Village and Trees – Manjul
Village Solitude
I am here. I ‘ll be here.
I won’t go
to the city,
I have no part there
The sound of a flute
touches my every part. I am innocent
like the flute boy’s eyes, the flute boy’s heart,
I won’t go
to the city.
A dog has barked or a stream has flowed,
the wind touched or has not touched the trees:
I am in the foam of every ripple on the waters,
I am in every leaf on all the branches,
I have no place in the noise of the city crowd.
Cocks crow or don’t,
someone whistle or doesn’t:
wherever you put your hand, there you’ve touched my heart.
Where men have walked and have not walked
I am down both roads.
father heavens
and mother horizon,
happy and satisfied,
I won’t go
to the city.
Welcome, whoever comes from there
but don’t lug the city with you
or I’ll have no part,
not even in people’s hearts.
Country Road
Don’t put me down as a muddy track,
don’t I reach the hills and fields,
don’t I reach the solitudes and towns?
I go to where country roads end
and where roads are
entering the highways
I disappear,
striding forward in the heart.
Evening sometimes rests on my shoulder,
and sometimes the dawn,
moonlight sometimes rests on my shoulder, and sometimes the sun
sometimes a fog, the dew
the stars sleep on my shoulder,
sometimes I stride
as heart-felt song.
Don’t put me down as a muddy track.
The Dead
There are ravines and cascades,
there are the small green groves and there is black rock,
there is the occasional crow of the cock,
and the sparrow’s chirp,
there is a distant look in the eyes,
the is a local tongue you can’t comprehend,
a cold breeze,
the morning paths where no one has walked,
white prayer flags flap with the wind:
symbols of the dead,
memories of the dead,
but where
are the living?
Fog
Five minutes ago nothing was,
now a thick fog rises,
I was born
into the world thus,
although the fog
rose from nothing,
emptiness was.
Our coming and going
is thus.
School
On the road to the new school site
more sheep than people walk,
sheep like people
people like sheep,
innocent, hopeless
ignorant, loveable
on the road to the new school site
more sheep than people walk.
There is the old school building
but the door is closed.
The school’s doors opens
but the classrooms are empty,
black boards, desks, and chairs like sheep,
and when the headmaster leaves for town
they are sheep without a shepherd.
Even when the new school is finished
probably there will still be more sheep than people here.
Village Stream
I am the village stream,
no one can stop
my flowing,
I sing
but not to tell you anything,
not to make you understand,
but those who listen
hear their own sorrows,
feel their own worries
they even get answers.
Amazing !
But to tell you something
I never sing,
I sing for singing,
natures tongue
those who try to understand, understand.
Those who don’t can’t.
I am the village stream,
no one can stop
my flowing.
Mist and Smoke
I see I am lesser to the mist
that, rising from a ravine,
spreads across the slope,
starting out low,
goes only up.
I see I am lesser to the mist
that from a small crevice
gets larger larger
and dissolves.
And below the mist,
a mist-like smoke
that, rising
from the fire
mixes with the clouds.
I see it too go upward
never traveling down.
I see smoke rising from a fire
that is damp,
and doesn’t burn well
but I see that the roiling smoke rises up up.
Village Princess
Princess River
flowing pressed
between the dark, princely boulders,
They try to hold, to block me but smashing the barriers,
singing,
dancing to the boom of my own rhythm,
I flow.
If I get angry,
hoisting the flood on my back,
I roll over the rocks, carrying them before me,
smashing their embrace, right and left.
If I’m happy,
I come singing songs for everyone,
I trundle down the mountain
to the tune of my own echo.
The Poet
In a secluded spot, the Poet speaks
with the sky
and the horizon
with the sunlight
and the shadow;
he speaks with the cliffs
and the jungle
he speaks with the river
and the fields of rice and corn;
he speaks with the birds
and the flags fluttering flags
he speaks with the cattle
and the clucking and crowing of the fowl;
he talks with nothingness
and so if he happened upon a friend
think how he would talk!
But the poet isn’t lonely.
Yet when the moonlight floods everything
or for example on the darkest night
when there is a lonely flute
or a tungna
the Poet’s heart
takes flight
to the place where people
love and think of him.
He can’t sleep.
He is speechless.
The Poet weeps, and inside him an ordinary man
also weeps. He wants to occupy the spaces
between the stars or else the topmost layer of pitch black night.
The Poet cannot sleep.
He is speechless.
Tungna [1]
My wife rises
from the playing tungna
she is dancing
or weeping with dishevelled hair
I can’t tell
her heart rises
from the playing tungna.
What loving couple anywhere in the world wish to part in
their happiness
or even in their sorrow?
My wife’s eyes rise
from the playing tungna
when she looks at me
I melt.
I left her
alone to come here,
and when the tungna plays,
I repent
Innocence
The village looks at me from untutored eyes,
but the shadow of knowledge is there.
I look back with eyes of the scholar
but the shadow of ignorance is there.
If our knowing and unknowing meet
what an indescribable thing will be born!
I prefer its gaze to my own.
Bridge
When the heart has been shattered
and the river of tears has flowed
how can the bridge
between the two banks stand?
In two of the biggest boulders
holes must be drilled,
a cable inserted and bound.
On both banks pits must be dug,
and the boulders buried there,
covered with other stones,
and a wall of mud and rock erected.
Will that suffice?
And then sometimes everything has to be plastered with cement as well.
When the heart of the land has been shattered
and the river of tears has flown,
to hold the bridge that joins the banks,
we need moorings
stronger
than the bridge.
Night Sky
Like the first words of lovers
the night sky
slowly opens.
Ah! slowly slowly
so many stars
hundreds thousands of elated blazings
stark
clear
happiness flashed across that lover’s sky,
but as if stolen
gradually one by one
why are the stars lost with dawn?
and a blank white face
comes into view
wearing a red tika
like the village bride
at day break
rising for her work.
Clear Water
water
virginity’s face
water
the eyes of a woman raped
water
a child snatched from death’s bony mouth
held in warm arms
water
the baby lying fearlessly
in mother’s lap
water
truth’s truth
life’s life
does this water
turn its gaze on you
as it does on me?
Ravines
here, the bigger the ravines
the bigger the shadows that sleep in them
while the glowing sun rests on the mountains’ feet
the bigger the ravines
the bigger the shadows that sleep in them
how big a hole
do sorrow helplessness loneliness dig
in the village of the heart?
no matter how the sun of happiness blazes
darkness still sleeps in the bottom of the pit
to rid the village
the chest
of shadow
the holes must be filled in level
or the sun must be brought directly above.
It’s difficult to do.
The Village Light
Village light,
herself beaming,
lover of my heart’s glow;
I gave my torch to her.
I said “know that whoever walks in this beam,
my loving hand is with them.”
“Ah, what a beautiful thing to say,”
the words leapt from her lips.
I said “darkness isn’t only outside,
it is in the heart.
Turn this beam there also,
I am with you
in the struggle to bring light.”
Her eyes filled with tears,
only her silence spoke.
“You won’t cry
when I go,” I said
because you have light to dry your tears.”
And I
couldn’t look at her face.
Rebirth
From the pungent scent of the soil
it seems in my last life I was here.
A rooster crows,
brother Lama [2] meets his palms in namaskar, [3]
myself I smile,
all the joys of that life coming close.
I don’t see dreams of being chased
or of lovers leaving me.
I see my image innocent
in the eyes of a woman in the field breaking clods.
From the pungent scent of the soil
it seems I’m in my last life even now,
and in my next life, how will I be born?
As a human child?
A poet?
Sun and Shadow
On the mountain ridges
sun and cloud sit together,
light and shadow
the slope’s inseparable parts.
In me only
do the bright and dark
quarrel as they sit,
never agreeing, never,
as if they were no part of me,
and wanted no part of each other.
I see the mountain ridges
I see my hear,
I am shocked by the difference
When I see the mountain ridges,
I’m shocked at myself.
The Dance
When you take someone’s hand
mountains on the horizon join,
when you laugh
a breeze quivers,
when you walk
a murmuring stream flows.
It’s not you
dancing on the mountain ridge,
the ridge dances
dancing dances,
smiling–there is sun
serious–shadows come: you become the mountain.
Farewell
leaving the village
walking the path of tears
going on ahead
you feel the village following
glancing back
you feel your self left behind
leaving the village
walking the path of tears
leaves
seem to speak
when you sit
heavy hearted
lost at every resting spot
leaving the village
walking the path of tears
looking over the river
you feel your self has reached the opposite bank
then having crossed
your self is abandoned on the bank behind
while the real is imaginary
you imagine the real
leaving the village
walking the path of tears
Remembering
I’m being played on the village flute,
from Pinky’s eyes
I’m watching
the demonic village night,
as Phurba grips the harrow’s handle
I’m plowing the pungent soil,
darling, don’t be angry
that I’m not now bound in your embrace,
darling, don’t worry
that I’m not held between your lips,
while Birados plays the tungna
I’m leafing
through the layers of his feeling,
I’m being played on the village flute,
though for six days and six nights
Kanchi Tamang cowered in the jungle,
sleeping hungry
hiding in the rocks,she was made to marry.
Becoming her,
I’m swallowing tears of hate,
spitting on the name “wife”
they forced her to take,
I’m being played on the village flute,
from Yangdorje’s eyes
I’m watching
not just the present
but the future of grandsons, great grandsons,
In Nasir Tamang’s song
I’m rising, spreading,
I’m being played on the village flute.
[1] tungna: a Nepali four-stringed folk guitar.
[2] Lama: name of a caste living in the hills of Nepal.
[3] namaskar: a respectful greeting.
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Translator: Maya Watson
from: nepalikavita
