Author Topic: Laxmi Prasad Devkota (voice and poems)  (Read 49693 times)

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Re: Laxmi Prasad Devkota poems II
« Reply #10 on: December 21, 2008, 03:32:47 AM »




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Re: Laxmi Prasad Devkota poems II
« Reply #11 on: December 21, 2008, 03:33:26 AM »


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Re: Laxmi Prasad Devkota poems II
« Reply #12 on: December 21, 2008, 03:34:21 AM »


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Re: Laxmi Prasad Devkota poems II
« Reply #13 on: December 21, 2008, 03:36:57 AM »


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Re: Laxmi Prasad Devkota poems II
« Reply #14 on: December 21, 2008, 03:38:36 AM »


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Laxmi Prasad Devkota (voice and poems)
« Reply #15 on: December 21, 2008, 03:40:41 AM »


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Re: Laxmi Prasad Devkota poems III
« Reply #16 on: December 26, 2008, 11:36:25 PM »

कुन मन्दिरमा जान्छौ यात्री,
कुन मन्दिरमा जाने हो ?
कुन सामग्री पुजा गर्ने,
साथ कसोरी लाने हो ?
मानिसहरूका काँध चढी,
कुन देवपुरीमा जाने हो ?
हाडहरूका सोन्दर खम्बा,
मांस पिण्डका दिवार ।
मस्तिस्कको यो सुनको छाना,
इन्द्रियहरुका द्वार !
नसा-नदिका तरल तरङ्ग,
मन्दिर आफू अपार !
कुन मन्दिरमा जान्छौ यात्री,
कुन मन्दिरको द्वार ?
मनको सुन्दर सिंहासनमा
जगदिश्वरको राज !
चेतनको यो ज्योति हिरण्य,
उसको शिरको ताज !
शरिरको यो सुन्दर मन्दिर,
विश्वक्षेत्रको माझ ।
भित्र छ ईश्वर बाहिर आँखा
खोजि हिंडछौ कुन पुर ?
ईश्वर बस्तछ गहिराइमा,
सतह बहन्छौ कति दूर ?
खोजी गर्छौ ? हृदय उगाऊ,
बत्ती बाली तेज प्रचुर ?
साथी यात्री बीच सडकमा,
ईश्वर हिंडछ साथ
चुम्दछ ईश्वर काम सुनौला
गरीरहेको हात
छुन्छ तिलस्मी करले उसले,
सेवकहरूको साथ ।
सडक किनारा गाउँछ ईश्वर
चराहूरूको तानामा
बोल्दछ ईश्वर मानिसहरूको
पीडा, दु:खको गानामा
दर्शन किन्तु कहीं दिंदैन,
चर्म-चक्षुले कानामा ।
कुन मन्दिरमा जान्छौ यात्री,
कुन नवदेश बिरानामा ?
फर्क फर्क हे ! जाऊ समाऊ,
मानिसहरूको पाउ !
मलम लगाऊ आर्तहरूको,
छहराइरहेको घाउ
मानिस भई ईश्वरको यो
दिव्य मुहार हँसाऊ ।


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Re: Laxmi Prasad Devkota poems III
« Reply #17 on: March 04, 2009, 10:08:32 AM »
 Crazy                        David Ravin's translation


Oh yes, friend ! I'm crazy-
that's just the way I am.


I see sounds,
I hear sights,
I taste smells,
I touch not heaven but things from the underworld,
things people do not believe exist,
whose shapes the world does not suspect.
Stones I see as flowers,
lying water-smothered by the water's edge,
rocks of tender forms
in the moonlight
when the heavenly sorceress smiles at me,
putting out leaves, softening, glistening,
throbbing, they rise up like mute maniacs,
like flowers, a kind of moon-bird's flowers.
I talk to them the way they talk to me,
a language, friend,
that can't be written or printed or spoken,
can't be understood, can't be heard.
Their language comes in ripples to the moonlit Ganges banks,
ripple by ripple..
Oh yes, friend ! I am crazy-
that's just the way I am.


You're clever, quick with words,
your exact equations are right forever and forever.
But in my arithmetic take one from one...
and there's still one left.
You get along with five senses,
I with a sixth.
You have a brain, friend,
I have a heart.
A rose is just a rose to you...
to me it's Helen and Padmaini.
You are forceful prose,
I liquid verse.
When you freeze I melt,
when you're clear I get muddled
and then it works the other way round.
Your world is solid,
mine vapor,
yours coarse, mine subtle.
You think a stone reality;
harsh cruelty is real for you.
I try to catch a dream,
the way you grasp the rounded truth of cold, sweet coin.
I have the sharpness of the thorn,
You think the hills are mute...
I call them eloquent.
Oh yes, friend !
I'm free in my inebriation-
that's just the way I am.


In the cold of the month of Magh
I sat
warming to the first white heat of the star.
The world called me drifty.
When they saw me staring blankly for seven days
after I came back form the burning ghats
they said I was a spook.
When I saw the first marks of the snows of time
in a beautiful woman's hair
I wept for three days. When the Buddha touched my soul
they said I was raving.
They called me a lunatic because I danced
when I heard the first spring cuckoo.
One dead-quite moon night
breathless I leapt to my feet,
filled with the pain of destruction.
On that occasion the fools
put me in the stocks.
One day I sang with the storm...
the wise men
sent me off to Ranchi*.
Realizing that same day I myself would die
I stretched out on my bed.
A friend came along and pinched me hard
and said, Hey, madman,
your flesh isn't dead yet !
For years these things went on.
I'm crazy, friend-
that's just the way I am.


I called the Nawab's wine blood,
the painted whore a corpse,
and the ding a pauper.
I attacked Alexander with insults,
and denounced the so-called great souls.
The lowly I have raised on the bridge of praise
to the seventh heaven.
Your learned pundit is my great fool,
your gold my iron,
friend ! your piety my sin.
Where you see yourself as brilliant
I find you a dolt.
Your rise, friend-my decline.
that's the way our values are mixed up,
friend !
Your whole world is a hair to me.
Oh yes, friend, I'm moonstruck through and through-
moonstruck !
That's just the way I am.


I see the blind man as the people's guide,
the ascetic in his cave a deserter;
those who act in the theater of lies
I see as dark buffoons.
Those who fail I find successful,
and progress only backsliding.
Am I squint-eyed,
or just crazy?
Friend, I'm crazy.
Look at the withered tongues of shameless leaders,
the dance of the whores
at breaking the backbone of the people's rights.
When the sparrow-headed newsprint spreads its black lies
in a web of falsehood
to challenge Rason-the hero in myself-
my cheeks turn red, friend,
red as molten coal.
When simple people drink dark poison with their ears
thinking it nectar-
and right before my eyes, friend !-
then every hair on me maddened !
When I see the tiger daring to eat the deer, friend,
or the big fish the little,
then into my rotten bones there comes
the terrible strength of the soul of Dadhichi**
and tries to speak, friend,
like the stormy day crashing down from heaven
with the lightning.
When man regards a man
as not a man, friend,
then my teeth grind together, all thirty-two,
top and bottom jaws,
like the teeth of Bhimasena.***
And then
red with rage my eyeballs roll
round and round, with one sweep
like a lashing flame
taking in this inhuman human world.
My organs leap out of their frames-
uproar ! uproar !
My breathing becomes a storm,
my face distorted, my brain on fire, friend !
with a fire like those that burn beneath the sea,
like the fire that devours the forests,
frenzied, friend !
as one who would swallow the wide world raw.
Oh yes, my friend,
the beautiful chakora am I,
destroyer of the ugly,
both tender and cruel,
the bird that steals the heaven's fire,
child of the tempest,
spew of the insane volcano,
terror incarnate.
Oh yes, friend,
my brain is whirling, whirling-
that's just the way I am.


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Re: Laxmi Prasad Devkota poems III
« Reply #18 on: March 04, 2009, 10:09:38 AM »
 Make Me a Sheep, O God       

 From Modern Nepali Poems   


Dead tired I am, O God !
Make me a sheep, please.

This house of mine, a sword of Damocles
This bane of thinking
This sin of knowing
This heart-burning judgment of conscience
The three kinds of worries that I may fall into
This show of rising higher
This curse of bearing responsibility !

No ! No ! I so not want the magnificent pomp !
Let all the accounts be cleared after death !

Sweet and carefree !
Give me a beast's irresponsibility !
O God !
Life without a spade but not the curse of labor,
The sweet thing is but to crunch the self growing grass !
Why the eighty-four types of dishes?
Why the tongue artificialised?
Why the ears artificialised?
Why so many perfumes for a dirty nose?
Why the sculpture-writer Vedavyas and a number of works like Shukabahattari fancy false?
Why the hard labor of ignorance deep?
Why the yoking of the body?
So much of tears and cries- all of no use !
So much of shrieks of laughters for the change !
Why such a great deception over the flaming funeral pyre ?
Why playing on so many strings?

Listen to me !
Let the strong sufiet as they like; but knowledge should not belong to me
A true hermit is the sheep.
the natural taste being the green,
The bleating may not blaspheme the virtues of god
Singing the praise in taste, may not the cloth be woven;
Cloth may not be woven; let it be grown all over the body.
Let me fight with my horns.
Let there be no spiritual fight.
Let time glide smoothly !
Let there be no universal scorching-the atomic destruction of the atheist.
Let me not make the false and sophisticated wisdom soar,
So that the queer future may give a string !
Let not the devil sit on my horns
As the symbol of knowledge.
Let me not dabble at the trap of civilization;
Let me not soar higher leaving the reality behind.
Let not my soul fall towards the ideals.
Let not the false strings play sweeter songs than "Ba ! Ba !"
Let me love the lamb.
I need only paternal feelings, O Lord
This is all I want.
No matter If he dies. It is up to the wish of my Lord !
Worry I won't- let not my breast dry till he lives,
Until his body becomes full.
Or the grass becomes hard
And he does not become able to eat by himself
And no doctor is to be called.
Let my soul, inclined towards terrible black art, never take speed.
Let not jump to the void like a sage.
Or with an artificial imagination.
Let me not create distorted magic of variegated colors out of magic-less truth
Let me not become a Brahmin to live on dirty water washing away other's sin;
Let me not advance my feet towards Hell, being fully conscious of sins as the virtuous persons.
Let me not reform in order to expose this world.
Let me not patch up the old and tattered things.
Let me lit the light of life,
Like the simple beautiful and un-beautiful light of Nature,
When dying
Let me reach higher up than the sage,
And to the heaven, than the Brahmin,
To the abode of bliss than the pious,
Let me not point out a defect !
Let me have divine  animality, O Providence,
Be kind to me and seize me quickly !
Come ! Please !
Make me a sheep right now. 


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Re: Laxmi Prasad Devkota poems III
« Reply #19 on: March 04, 2009, 10:10:10 AM »
We Nepalis

We are the children of Aurora,
Offspring of Asia's reawakened age,
Sons of the Hiamlayas we crave,
To climb the peaks wreathed with the golden rays.

We are the products of the Buddha's soil
The honey-sweet playmates of Janaki, the flower of our earth,
We are the fulgence of the fingers of Araniko,
And the ripe harvest of Prithvinarayana.

We are the golden dreams of Tribhuvana.
We are Mahendra's garden rich in flowering shrubs,
We are the rivals of the tiger,
And the sentinels of demaocracy.

We are the still small voice of humanity;s dove,
With the Danphe's prismatic plumes of fancy,
We are the scented breath of the Himalayan flowers that grow
out of the dust of the sages that lie in their long silence.

We are the songsters of the luxuriant wilds
That trill and warble love upon the leafy boughs of the world,
We are the mountain temples, of humanity,

We are the liberal liquefaction of the Himalaya's snow-breast
that nourishes the life of India in network of serpentine rills.
We are the prophetic angels of the east,
That dwell in the dominion of the first sun-beam.

We are the partners of this round home, this terrestrial sphere,
Partaking of a single plate.
We are the worshippers of self sacrifice,
We are the citizens of the world.