New Poems: Sushant Thapa

More Pain 

 

The rage is beaming, 

There is a hole 

In the heart. 

Like talents that stumble,  

Like gardens that empty, 

There is nothingness 

That is not like

The wheelbarrow. 

Whatever grows 

Will see the world. 

I am raging at 

The nuclearization  

What should not be 

Is only valid when 

It appears. 

First, it appears

Then we are able to say 

That it should not be. 

I break the flowerpots 

To find my breaking heart.  

Now this has lead

To more pain. 

 

 

Take Me As I Am 

 

Take me as I am, 

The garden is all set. 

Fragrances haunt 

Like deep longings. 

There is an aftermath 

Of everything. 

Hold on 

Till the ways 

Run wild. 

All that is thrilling 

Is worth the ride

Of life. 

In simple tones,

Nature lives 

And reveals 

That the fog is beautiful. 

I seek your voice, 

To listen

Something soothing. 

Take my name, 

I shall meet you 

By the evening's stupor. 

 

 

Nothing to Hide 

 

I wake up, 

A force in design,

The sipping life

Is not empty 

Of its cup.

Talk of the day, 

The remaining hours 

Are passing by. 

I am blessed to live 

Like an artful recollections. 

Let the hours pass, 

Let the sky sink 

And the dawn arrive 

Like a sketch. 

With you by my side

The distances could 

Solve the equation 

Of detachment. 

In telling, 

There is nothing

To hide. 

 

Garden and Distances 

 

I am 50 miles 

Away,

And 50 miles close 

To become an art 

That you choose. 

I am the affection

That you pulled close, 

In the hour of need. 

Soul does its searching,

Weaknesses are like 

The dark night 

That melts like 

Candles in the wind. 

Music rains like kisses,

Wild flowers grow 

With no planted seeds,

Love is a garden, 

Where colors bloom,

In mesmerizing phases. 

 

Bio: Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet with nine books of English poems and one short story collection to his credit. He holds an M.A. in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. His poems are published at Bold Monkey Review, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Corporeal Lit Mag, etc. He is a lecturer of English in Biratnagar, Nepal. 

New Poems: Sushant Thapa

 

Clean Slate 

 

A long walk to keep up 

The sun by my side. 

Shadows linger like 

Dust in my shoulder. 

The way is sandy, 

It took me forever to 

Let go of the lock 

That cages freedom 

In a room. 

I have to write, 

I have to keep up 

The heartfelt sensations. 

Hearts don't lie. 

In conversation with myself 

I found you. 

Yes, a bit of myself in you, 

And my imagination. 

Imagination is musical 

And I tune my instrument 

For it. 

I play the dusty life

And make it a clean slate. 

I again say that

I wish to play with my abstraction. 

 

 

Faded Time 

 

I am at the gate.

I have passed by like 

A silent river. 

I percolate, 

I make murmurs 

As I cut through the stones 

By my wave. 

Pour me a melancholic assurance 

And throw away 

The plastic happiness. 

I am like air, 

I am a relentless pursuit. 

My music is 

The soul's synchrony. 

I follow your dark path, 

Holding your hand with 

All your mighty trust. 

I picture the future,

Where the sun excuses itself 

For an evening shade. 

The merciful heat 

Lets us through a narrow shade 

Of romance. 

Life goes on through its faded time. 

 

 

 

Love is Forgiveness 

 

 

The mind takes offence 

When it is shut. 

A home becomes inhospitable 

When it is full of jargons. 

Jargons of relationship, 

Jargons of care that cages, 

Instead of dreams that color 

The black and white life. 

I understand how the first affection spoke, 

When guiding hands 

Lighted the lamp. 

The primordial fire 

Still blesses us. 

If the world falls apart, 

We take it as it is, 

We are doomed anyhow 

So let’s look at the stars tonight 

And feel the heaven 

In the grain of sand. 

It is easy to see the war, 

And hard to forget. 

Why wage war? 

Why kill innocent lives? 

This evening I am shattered 

Yet, I write of love. 

It is a rebellious living. 

This heart is a garden 

Where some plants wither and die, 

Without the care, 

Without the affection, 

Without the easy breath. 

Love is forgiveness too, 

I hope the war-mongers 

Learn to love. 

 

 

Every Saint in Me

 

What it takes to be happy? 

A glittering night 

An open sky, 

The music that distracts

For good, 

A slight breeze, 

A new poem 

That gets written 

In the heart first. 

I tune my heart of stone, 

I extract nectar from 

The figurative night 

That is so symbolic 

To be the god’s work of art. 

A solitary darkness 

Is a colorful meaning 

For interpretative brightness, 

No other darkness is more 

Interpretative and thus Meaningful. 

I wake up to the moonlight 

And my soul trapped 

In the musical soothing. 

You arrive in bits, 

I spill my paint 

In the canvas, 

Just like those bits. 

Every curve and curse

Is thrilling, 

Every saint in me 

Is a sinner 

In someone else’s court. 

I count the blessings 

Of a day, 

A mind full of spring, 

Even when winter

Treats me like an outcast. 

 

 

Figuring Out the Mystery 

 

Society tells you 

A safe corner isn’t a place to be. 

But you are on the road 

To create yourself. 

You would have bought the sky

And the stars, 

When you stray and go

On your own, 

They script a discipline chart 

For you. 

I want to traverse pure

Maybe a slight blues would console. 

I keep the music on loop, 

Try to figure out the meanings 

Of my dwellings afar, 

These lyrics don’t die, 

There is poetry in the first glance 

Of the open door, 

I invite truth, 

Even if it is painful. 

Crossroads make a beautiful memory. 

I plan nothing, 

Because I love to figure out 

The mystery. 

 

 

Filling its Emptiness 

 

Rest assured 

Unspoken pauses 

Are to be understood. 

The world leaves its gaps, 

The height 

Of scientific development 

Has been all the achievements 

Of nuclear warfare.

It is a mere power 

That can corrupt, 

The propaganda is not 

A communication strategy. 

Bullet holes leave death marks. 

I am the dark alley 

Where majority walk. 

I will not buy your hatred 

Even if it feeds me, 

With delicacies. 

The void keeps thinking 

How to go deep 

And fill its emptiness. 

Bio: Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet with nine books of English poems and one short story collection to his credit. His poems are published at Bold Monkey Review, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Corporeal Lit Mag, etc. He is a lecturer of English in Biratnagar, Nepal.

New poems: Sushant Thapa

 

Beholding Love

 

Love escapes through

long intervals of touch

between fingers.

Kisses grow old

like mirrors

throughout life.

I was a spring dancer

now I am

a winter statue.

Clouds have darkened

and sprinkles of misty rain

fall and keep falling.

Love is an abstract noun,

but I miss your touch.

We are

concrete manifestations.

Our kisses are absolute;

they don't empty like

filled vessels.

I feel your absence

and you emerge out

of mirror frames.

I watch you

in the mirror;

we have exchanged

ourselves.

 

 

Sorrow is a river

 

Morning manifests

in clean attire

as if a slate

has been washed.

The night has lost

its own caricature.

I see that the sun

has hidden itself

and winter has flowered.

The dew covered grasses

feel as if spring

has kissed them

silently.

Invention lies in

inventing happiness.

Sorrow is a river;

it drowns you

unless you learn to swim.

 

 

Art and Discontents

 

A fresh beginning

begins with new sights

or new insights.

Every walk of life

leads to present time.

I see myself orienting

to the artistic canvas,

Pouring myself out

in scars of colorful splashes.

Resting bones

leave the flesh.

I sense a reasoning

that questions

every other question.

Buried lies

do not sprout truths

that heal.

What good is art,

if it does not revive

passion and its discontents?

 

 

Favorable Conditions

 

I am looking

at the inner life

of a wintry afternoon.

I see my old age

in my father’s eyes.

“Do you feel

motherly embrace

in your nest?”

I ask the young bird of

the early morn.

It says flying lessons

are best learned

in a stormy sky.

I don’t blame

my weakness,

but learn to

aim right

and not wait for

any favorable

conditions.

 

 
© Sushant Thapa

Biratnagar-13, Nepal