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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 Strokes

14374d7644534782dbc8703af17b0bf8by Pushpa Tuladhar13 Nov 2020

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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