Against Your Poetic Grain Poem by Matrika Pokharel

When you name
a starving, naked man as 'civilized'
in your verse
and, eying some petty offers
you invoke the well-offs
I must write against the grain of your poetry
to save the honor of my muse!
I must write against your attitude!

As you hate verses
scribbled by beads of sweat
I too despise poems
written inside a well-furnished room
atop a mansion with marble stairs
with plans
to crush my dear sweat-beads.
I declare death of your lines
and vow to write against your poesy.


I am reading!
How sweet were your verses
when you wrote them
sitting on straw mats
gifted by Paltu Tharu!
When you wrote
after addressing your hunger
with roasted corns from Maite Kami's kiln
your verses were nascent songs of Nepal
for, you would write to reconstruct your nation.
O, how sweet would those verses be!
But these days, alas,
in Pazero you scale the city
and oblivious of your earlier love for huts
you import marble from Bangkok
and erect mansions.

These days
the mass doesn't understand your poetry.
You write verses that befit a palace
or write ones that the mass doesn't comprehend.
Like two edges of everything
you write for one
and I for its opposite;
you write in favour of hands
as soft as butter
and I for hands all rugged with blisters.
We are in fact, travelers of different poles;
you write against my poetry
and I against yours.

At this time
when the roof of Paltu Tharu leaks,
when rulers have intruded into the village
and are raping Devi Khadka
no, I cannot write verses
about the amorous fantasies of a princess
that roves around in the palace.

When no fire warms the kiln of Maite Kami,
when the homes of my kiths have been devastated
how can I write of the luxury of Kazi Saheb?
When courtyards of the Nepalese
have been fragmented
when Mechi, Mahakali have been robbed away
I cannot sing in the glory of Hillary Clinton.
Scold, as you may
I write for the glory of poetry
I write against the grain of your verse.

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