Bipin Patsani Poems
|1.||Making A Poem||9/23/2011|
|3.||Song Of The Happy Cripple||10/3/2011|
|4.||Badatota, My Pretty Little World||10/3/2011|
|6.||The Portrait Of Grandfather||11/4/2011|
|7.||A Mother In Town||5/24/2012|
|8.||Poetry On Wheels||6/3/2016|
|9.||Past Perfect And Present Indefinite||6/3/2016|
|13.||The End Of Poetry||10/30/2016|
|14.||How Does A Lotus Bloom?||10/30/2016|
|15.||A Tribute To My Wife, Manju||7/31/2017|
As the insatiate pen of an artist
Who wants to do wonders
But dissatisfied with the feeling
That something is missing,
My fingers ache.
My fingers, which do magic to you
And warble music
In the warm receptive softness
Of your body, now ache.
My fingers ache to move over all,
The woods, mountains, oceans
And stars as well, like wind
And to fondle both the happy
And the wretched of the earth.
The fingers which often deflower buds
And play on the pervasive piano,
The fingers which till the land,
Grow orchards and spray out parasites, ...
Missing the way in the woods
I was afraid with anticipations.
But now I myself am lost in its vastness,
Its ferocity and loveliness in which I redeem.
So green and appetizing behind the mountains
Those block our way,