The Strokes

Landslide came into my life without notice, 

I myself am lost, not in moor, 
not in cloudland, not in fog, not in haze,

not in markets, but within my 
own polluted sketches. 

Excerpts from my poet friend, Nabin Chitrakar’s poetry “Formless Canvas”

 

In the circle of time 

changing continuously in every seconds 

is the poetry �"

 

The poet’s no conscious of

When? How? Where?

crop up as if shaken

all at once by the earthquake

the mind stroke to his poetry in a second.

 

The spirit of the poetry encountered 

the blood corpuscle of half of his body

ceased to streaming, bending into fragility.

The remaining other half 

gushed in its veins naturally.

 

Then the posture of his body

half immovable and

other half movable

being altered instantly in its body

confronted the torture of no limit.

 

Neither my mind sensed

Nor your mind aware of it.

 

But it looked baffled

in the tears of

illimitable and immeasurable

hazy in its eyes.

In the mind of the poetry,

the inert part of its body

obstructed the motion,

the sensed part of it

forced to resume its motion,

the result of which yielded  

the awful agony and anguish 

that savoured syrupy in its tongue

chewed up the immovable

to restore its ability of moving  again 

in very efforts of the poet.

 

I’m too confident

Like you do.

 

The poet will indeed hurl

the sense of immovability

caught in his living.

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