Shrawan Mukarung, one of the giants of modern Nepalese poetry, is highly distinguished as a poet and lyricist. His “Bise Nagarchi ko Bayaan” and other poems are landmarks of Nepalese modern poetry. Likewise, his lyrics such as "Suna Re Siyaaraam" and "Ghadi Ful Ko Laharaale" basically raise the voices of subaltern. Both in terms of theme and craftsmanship, Mukarung has marked his departure from tradition that obviously places him among very few literary legends of Nepalese literary tradition. The Margin presents his poem"To the Young Poets," translated by Parbat Lawati from his poem "Yuwa Kawiharuko naamma":
To the Young Poets
Did you have new dreams?
Or, saw the sky burning within?
Or, despite thousands of pleadings
Did someone leave you?
Jerking and pushing your
Sorghum-like hand.
or, you came here running away?
Surely, something must have happened to you.
So that, standing in this difficult mode
expunging the cigarette ashes
with your toe
You’re gazing at the sunset.
But in the dust, a sunrise of words is forming.
Oh, what a lovely shrine of words!
an engraved lattice
of symbols and images
lamp of— myths, banners,
title, characters, and expression.
Melody of seashell,
gold installed steeple of thoughts
everywhere bouquet of adornments
nectar’s relishing perfume
Oh, Poet!
But where is God?
Temple is not god.
god had come along on this land
that moment
when you had cried for the first time
—Your mother’s blood smudged scarf
and a smile full of tears— had become a god.
So, close your eyes
and return there, for once!
How you had made
a rag doll, tearing off the very scarf,
a home, connecting small-small stones and mud,
a paper-rocket and a boat,
Spreading, Crofton weeds on bamboo twigs
How you had ferried a row of ants
from the flowering plant to their mound.
How you had perceived in the sky—
a hill, a jungle, a river
a tiger, a goat, a pig
the missing sister Tara
and the late father?
Recall that incident
how those people were decimated
when oppression was in-tolerated.
How blood had flowed
drenching the dried grain
and hoping that blood gully,
leaping over the streams and rivers
carrying deep red bite-marks all over the
body
Muted, you had entered this city.
Young poet!
poetry can come all of a sudden
when these words may not be with you
when to trowel the rhythms of life
you may be ironing your Kamij.
But in the meantime,
slipping the thread of time
the button could drop.
Alas!
you may be too busy to collect poetry
while looking
in the corner, in-between
inside the dustbin,
out of the dustbin,
under the dustbin,
will be late for office
and poetry slips by.
Poetry— a flash of light
that you,-
can catch, not hold
when you think you’re holding it
that’s only the snakeskin not the snake
when you play a word game
in your leisure
that is knavery, not poetry
it is a preconception, a prejudice
not sparkle for future
only rust of history
either a sign of your ego or your inferiority.
This way,
having perpetrated
this much atrocity
on own poem
yet, unaware of any hints
you may rage,
telling—readers did not commend.
Then,-
your freshly written poem
about surroundings
might get more defiled
among the aloof readers.
Poetry can come in a flicker
In the quickly vanishing smile of a stranger
While walking at a crowded bazaar,
Buspark, or, getting late for the showtime
In a countryside trail,
city road
while loitering alone
absent-minded of the destination
like the thunder-less lightning of the clouds
poetry may come --a flash.
tired,-
lighting tobacco on the field’s edge
while puffing the bindi—
becoming the smoke
or, while operating a heavy-machine
in the factory
the eyes get piquant by the peppery sweat
can come obediently
like kids come before you.
Or,-
like the circle of the Moon-sun
a circle of a cake
a circle of a dream
a circle of an imagination
or, the circle of a bicycle
speeding to town to deliver milk
Or, the circle formed
by the feet of a pupil
rushing towards the school
with the fear of getting absent.
Which,-
when you perceive a life-circle
that moment, that very moment
poetry can come.
Poetry doesn’t come
like the herring of locusts
deceiving like Corona
like the flood orchestrating havocs
like the Earth tumbling landslide.
Poetry doesn’t come
like the season changing its apparels
like the song singing
like the march playing slogans aloud
or, dearly like good-wishes.
When
Something unknown
prickles your feet
something bitter rings your head
something squeezes your soul
like sugarcane pressed
at a time like this,-
feeling the rupture of blood cells in your eyes
you see yourself blood-smeared
at this moment!
like a cat
that has come
to lick the blood
poetry can come stealthily .
When you see someone
in a forsaken place
when you see no one
in a populous place.
Then, sunrise will begin in you
like the Gahat sprout
seeds of possibility begin sprouting
Oh, this wee-hour of the night
this is the right time for the
arrival of poetry
now, begin to form a horde of words
make an image on the ground
at the horizon
in the sky.
Be watchful!
like the Hanuman
transformed into gnat
like the carried away wind,
like the Siddhartha who has recently
abandoned Yasodhara
or, rustling the leaves of the Sami
where you’ve refuged
poetry can come unobserved.
You grab that
and establish in the pantheon of words
oh! young poet
the radiance of your epic
has dawned the surrounding of my
departure
I have yet to make it to the kingdom
of another poet.
Give me a farewell, do it!
Because-
in between my farewell and memory
in the flickering
Swayambhu of your anguish
for the first time,-
a borderless time-bell is about to ring
a prayer wheel is about to spin.
यदि तपाईंसँग कुनै लेखरचना वा मूलधारका मिडियाबाट किनारीकृत मुद्दा तथा विषयहरू छन् भने हामीलाई [email protected] मा पठाउनुहोस् ।
