Seven Poems by Bhuwan Thapaliya

 

Secret

The wind whispered in her ears,
carrying the treachery of the stars -
an ancient secret, hefty with meaning,
and wrapped around her, a quiet warning,
filling the stillness with something unsaid.

She said nothing.
Her lips parted,
but no words came,
as if the night had taken her voice.
She simply stared at the sky,
eyes tracing the constellations,
each one flickering with a secret
she couldn’t quite grasp.

Her eyes blinked rapidly,
a dozen times,
as if trying to erase
the truth the stars had revealed.
But their cold light remained,
unforgiving,
and in that silence,
she knew nothing would ever be the same.

 

A wind rose

 

A wind rose
from the womb
of Lake Fewa
and waltzed the rain away.

Two lovers,
just married couples,
out of nowhere,
came hand in hand,
together as one,
and sat on the lap
of Mt. Macchapuchre,
lush and warm.

Passion splashed their hearts
with stains of colours, naked emotions,
and the melodies of nature as it is—
all caressing each other with reverence high
in the salubrious canvas of love and joy.

Their lips began to leap
and play hide and seek
against the red glow of the sunset,
as they cuddled up to sip
from the udder of Sharongkot,
lascivious and bright.

Evening Dew drank them
and quenched its thirst.
Darkness kissed their lips
and gave birth to the dawn.

A wind arose
from the womb
of Lake Fewa
and roved all over Pokhara
with their copulated lips 

 

 

Justice

 

We stood,
just outside
our village home —
My sister and I,
clinging in silence,
our grief is too heavy for words.

Across the field,
bones and skulls
pierced the fragile earth.

Were they the remains
of cousins?
Aunts? Friends?
Teachers and neighbors?

In silence, we trembled,
our bodies quaking,
our chests tight with
a choking weight
we could not release.

Perhaps, one day,
the world will see.
Perhaps justice
will break its silence,
and those who built
these fields of death
will stand trial.

We must speak.
The world must hear.
The legacy of these killing fields
must end.
It cannot live on forever.

 

 

Her dancing face

Whenever I lift my pen,
I see her dancing face emerge on the paper,
etched in the lines I write,
a silent portrait of my grandmother.

She utters no words,
but her smile lingers, eternal,
like a memory that refuses to fade.

She moves not an inch,
but her gaze swivels,
watching me, ever-present,
in ways that words cannot explain.

Sometimes, I prick her nose with my pen,
just to see her expression shift.

Other times,

I draw a moustache

beneath her nose,

or poke her cheeks,

her gentle face

responding to my mischief,

as if she were still here,

still sharing those quiet,

playful moments.

Yes, whenever I lift my pen,
I see her,
my deceased grandmother,
living again in the poems I write,
in the paper of my life,
where her presence never truly fades,
and her spirit continues to smile,
watching over me.

 

 

Chasing dreams

 

Some of our dreams
had already slipped past us,
fading into the distance,
so we quickened our steps,

chasing shadows

of what once could be,

hoping to outrun them,

to catch them 

before they were gone

forever.

 

  

Strength

One evening, he left a little restaurant in Thamel,
the hum of tipsy conversations fading behind him,
candlelight flickering in the narrow alleys.

He walked just ahead of a middle-aged woman
who gently guided her elderly mother,
their steps unhurried, their bond unspoken.

At the stairs, the man paused,
his arthritic knees measuring the climb ahead,
just a few steps, yet they loomed like an Everest.
He hesitated, drawing a slow breath,
bracing himself for the action.

Then, to his right, an arm appeared,
steady, unexpected, full of quiet strength.
A fragile hand, wrinkled with time,
extended with grace and resolve.

It was the hand of the elderly mother,
offering support without a word.

His heart softened in that moment,
moved by the kindness
of a stranger who, despite her frailty,
chose to lend her strength.

And so, together, they climbed
one step at a time,
bound by an unbreakable faith
that neither age nor weakness could erase. 

 

 

In the room

I casually followed her

into a windowless room

of her house in Solukhumbu,

the air heavy, stale,
clinging with a quiet, tense energy.

She lit a single yak butter lamp,

its flame casting flickering shadows,

slowly illuminating the darkness,
as if coaxing the room from its slumber.

From the void, a row of bronze statues emerged,
almost life-size, their forms imposing, silent.

Deities in stillness,

each face carved with eternal grace,

each figure bathed in the soft, 

trembling butter light

that seemed to breathe life

into their cold, sacred presence.

I stood still, caught between reverence

and the heavy pull of the moment,

unable to look away 

from this strange, sacred vision-

the presence of these deities,

and the flickering flame

that seemed to whisper

ancient secrets into the silence.

          

 

 

Bhuwan Thapaliya is a poet writing in English from Kathmandu, Nepal. He works as an economist and is the author of five poetry collections. His poems have been published in Pendemics Literary Journal, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Trouvaille Review, Life in Quarantine: Witnessing Global Pandemic Initiative(Witnessing Global Pandemic is an initiative sponsored by the Poetic Media Lab and the Center for Spatial and Textual Analysis at Stanford University), International Human Rights Art Festival, Poetry and Covid: A Project funded by the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council, University of Plymouth, and Nottingham Trent University, Pandemic Magazine, The Poet, Valient Scribe, Strong Verse, Jerry Jazz Musician, VOICES( Education Project), Longfellow Literary Project, Poets Against the War among many others.