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Bijay Poudel

Rookie - 1 Points (10th june,1991 / Khotang, Nepal)

Ballot Box-My Love


Oh my love-the ballot box,
We have patched up again this time,
The last time, we had have pretty dramatic sequences,
You know of talks, processes, discussions and what not,
And one proud revolt for a good deal of 19 days,
And that war of 10 years,
Those thirteen thousand corpses,
Of guerrillas and soldiers,
Of fathers and sons,
And the king, don’t you remember,
The same guy who was overthrown,
And he left that big mansion of his,
Without making a fuss,
Retreating to the path he was shown.

Ah what a love story we had have then,
And what a date was that,
Inside that isolated chamber,
Where no one disturbed us,
I had taken my time and you were ok with it,
And I had inserted my love letter,
Containing a swastika embossed upon one square,
Inside that slit of yours.
And holy gracious-that big heart of yours,
You’d date each of’em folks standing in that queue,
Taking all of their letters,
Smiling to all of’em.
But I didn’t complain,
Nah! I didn’t, darling! !
And I won’t,
Those were sweet memories you see.

But this time we meet again,
I guess not out of love,
But out of one god damned arrangement.
But I won’t complain again baby
Equally happy now I am,
To have again met you,
Equally thrilled now I am,
To have again touched you.

I must confess though one thing darling,
The first time we had met,
It had become a rather heavy thing,
For it contained a deal of background stuffs,
You know of talks, processes, discussions and what not.
Nevertheless, a hope which I carried,
Had made peace with all of them.
That hope is cracking away my love,
This second date we are up to,
Ah let me call it an arrangement (only the first one was a date, i guess) ,
Has already worsened it.
And the subtle fragment that now remains,
Is no better, sweetheart.

For now I hear that,
This very time when I have again declared my love to you,
In that love letter, you know, which contained so many of those catchy images,
You’d forget what to catch and what to leave.
That letter has been ignored,
An unauthentic crap it is, they say.
A quick press conference they call,
And in a whim, just like that,
Like a random decision taken, over some shots of booze,
It is decided that, that love letter of mine-so highly cherished,
Has turned out to be a symbol of betrayal,
Which got to be crumpled and perished.


I know wonder my sweetheart,
What must have gone wrong in that love letter?
I had poured out my whole heart into it, you know.
That first date of ours and the nothingness it had to yield,
Could have deserved my frustration or one I-don’t-give-a-shit take,
But didn’t I stand again,
And made it up to you,
Poured out my heart, yet again, for the second time,
Gave one chance again, to, what it could make.

For what could hurt more to a poet like me,
Than, to have been asked to make it clear.
About my wants, my wishes and hopes,
And when I merrily recited out to them,
A bit and bit and bit of my soul.
The same bigwigs now smirk,
And say me that my recite sounds dirty and foul.
And say me that my recite sounds dirty and foul.
- BIJAY POUDEL

Submitted: Thursday, November 21, 2013
Edited: Friday, November 22, 2013

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