Articles by: Bhuwan Thapaliya

I am your voice

I am your voice

I am your voice but I will not say a word. I am politically numb. I fear that we may be entering an age of authoritarian populism and one day it will munch us all. We seek rainbow but we often get clouds of tear gas and a hail of bullets. My friend, that day is not far away when[Read More…]

by January 9, 2020 Arts/Literature
Photo by mysterykatt123

Future

As a gust of wind sends the curtains flapping wildly, I wonder about our future. The future is signaling us to go back. The future is telling us to stop where we are now. But we pretend not to hear. And we don’t care. We’re not aware of what we’ve lost and are seeking things we don’t need at all.[Read More…]

by December 14, 2019 Arts/Literature
Stand up and fight

Stand up and fight

When you feel your generation is being crushed by the twin excavators of the political imbecility and haphazard bureaucracy. When you realize that the government is insensitive to the peoples wishes and is making mockery of their destiny. When your see the naked dance of corruption dismantling the very base of our society. When you see unemployment dancing everywhere and[Read More…]

by December 9, 2019 Arts/Literature
Mungling Dreams

Mungling Dreams

  He slept as a truck driver with vertigo, in the Mungling lodge midday buffet of daal, bhat, tarkari and naked women, all left on their own. Dreamt he was asending to the heaven of prosperity on an escalator made out of her thighs holding The World Bank’s “Annual World Development Report” in his hand. Bhuwan Thapaliya was born in Kathmandu,[Read More…]

by March 30, 2018 Arts/Literature
A Peg Of Anguish

A Peg Of Anguish

Is this life?
Is this the life I had dreamed of?
I might have foreseen big, beautiful things
but all I have in my cup now
is a peg of a poet’s anguish and nothing else.

by August 7, 2017 Arts/Literature
Safa Tempo

Safa Tempo

In the ‘Safa Tempo,’ everyday whistles a chilled exhaustion of human struggle for survival. Every day the smell of a burnt human hope mingles with the unwashed dreams, reeking old sweat and limp manure of the commuters’ unfulfilled wishes. Safa Tempo, a metaphor of survival, reminding me of my villages I had left behind, the lips I’ve yet to kiss.[Read More…]

by July 24, 2017 Arts/Literature
Oh God! I Thank Them

Oh God! I Thank Them

On the green terrain of the fortitude, I have built a house out of the broken bricks, and the pebbles they had thrown at me. And I have painted my rooms bright, with the redness of the volcanic wound they had bequeathed me. And I’ve planted the thorns they had pierced me with in the garden, hoping to see them[Read More…]

by July 20, 2017 Arts/Literature
What Type Of Poem Am I?

What Type Of Poem Am I?

“What type of poem am I?” I am as formless as the clouds, and as elegiac as the silence, in the itinerary of the noise. I am not a classic written by the author God. The rhythms of my verses are supplied by the parable of their tears. I am not in me, though I abide within myself. I am[Read More…]

by July 17, 2017 Arts/Literature
Afghanistan can still fly

Barren Hills

  No glass in the windows a shell hole in the roof wretched tanks, old fighter jets and rust kissed guns lie around as discarded toys. In the distance traits of dust rises from Anglo-American vehicles running after the Taliban cocoons. Fighter bombers passes overhead repeatedly cough, cold and stomatch bug rules. Nearby, a seven year old child picks up[Read More…]

by July 12, 2017 Arts/Literature
Will You Remember?

Will You Remember?

No, my world!
“I shall never be hopeless …
whatever you may say.
I shall rhyme my life with the
rhythm of God’s chime, and
row my boat of love over the human’s core
until the stream of abhorrence runs dry,”
sang the infant to the world.

by July 4, 2017 Arts/Literature
Venomous Girl

Venomous Girl

  I flinched and hid myself to evade her but she spotted me, her prey. Clad in a national dress, and waving the flags of patriotism in the air she came and raped me, scratching my face with razor sharp nails. Red, blood red were her eyes burning with rage as she thundered her national song again and again. Xenophobia[Read More…]

by June 29, 2017 Arts/Literature
Hunger

Hunger

  Bloated stomachs and rust colored hair strolls everywhere in the countryside and city slums, obliged to perish much before their time empty, naked hungry and cold, their figures are like the edge of the world an embarkation point of hope. The tears, spilling out from their heart, a concoction of a broken mirror and a cigarette burning at both[Read More…]

by June 25, 2017 Arts/Literature
Photo by Phliar

To The Wind

Every morning,
she stands
at the murky corner of her room,
and raises her finger to the world.

Several Kashmiri shawls, a wreath of roses,
an expired passport, feathers of the bald eagle,
a Chinese mandolin, an empty wine bottle
and some antique Newari vases,
lay across her feet.

by June 22, 2017 Arts/Literature
Photo by Teknorat

Suppression, I Accept Not

  I came into this world not like the river but like a drop of water and will soon evaporate. Though, I am only a drop of water in the majestic ocean of nature, I yearn to create a vigorous ripple of freedom, in the eternity of the water. For I am a man of eternal freedom, and suppression I[Read More…]

by June 20, 2017 Arts/Literature
We Are

We Are

 I am not in you you are not in me. We are as diverse as the stars in the sky; we are not us we are total strangers. You live in the colour of the rainbow and wear the linings of the cloud whereas I live in the silhouette of the tyranny and wear the costume of disparity. You sleep[Read More…]

by June 14, 2017 Arts/Literature
Democracy

Democracy

I am cold
but not numb.

I am silent
but not dumb.

I am not gazing
but not blind.

by June 13, 2017 Arts/Literature