'Bereft of Poetry - II' by Suman Pokhrel

Bereft of Poetry - II
by Suman Pokhrel


This moment
my mind is bereft of poetry, yet
I want to write
nothing but a poem.

Out here
are books and magazines--
asleep, carrying the entire world in them,
and standing there
are walls and windows, staring at me,
and leaves of letters here-- about to go melting
quite like my heart itself,
and photographs-- lost in themselves
as if--
they're thinking of someone.

This moment
everything is present here, except the things
that are not here,
and I'm not feeling like
disturbing them.

I'm in no mood to write
candle or radio
nor am I willing to write table,
pen and paper;
I want to write
nothing but a poem.

On this clove of earth,
there's no time to go to school, quitting
crushing stones into grits;
there is no enthusiasm to think, laying
the hunger down; there's no patience
to speak mellifluously, giving up
slogans and processions;
there's no need to wear
a single thing, taking politics out;
there's no time to live, stopping
schlepping life along.

In this vagueness,
might a story of lives--
lives that have been crushed themselves
while crushing rocks into pieces--
be written;
might an essay
of times that have passed on
'naked' -- through and through
be written;
might a novel
of fatigued evenings returning to nights, following
unsuccessful all-day search for life
be written;
but possibility of birth
of poetry-- bedecked with beauty--
seems all dead.

How could it be wished
that poetry of a mellow age be born
when this time is taking showers
in the drama of a loathsome taste!

The mad floods of disorder
flowing all over
cannot be controlled
by putting an earthen-pot of ignorance
on the head;
it's not as easy
as it is with chewing shame and foolishness
to chew the wreckage of broken time.

In such a scenario,
I might just end up writing again
a howl instead--
of an era ripped open;
poetry that is soaked in the sweetness of
euphoria
is not taking shape in my mind,
but I want to write poetry
of an age dancing
in the tunes of ruptures
that is full of life.

But this moment
I'm bereft of poetry
on this planet, from where
the beauties of creation
are vanishing away
furiously.
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(Original work written in February 1999 as कविता फुरिरहेको छैन [Kavita Phuriraheko Chhaina] in Nepali. Published in जीवनको छेउबाट Jeevanko Chheubaata , 2009, p. 74. Vani Prakashan. Biratnagar.)
— Also available HERE on Kavitakosh (accessed November 10, 2025)
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(Translated by Harish Adhikari)