Me, a Poet / Haribhakta Katwal

After the impatience of searching for the own self

my heart, a victim of dull frailty of losing it

does not want to think poetry, at this instance;

perhaps for the reason, Sungava; that

that dreary face of that old man, who even after

standing on a long queue for hours, yesterday evening

had returned home with empty can of kerosene: is playing

in my eyes, instead of your smile.

It would have been better,

if I were not a poet but kerosene, that could be

filled inside that container;

I could get engulfed for one night, for

one meal in one house of my country;

I could be able, to make

an old man’s saddened face brighten.

But, Sungava!

I happened to be a poet, who is

never able to solve any problem of this country

but entangled, always

only into your smile.

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Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel

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Haribhakta Katwal translated into English by Suman Pokhrel

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This translation was first published on Amarawati Poetic Prism 2017

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