The Drunken Poet

                                               -Sajan Rai

 Like all that the hundred men made

And the thousand poets wrote

I saw nights wrapped the days, and I wrapped her with my arms

When all the beauties shiver, I gorged on her love and survive

With her eyes, I saw my frailty-she appeared soul in me.

Now I defy the truth- she left me

The vengeance came, and I loved her again-

Akin the sky and the soil

The distance bargained for untouched closeness.

Now I stand, my love lay; my nights, her young day

And why the same yesterdays we shared?

On her last letters I slept; reading the story of my immature love;

Half alive; I saw myself reciting the death.

I veil the story; I sealed those sweet tempest.

She was the pen of my fate, if all the inks are like her

The crowd of love would recede and only the drunken poet shall live in.

I woke up and turned back once;

 And I walked again, but she like

A silhouette, lingered among the twilights of our last night.

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What shall I write on the next page?

I wrote with ashes

The mocking rain washed away

I wrote on the sand on the beach

The drunken river swallowed in

I wrote on the leaves

The power-hunger caterpillars ate it.

You came with no reason

You went with the seasons

You came when I was spring-blossomed

You went when I was winter-barren

I was not spring externalist.

The cut was deepest ever

Uprooted my heart- cold hut

I tried to drink you with wine

My drunken heart wail for you louder

I tried to finish you like the smoke from my cigarette

But you seem like the clouds;

Externalist of my heart

I ask for you to the moon every night

Like you, moon changes with the mood of the night

I ask for you to the sun every dawn

Like you, its shines vary with the wealth of the day.

All my sentences are paralyzed

Where I used to rest;

Breathing the perfume of finest lady-

Her wetted lips on my eyes;

Poisoning kisses on my eyes-

Nothing seems beautiful than she is:

The warn air from her hypnotizing hips

Burnt my hand when I touched it;

That was the time I knew:

 The earth was the most beautiful place to live in.

I never urge to fight with the truth:

The truth of our departure

Nothing seems vengeful than my silence

Silence is my weapons.

My diary has no page

My pen has no ink

No tomorrow, no classes or periods

If I have to write, write on the diary of my heart

What shall I write on the next page?

                                                                        -Sajan

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Musical YOU

                                      -Sajan

When the skylark stops singing

The wind will not play the lyre

And Wordsworth’s daffodil dances not.

The journeys of the restless pen of a poet end, and die;

And the lie is the only truth man will speak by.

Coming to an end of the Phochu-Mochu love story:

The legendary Singye remain the portrait of mystery.

No perfumes shall the nature effuse

Nor a rose remains for poets’ muse-

The ugly tentacles of thorn shall rein the lawn

And the mocking dusk, like death, conquers the beauty of dawn.

Flowerless spring will be the father of jealousy;

Keats’ colorful autumn jeers at my ecstasy-

Buying the bygone days, moment you come back to me:

All the birds, wind and poets pleasantries rest on their niche.

All day, every day, windows play the dissonance of nature going away

Still, the torn piece of the leaves of a banana murmurs “Nay”-

The tireless call of a cascade

And the unending songs of a cuckoo;

The silent move of a night

And the wind coming off the Punatshangchhu hears and over heard;

The silent, sincere cry of our departure-

Your loftiest move like the starry night;

Dissolve the pains of sunken dusk.

Like the images on a broken mirror;

Thousand clear moon moves deep inside your cloudy eyes

Like in the nobles’ portrait

Your immortal smile wails in the abyss of my love.

You, the lady of love;

Completes the paragon of beauty and the grace-

I shall hold with greatest sympathy, but where? -A heart?

No! You don’t deserve such empty-broken hut.

I write a word of you for some heart

It inhales the familiar perfumes of you.

“The lady of love”

You and I, shall grow and die, in the same nest

Inseparable, even mocking deaths come.

Not only I

Nightly silence, skylark, daffodils await you.

Like the scattered sunken dusk to see the dawn

Every night, I lie with hope to wake to see you.

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