Krishna Bhausan Bal
After Night Descended On The City

Night Shrinking from all around has descended on the city
Night has filled up the chamber pot like black rags soaked and rinsed
Bulb eyes are descending down the windows to the street one after another
Streets have been dragging themselves down on feet and in few motors
Perhaps the bright mind cannot be shut in bulbs in isolated rooms
Perhaps the bright mind cannot be shut as darkness alone in the room
I feel like descending down to eternity crossing all these valleys and dales
Feel like tearing up these curtains of night with the efflorescent full moon.

Night has grown luxuriantly over the city by sending roots to the infertile ground
Narrowing horizons recocheting off the eyes are wallowing in the puddle of night
White blossoms of moon lotus are smiling in the courtyard carrying small lamp lights
Lamposts are standing by the streets hiding their full forms
Perhaps the flower scents cannot be concealed under the darkness that engulfs them
Perhaps the eyelashes cannot screen the infinite visions just being eyes
Feel like setting myself as another sun above the hill to give turns to the sun
Feel like opening the dammed waters of the night never to form pools here again.

Translated from original Nepali by Abhi Subedi                                                      top 

Marilyn McIntyre

Yesterday and Most of Today

shunned my desk
dawdled past my pen
flicked the muse from my shoulder
censor one
washed the dishes
feathered all the dust
took my brain out walking
anything but....

For God

this one pure moment
goes straight to God
touches his face
soft in a newborn soul
wipes the tear from his eye
turns it to
a rainbow
a soft summer's sky
a lamb at play.

Shocking Orange

orange in white
perfect sphere
half submerged
sundown
glowing, radiant
falls
snow gives way
spring warmth
run by life=s
hectic pace
becomes dust
after many beatings
stillness
amazement
how alike we are
you, me, mishaps
mayhem
but beautiful unto death.

At the Edge

peripheral visions spirit worlds
lurking in doorways
ever out of reach
disappearing shadow
mythic slinking beauty
at the edge.                                                                                                      top

Annemette Kure Andersen

from 'Epifanier' (Epiphanies)

'Tilblivelser' (Origins)

I

Your pupils splinter, rise like swans.

II

You must answer me: can eyes be given up for souls? And
can you carry the water in your hands?

III

Palm leaves and oleanders. In dilapidation On a
dizzyingly high summers day scythes fall. So far.
Like the flight of swallows. Would you go back?

IV

You will sink down. Your veins will open. You
will flow with your own blood. Over fields. Over
meadows. Over rivers. To the sea. You will flow with your
own blood. To the sea.

V

So far you should look. I repeat: did you
really want to go back? Blades of grass wave
in the wind, oats beat against your body and the days
grow shorter. Then you must know how to protect
your wealth.

VI

The fingers of the fir trees reach towards the light.
Strive towards the sky. Miles wide. Did you seek
the uttermost limit? On the walls creepers
dry out. Leave behind a landscape of paths. Like a valley
of dream signs. The rains oblique lines. You are
lost in your distant days.

VII

So clearly the spruces needles stand towards the sky. The
first day of frost. The wall corrodes mortar. And
the facades pour towards the slopes of the gravel pit.
It had to happen: time has filled the conch shells
glittering surfaces in your hands. Has closed your sight
with black ironwork. Of roses. The wall that burned
yellow is now in shadow.

VIII

The sky’s whiteness. Could you have turned a leaf
like this? Have seen a whole worlds splendour and
beauty unfold? But the earth cannot
carry you. Your steps can no longer take you
to the sea. You can feel the steep slope sliding
under your feet. Tumble into gravel. Only your gaze
remains. Then all these days vanished. And then
all your pictures should become words.

IX

The seeds shells open. Fall to earth with a
quiet sound. A wind passes through the leaves. Over
the sea a breeze. The horizon is painted to copper by
your words. Breaks through the ears membranes. Makes
the fine branches of the veins snap. This is how the days
pass. They will wander. Into your life. Would you
receive them? Rings of light. Waves of sound. A sea
sluices. Seaweed. Sand. Stone. Year follows after year.
Your hands seek their way over the tables worn surface.

X

Whom would you reach? A conch shell cannot be silent.
Always you will hear the water. Always will your gaze seek
the seas space. Grey and green folded in swells
foam. There will be fields. And meadows. And rivers.
Still there are places to go to. Still a plant
in the pain. We know it with certainty. With
the dust from our hands we will raise temples, and
mornings will lie like cloaks over the earth.
We want to protect these germs. We shall see them sprout
and grow. Listen now: time is echoing away.

Drought

Just take the sea from me
the waves beat against
the distant coasts of the land
of light

Just take my gaze from me
I sacrifice my eyes
on the rains
altar

Just take the words from me
they will spread
wounds over
the earth

Epiphany

Frost bride melt
your white veils
let freezing fog fall
over the earth
for the words will
blaze in your
nets

Harvest night

When the days lower
sails over clayey
earth and the water lilies
spread out their leaves
on matt blue lakes
I shall come
back

I shall put
down my gaze
and let my body
burn to
ash

Postscript

I do not know her name
but she asks thoughtlessly
about the time and breaks apart
all the poems
images

Behind remains a
ruin of words that
the wind blows
through

Poems from 'Fraktur' (Fracture)

from Vocabolarium

V

In the same way as
the walls in this room
have retained the suns
warmth from yesterday until
today when the sky is
covered in clouds
I could imagine
that words had the
same capacity to
keep the impressions
original glow in
their blue
shadow

From Herbarium

I

The paintings colours ooze
a tear in the canvas and
the oil drips separately
from the pigment like sweat
on the floors worn planks
all that remains
is an inflamed
ochre rose

VI

Like tips of fingers
placed against one another
the hawthorn closes
over us all the way until
we meet the fjords
silence

from Territorium

XII

The sight of the two pearls
a blue one and a green one
that were dropped on the floor
at the same distance
as an octave
on the keyboard
makes me
think of
the short interval
between despair
and hope

Translated by David McDuff                                                                                 top

SHARADA SHARMA                                                         

If I wither Another Blooms

My being
is not final.
In my absence
another blooms.

Life’s note of
musical cadence,
resembling it,
my journey,
undoubtedly,
has a limit.
But the serene of my footfall,
isn’t the end of a tune.
If I come to a rest,
the next moves.

Surge and snap the waves as ever.
Life is a current,
flows down in a chainy flow;
chains of dreams,
chains illusions,
chains of ceremonies and auspicious occasions,
chains of pathos and obstacles.
On disappearing of a tide,
the ocean turns not into a void,
goes not vacant.
In the absolute continuum of chains,
life keeps flowing endless,
parallel to death.
Continually blooms against the backdrop of mystery,
the most beautiful flower of creation.

My being on the earth,
my existence,
is not timeless.
If I wither,
another blooms.

translated from Nepali by Mukul Dahal                                                                 top

A.J. Rao

Krishna's women     (A trilogy)

Kubja

Deformed bent horribly hunched up
Barefooted waiting patiently
Her wrinkled face exuded purple
Iridescent glow at the thought of Him
Flower-seller Kubja counted the
Number of garlands made painstakingly
The needle's eye twinkled and
The silken thread smelled fragrant
One hundred and seventeen
Said the woman with bated breath.

He that wore the blue of the sky and
A resplendent crown of peacock feather
Will soon appear in these royal avenues
The sky explodes in a heady mixture of
Blinding light and deafening sound
With the arrival of the northeast monsoon
The air is rife with floral anticipation
The jasmines are wet with the first rains
Soon the streets will get over the excitement
Of the earth-rain alchemy waiting for Him.

Kubja passed the slender thread through the
One hundred and eighteenth garland for Him
There He is making his swift and sure way
Through the milling crowds as His laughing eyes
Have met her eager gaze, mystical and quizzing
Her crooked body quivered at His other-world touch
"Pretty dear" He whispered into her eager ears,
"You are the most beautiful woman in the world ."

(In some versions of the Bhagavatam Kubja is an ointment-seller working in Kamsa's court .Hunchbacked Kubja gets straightened on Krishna's touch .I have taken some liberties with her character in order to make her more interesting. Consequently Kubja here is a flower-seller waiting for Krishna's arrival with her pretty garlands.)

Radha

Enchanted Radha sighed under the pipal tree
The Yamuna 's gentle wavelets trembled
Under the soft moon's caressing beams
He wore an enigmatic smile on His curved lips
Perhaps a snigger, perhaps an all-knowing smile
The melody of the flute floated across the Yamuna
Which said yes and no at the same time
Primeval Radha stands elementally confused
As confused as she was when it all began
Will He or wont He ?There she stood entranced
With her lotus eyes half-closed as the gentle lilt
Of His divine flute touched her yearning heart
Her long tear-drenched eye-lashes glistened
Under the crescent moon of the Sharad Ritu sky.

In the shravan when Yamuna swelled and
Kissed the foot of the ancient pipal tree
Radha was wet with the fear that He wouldnt come
Come He did with the burst of the northeast monsoon
The musk of His tilak melted on his forehead
And flowed in thin fragrant telltale streaks
Tiny pearl-drops glistened on the peacock feather
That turned askew under the onslaught of the monsoon wind
His enchanting laughter resounded through the Braj
When grey dust flew from the hoofs of the returning cows .

This season was different when fluffy cotton clouds
Sponged up the liquid phosphorescence of the moon
And tiny white specks of gently floating flamingos
Failed to bring glad tidings from far off lands
Radha now stood at the portals of excruciating knowledge
She could not think or say or feel anything ,
Her mind went blank and her body trembled
Her visage betrayed a complete lack of innocence
Her tear-drenched eyelashes fluttered ambivalently
For the first time she was not sure He would come .

Unreal Satya

Unreal Satya ,arrogant Satya
Krishna-drunk bejewelled Satya
Her diaphanous saree fluttered
In the gentle breeze of the Vasant
Like clusters of reckless butterflies
Drunk on the viscous nectar of
The bright yellow marigolds .

From afar came the intoxicating
Kasturi-fragrance of His ethereal presence
Satya did not even acknowledge.
Her kajal-overflowing lotus eyes
Did not hover on the distant horizons
He is mine , irrevocably mine , thought
Unreal Satya , arrogant and Krishna-drunk.

Uncertain Krishna laughed tentatively
Full of shimmering promises , unreal
And insubstantial like nebulous circles
Around the moon promising silver rain
Haughty Satya gave out a deep sigh
Didnt He belong to her alone ?
Where was the need for tearful supplications
And endless waits under the starry skies
He that belonged to her had to come.                                                                  top

Biplov Dhakal

Doll's Honeymoon

In the daytime
Dolls had wedded
Dolls of threadbare clothes
Now the same dolls are honeymooning
Hiding in the thick of cornfield.

The bridegrooms body
Is smelling of iron and mud
From the sighing bride is coming
The fragrance of forest creeers.

Is it that the foolish children
Had made the dolls
Pulling apart
Their own daddy's kachhad*
And mum's gunyu?*

Translated from Nepali by Manu Manjil
________________________
* kachhad/gunyu- loinclothes worn by males and females respectively.                                          top