken
he had to wait for his father's memorial service
He is Harka Bahadur

No less diligent than any Arjun
Early in the morning yoking the oxen
sometimes he goes to till the barren land,
sometimes carrying a spade he finds
time to turn the earth from the field's far corners
and time to ready mud for planting
He's also a successful farsighted man
He knows clothes wear through, skin doesn’t
Skin needn't be bought piecemeal with loans
On his naked back he bears burdens
Back-bare he plows the land
Yes, while attending village meetings
Harka Bahadur, timidly, in turn, looks at the flag
and at his back. Perhaps Harka Bahadur in his heart,
laughs aloud, perhaps Harka Bahadur
goes forth in his mind as Columbus
thinking that, apart from being of use for man,
there is no other higher utility. Then,
by gathering all the world's flags
if clothes are sewn, each barebacked one
gets a share--
each gets a sarong,
each gets a shawl
A flag – isn’t the identity of a man
Man himself is a known history,
man himself is a targeted sky

Harka Bahadur does not know the age he's living in:
date, day, month, season, year, and
he also doesn’t know the days of the lunar calendar

Time, perhaps, is enjoyed by the snake
which gulps it's own tail; time, perhaps, is enjoyed
by the factory producing arms. A plan enjoys, a siren enjoys.
Even till this very day Harka Bahadur hasn't enjoyed time
Harka Bahadur has not yet asked for time
In the name of time, while enjoying --
he's been slapped by the demon Mahishashur,
while asking -- he's asked for grains of food,
for bundles of cotton and garden plots
To all hands carrying guns a spade should be given
Harka Bahadur has always asked for a spade
Harka Bahadur is hunger—
Hunger does not have a country and dress,
hunger knows neither relatives nor strangers.
Harka Bahadur is that which trips himself
Pain cannot be bound in a shape,
pain does not have any boundary or home
I tell the truth --if hunger is a country,
there couldn't be a country more pristine than Harka Bahadur;
if grief is a country, there couldn't be another country
vaster than Harka Bahadur

Nationality! nationality! nationality!
Independence! independence! independence!
Citizenship! citizenship! citizenship!

The year before last, his seven year old daughter
when she died from a snakebite where
could nationality be translated into medicine?
Last year in flight from famine, when his son
took refuge abroad where! could independence say "Don't go"?
This very year when flood eroded village lands,
where! could citizenship stand as a house?
Away with all this! Nothing need be offered in exchange
Nationality is advertised; independence, advertised;
citizenship advertised. In reference to Harka Bahadur
they are of no more use than flecks of tobacco
caught in the seam of a cap. Dusting that very seam
Harka Bahadur can't gather enough
not even for a single puff

I told you Harka Bahadur doesn't have a country
Harka Bahadur is not only an inhabitant of Hariwon,
he can be met in that village of yours that city that country
Jit Bahadur is Harka Bahadur, as is Bhim Prasad
Harka Bahadur is the current incarnation of Eklabya
I salute him!
Not having money for expenses,
trembling in himself with the youth of a young daughter,
the hunger of an old wife,
I offer the salute of my wife's sindur and beads!
I salute him!
Clothes for children is his concern;
on his chest he hangs his own martyr's picture
I offer the salute of my mother's lap to Harka Bahadur!
I salute him!!
Neither the toothbrush of man's ribs,
nor a paste of bones does he use,
living a life more holy than temple or mosque.
I offer my poem’s salute to Harka Bahadur!!!

Translated by Wayne Amtzis and Sulochana Musyaju


The Aborigines And The Jungle
by Shashikala Tiwari


A group of aborigines
that set off towards the city
never returned again 

            I told them
            tie your belongings in a bundle
            Hide your women
           The eye of the city is poisonous
            There will be no canopy of shade
            to spend the night through
            You'll have to rest beneath your own shadow
            There will be no pond to drink from
            Quench your thirst with your own tears
            The city is the jungle of man;
            it will not be safe like the jungle of animals
            They didn't see it that way
            They followed the lamps and ended up like moths
            They sank to their death crossing the road
           Those who escaped tigers and bears
            became the victims of man 

Together with the aborigines the jungle also went under
On trees of cement creepers of wire were tangled
Iron herds began to run
The stream dried and became sand
In this way the tale of the aborigines and the jungle ended 

            Even these days when a bird sings sadness
            sitting on the electric pole,
            I remember the aborigines and the jungle
            When, thirst-maddened, the kakakul shrieks
            I remember the jungle dwellers and the jungle 

Translated by Wayne Amtzis with the author


SIDDICHARAN (by Siddicharan Shrestha)


Yesterday he wasn’t, tomorrow he won’t be
Today Siddhicharan is here. He laughs, cries, walks around,
sings his own songs!

From the black depths above,
an ember rises. Whose name is alive,
extinguished it flickers
Today it wavers, tomorrow
immovable it will be

On a quest anything can happen
Eons pass. The unbound current flows smoothly
Of that, this spec is one
Reuniting, unlimited above, unbound
to the end, it reaches

A SCRAP of Advice (by Laxmi Prasad Devkota)


What use a full wallet and filthy hands?

Better a full heart
nourished on nettles and greens!



Why are we distancing ourselves from mountains and rivers?
The abandoned stream does not pass before us, we do not bend towards its waters
The rivers we have talked of are of the earth or so we thought
They are its assets –nothing else—
For which youth and age need be devoted

Seeking I find more than I imagined
Unlikely though it is a thing not seen in that process
Achieved, not achieved, attempted, not attempted
The entire life cycle moves in this very thing,
completed itself, beauty is embellished in it,
when it reaches the height of expression I do not see Everest near
Nor the other peaks and mountains
I am not exaggerating when I say I did not see dwellings nor rivers
when I tried to kiss them all

But I met a different man among men met a tall man
Met a beautiful river raised myself to the height of a mountain
Met an expansive personality

Now democracy has come to all imaginations all concepts
Now a desired flower may bloom in plants
If you have a place to go you may step out as you wish
Slowly –now nobody’s coat should tear
Slowly – nobody’s collar should tear and what of the country’s collar
Similarly nobody’s elbow should tear and what of the country’s elbow
Now nobody’s intestine should ever dry out –
the country’s intestines should not dry out
Now nobody’s sole should wear out
One should not turn from the soil – while walking

Translated by Wayne Amtzis and Mukunda Pathak



Copyright @ 2001, 2002 by Wayne Amtzis. All Rights Reserved.