In the Current

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Day after day
Night after night

Summer & winter
Every passing hour

The silence of time
Like arrow tips, piercing

Outside tumultuous chaos
Sounding lightning shrieks

Stir my heart-ocean
The waves tumbling & tussling

Amorphous bulks
Of clouds above & below

Lunging & plunging
Into its abysmal darkness

Battling & rattling
In brute confusion

You ask my name
In daydream delusions

With turquoise eyes
Shining & questioning

Certainly, no idea
Where we came from

Certainly, no idea
Where we are going

Aimless star dusts
Lodged in our lives

We, the branches of
The mythological river

Flowing downstream
In chaos & tumult

Caught in the current
Whirling & rolling

I carry you
You carry me

That’s how it could be
With all the stillness

Of this eyeless beholding.

Twitter @bibek_writes

Liberland

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[Liberland is a sovereign state located between Croatia and Serbia on the west bank of the Danube River. Vit Jedlicka seized the opportunity and on 13 April 2015 formed a new state in this territory.]

on a tiny silver –
uninhabited marshland
rejected both by
croatia & serbia 

vit jedlicka planted a flag
along with his girlfriend
welcoming half a million
would-be online citizens

musing at the vast,
unbridled landscape
at the break of the dawn
framed by his blossoming dreams

of libertarian, his little utopia
no taxes, no gun control
& bitcoins as currency
& freedom & freedom everywhere

the sun above looked like
raw egg on his breakfast plate
the waters of danube river wavered,
black like fizzy drink

his dreams fizzed & sparkled
“all countries are fantasies
& they’re all in your head”
he mused & took a final sigh

terra nullius – said the law
& gave him a thrash
& banished him from his
7 sq km dream country

now exiled in the foreign lands
he yet dreams & chases fantasies
because he knows deep inside he’s
“doing the real stuff in a romantic way”

Twitter @bibek_writes

Alabaster Sylvia

plath

a life of white aprons
& doctor’s bills

you, a lonely neon light,
bright as the head of a tulip

sad-faced, broken-down
rust-embracing soul

feebly moving fingers
on ribboned typewriter

the sad tictacking
of gloomy poesy

fat words strung
in perfect meter

wheezing threats,
in a shrill gaiety

my lovely, my Sylvia
walk out of that door

run, run into the sun
in that melancholy apron

faintly smelling of yesterday’s
cigarettes & anesthesia

look above
the smiling octopus

rays, waving like tentacles
caressing your brain

touch it, touch it with
jagged edge of certainty

speak out, scream
till voice becomes blood

one day, someone will take
your pain & make it

an alabaster statue
of modernity

Twitter @bibek_writes

Sleepy Hamlets

hamlet

let us walk, side by side
shoulders touching
your breath against mine

breathing the country air
in this warm sunlight
this fragrant morning so fair

let us see these fields here
trembling, bleeding life
swaying in love so dear

from every rice plants
dancing bright & yellow & gold
a quiver of flesh & blood & chants

look at these huts profound
frowned & scattered around
like bluebells on the ground

see the hills, covered
with blankets of rhododendron,
the scarlet love rediscovered

smell the ale brewing
& laugh & get drunk
in the raspberry air

feel the wind’s caressing hands
of a loving mother
bereft with spring’s commands

hear the koel’s song leading us
to the wide fields
down the narrow paths

let us walk slowly
our bodies like bedtime kids
stuffed with platefuls of corn pudding

these fields smell of dairies
& freshly cooked rotis
sweet with bright blue berries

let us walk past these farmlands
& see the cows grazing on
the lush grass of lowlands

see the gnarled orange-trees display
the sweetness in the crisp air
evident even from a mile away

let us sit here,
beneath the peepal tree
& watch the little girls disappear

to the nearest spring
a mile or more away
down the steep trail

see the old women
milk the cows
& inhale the smell of cowsheds

warm & fresh
like our forgotten dreams
filled with moisture

look at these kids
hurling stones
at the knotted orange-trees

grandma’s smoking &
asking for her morning’s tea
in her coarse, rustic voice

a stately cat, sneaking out
from the backyard
sits beside her

soft caresses, gentle purring
& resolutely puffing
with fat, blackened lips

the men are nowhere
to be seen
where have they gone?

india or the middle east?
or working in the capital
& coming back once a year

to see the chubby bottoms
of their fat babies
crawling on the porch

& their wives, moon-faced,
lanky as autumn branches
& smelling of cowsheds

& dark & distant
their mothers by the hearths
rekindling the dying fire?

such things we always see
when we go around
the hunger of these huddled huts

with dirty gabled roofs
frayed vermilion walls & eaves
with pudgy, swollen vehemence

but, still, tiny & smug
cool & dark
dank as the morning mist

life goes on
smiling somewhere
in these sleepy hamlets

Twitter @bibek_writes

Loneliness

lonely

To be alone,
how frustrating at times,
how complicated for days—
to see the boredom
pulp the brain
until there remains nothing
at the day’s end.

To be unable
to assuage the pain
of nothingness
& lie on the sofa
with a book of verse
on the chest –
its weight lodged
in the spirit –
with dog-eared past,
an endless bookmarks,
how vexing at times
to be unable
to rinse the pus
of memories
from the swollen mind.

How depressing at times
to be alive unhappily,
to bring a bottle of wine,
pour a glass,
a few red droplets
on the book –
libation to the goddess
of knowledge –
& to drink slowly,
to drink alone,
how tormenting at times—
to listen to Bach alone:
drink, listen, drink, listen
lying on the sofa,
day after day,
night after night,
& fall asleep
at wee hours
of the morning
with lights on:
the porch light,
the bedroom light,
the kitchen light
& wake up at 4 pm
with a terrible headache,
roll out of the sofa,
drag the body,
to the urinal;
how annoying at times
on days like these—
days bloated with
bottles & bottles
of loneliness.

Bibek Adhikari
Twitter @bibek_writes

My Only Regret

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It is such a lovely
November morning.
It feels so good
To be alive & breathing.

Standing here
In the warm sun
By the wayside tea shop
Atop the black & white
Curbstones.
& watch the world
Go on its own
As if I have all the leisure
In the world.

Beautiful girls of Kathmandu
Walk past me,
Without even noticing me,
Hurriedly moving to the arms
Of their sailor princes.
To their laptops, smart-phones,
Beauty parlors, banquets.
To their long, & never ending
Gossip partners.

The clock-tower is old,
But, still, time is running fast
Nobody knows this better
Than I do.
Because I’ve lived my life
As if it has no end:
Every morning being
An earnest onlooker.

Oh yes! I’ve lived a great life
But my only regret
Is going to be this:
To leave these beauties
Of Kathmandu
Untouched.

Trying to be flashy,
I always wear sporty jackets
& faded jeans.
But, somehow,
These demi-goddess
Of beauty aren’t enchanted.

I wish I could kiss them all,
Individually.
All these girls hurrying
To the arms of their
Awaiting lovers.
Kiss them goodbye
Before I leave this city
Alone on its own.

I wish I could give them
The longish kisses possible.
& feel the taste
Of their mouths
Feel their warm,
Honeyed saliva.
Feel their bellies
Against mine.

But, sadly, I have
Long forgotten
The art of lighting
The fire of love
With my pudgy hands.

This is going to be
My one & only regret.

Twitter @bibek_writes

Springtime talks of Salvation

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wild veronica, sweet cologne, she
comes in a hurry, gasping for breath,
at lunchtime and stays all day long

talking about her three young boys
who last year went to the Middle East
looking happy, flush-faced, excited

her voice heavy as a drunk man’s
she smells roomful of alpine flowers
eyes like deep woods behind the stream

murmuring saplings, her boys are
sweating off in the desert sun
now & then sending emerald lights of hope

quiet, like casket, back home
which she cherishes, keeps it in a box,
wearing out the longstanding hunger

but still the loneliness persists
veiled by the mossy, clammy walls
ripe and red, like the glow of salvation

Twitter @bibek_writes