Not much of life stuffs to talk about. But yeah, i am one wondering-ever-ever kinda fellow. Through poems i want to talk about my doubts, and my curiosities and sometimes my answers too. My own idea about my poems, is that most of the times, they tend to speak about the conflict we find around. We live around the grey areas but what motivates us is the inclination towards the unipolar light areas.... more »
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Bijay Poudel Poems
There is a hormone that can make you happy, and a next one that can turn you sad. These potions running open in my veins, framing my destiny to be good or bad.
Where the food always feels, Saltier, tattered, coconutted than the previous day, And if you approach Sankar sir to reason with, “ek worker kaa saadi thaa..” Is all he has to say.
A hitherto unrevealed thing, relative to which, your doings are judged, the deviations of your deeds from the, yet nebulous, so called, truth are measured, quantified and then given the deserving response.
INSIDE AN EXAM HALL
Inside an exam hall I see my mate, He is settled a little ahead,
May be it's nice to know, What lies outside the classroom's show? The Times of India's unchecked news, The canteenkeeper's maggi stews,
Amid the eternity of emptiness, I had soared up much more than i could have endured. And when the fated mirror had to reveal my face, I felt the melancholy, the fear that had lured,
I’ve seen a brilliant lamp, Beyond the walls of this enclosed room, Beyond the darkest and darkest of nights, Beyond the torments of its gloom.
A poem for my mamma
In those nine scores of months, When I was inside your vault, I had composed a poem for you, Memorized by heart.
What Is It To Be Poor?
I have often wondered, what is it to be a poor? An empty vault, a broken heart, or my complacent self to remain at the shore?
New year's resolution
Making a new year's resolution is a funny thing, You might come up with one in the year's last evening, over some shots of booze and over that hilarious kick, you might even decide 'ENOUGH OF BEING A FREAK! ! '
A kiss in the cold
As the blanket of fog, veils the radiating sun. And warmth from the heavens, suffer a journey adjourned.
Not that I have conquered a peak, Leaving friends and foes behind. Not that I am drained down a pit, And no one above cares me to find.
The heat of the city had burdened us much, It has got riches but not one moist touch, The torrents of sweats, the sighs of despair, The sunsaving stuffs, lotions in layers,
I I am a cynic, I am fun I am a rose with stock of a gun, I am a saint, I am the king,
Comments about Bijay Poudel
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
There is a hormone that can make you happy,
and a next one that can turn you sad.
These potions running open in my veins,
framing my destiny to be good or bad.
For every of my emotions,
a specific hormone can be deduced.
A hormone that can baffle me,
a hormone that has left me amused.
These hormones with their reactions and transactions,
Creating a sort of chemical game.
And my philosophical pursuit might be a mere chemistry,
among these hydrocarbons that I can never escape.
Today some hormones that have over spilled,
has left me to pathetically ...