Suman Pokhrel

Suman Pokhrel Poems

Through years of my prime
I walked with a heart
crazy about love.

Standing on top of each morning briefly
stopping by each evening shortly
unmindful, my eyes are chasing,
my eyelids are sweeping with light the sky


My eyes are upon the trees.

For, trees do not live in fragments.
Till they fall, they stand

Even if they try to pluck it,
the flower submits itself onto their hands.
If it happens to prick their heels,
the thorn scorns itself all its life.

Every morning
I wake up with the news
of bloodshed.
I feel my body,

As you entered the room
stirring air with suppleness of walk
waking up the stillness with jingles of cymbals
making curtains dance to the sound of bangles

May I splinter away from myself
break into whole units
live in each with perfection!

The road comes from somewhere
And goes straight somewhere else
Caring not the Chautari* that awaits him,
Goes past, leaving her

Let me not so much be lost in involvements
As would make me incapable of
Recognizing the fragrance of the flower
Beaming in my own yard; as would

I've also felt
all windows were watching
all walls were listening,
I'd also felt at that time


Heat is mounting up above the extreme point
as if it has sworn not to come down before bursting all the thermometers.

The wind is reluctant to blow toward us.

I'm searching a heart
inside me-

A heart


Carrying the emptiness of the city filled with the
banalities of the world
as I enter my home,
many homes seem to be waiting for me.

Accursed are these moments
for no sake.
accursed are the faiths
and feelings

In cima a ogni mattina velocemente
fermandosi per poco ogni sera
incuranti, i miei occhi sono a caccia,
le mie palpebre spazzano con la luce del cielo


Fever painted me all over the body
with its warm kisses of love
for a duration unknown

frozen and surging
in the middle of the street
in holiday moods

I was watching
a city taking shape
like raging delusions
from the deposits of migrating

Tell me once
where are you?

Where are you who should be remembered

There was mela** of fogs atop
and around the hill.

Unknown that was to me

Suman Pokhrel Biography

Suman Pokhrel is a poet, lyricist, playwright, translator & artist. Suman Pokhrel is only writer to receive SAARC Literary Award twice. He received this award in 2013 and 2015 for his own poetry and his contributions to poetry and art in general in the South Asian region. Suman Pokhrel was born on September 21,1967, in Mills Area, Biratnagar, to Mukunda Prasad Pokhrel and Bhakta Devi Pokhrel. Suman Pokhrel attended Bal Mandir, a government owned Kindergarten in Biratnagar, until he was five. Pokhrel got moved to his ancestral village of Kachide in Dhankuta at the age of seven and raised there by his paternal grandmother. His grandfather Bidhyanath Pokhrel was a poet and a politician. He was introduced to literature early through the influence of his grandfather's library, filled with Nepali, Hindi and classic Sanskrit literature. At the age of twelve, he moved back to Biratnagar to live with his parents. Pokhrel was mentored by his father, who was an engineer by profession and a bibliophile with a keen interest in art and literature. Career Suman Pokhrel joined the Nepali civil service in Nepal Government as a Section Officer in February 1995. He left the job and joined Plan International in December 1998 as a development activist and went to the remote hilly region of the country. The job demanded visits to the more remote areas of the region. A multilingual poet, Pokhrel has written in English, Hindi and Urdu beside in his mother tongue Nepali; and have them published across the countries. Many of his works have been translated into other languages by various translators including himself. Suman Pokhrel's poems in English are appeared in different international poetry journals and anthologies including Snow Jewel; Life & Legends The Songs We Share; Sweet and Sour Dreams; Global Poetry, Learning & Creativity; Grey Sparrow; Prachya Review; California Quarterly; Asian Signature; ] and in different volumes of Beyond Borders, South Asia; and Art of Being Human, Canada. Most of English translations of his poems has been rendered by Abhi Subedi. Some are translated by himself. Some other are translated by Mukul Dahal, Manu Manjil and other translators. Beside into English, Suman Pokhrel's poems are translated into Bengali, French, German, ] Hindi, Italian, Persian, and Spanish; and are published online well as in print journals from different locations. Pokhrel has read his poems for some international audiences. He has read his poems in SAARC Festivals of Literature in 2009,2010,2011,2013 and 2015. He read his poem in SAARC Charter Day Celebrations on December 8,2013 in New Delhi, India as an especial invitee. He recited his poems in Nepali during a monthly two-poet poetry recital program in Kathmandu in March 2015. He read his poems at All India Poets' Meet in Orissa, India in February 2016 as an especial invitee poet from foreign country. Many of contemporary South Asian writers have quoted Suman Pokhrel's poems in their write-ups; and has regarded him as one of the most important creative voices of South Asia. As a translator, Pokhrel has translated poems of several poets from around the world into Nepali and many of Nepali language poets' works into English, Hindi and Urdu. Writings Suman Pokhrel is described as a poet with a strong tender voice critics say his poem poem ‘Children' creates tenderness in the mind. It is indescribable the way the poet has drawn out the innocence of children metaphorically with Nature. The rhetoric question at the end leaves an indelible mark in the minds of the reader. Where as in his poem ‘You Are, as You Are', he exudes humility in expressing love. The importance of love quotient in one's life is spelled in this poem, a simple submission almost in the form of a ritual. There is an abundance of sublime purity in his expression of love One of Suman Pokhrel's most quoted poems, ‘Every Morning' emphatically declares the uncertainty of existence. It comes as a rude shock that how casually we take everything for granted. In a world which is filled with a plethora of violence, tragedy and devaluation of life the poet seeks gratitude for his being. His poem ‘Every Morning' is like a gentle reminder to mankind. His poem ‘The Taj Mahal and My Love', is an innovative poem. The epitome of love creates awe in the mind of one and all, falls short to a lover who wants to give it all in this lifetime and not be delusional like Shah Jahan. The poet has penned down the poem with reverence to the greatness of the Taj Mahal. Currently, he lives in Biratnagar, Nepal with his wife Goma Dhungel Pokhrel and two children, Ojaswee and Ajesh.)

The Best Poem Of Suman Pokhrel

The Taj Mahal & My Love

Through years of my prime
I walked with a heart
crazy about love.

I wanted my heart to bloom
and shelter a shadow of love.
when the heart was soaked in passion
and was wet,
I wanted to wrench it dry
on love itself.
I wanted to paint a picture,
in indelible print, across
the canvass of my heart.

I stand today
in front of the Taj Mahal.
I watch the marble smiling
as the sunlight gives it a touch.
I feel gusts of wind
gone mad
as they come across
the heights of love here.
I listen to the music, waking in
the dream-eyed visitors' quiet hearts.

I am tipsy after my
own feelings
themselves have become wine.
I forget myself, world and all.

I don't know
whether I'm thinking of Shah Jahan,
Mumtaj or myself.
I'm quite disillusioned, stupefied,
enveloped under an expanding heart.

Shah Jahan who proved
an emperor to be shorter than a lover,
who turned a grave into a temple
who gave his beloved a place of God
and converted love into a prayer.

there exists one difference between
us two.
he was all in all, and if
I'd ever grown prosperous like he was,
I'd not have waited for my beloved's death
before I erected a Taj Mahal.

(Translated from Nepali by Manu Manjil)

Suman Pokhrel Comments

Suman Pokhrel Quotes

An uneasy rhythm of life is more life like than an easy death.

I asked none, why life ends in ways uncertain.

Every morning I wake up with the news of bloodshed.

Every morning I wake up with the news of bloodshed. I feel my body, desperate to know whether I'm still alive.

Through years of my prime I walked with a heart crazy about love.

I wanted my heart to bloom and shelter a shadow of love.

I want the fever to grab me forever, and want you to be my fever.

Tonight, may I get so drunk in love that I do not see any dreams!

Creation does not cease just because there is darkness!

If I'd ever grown prosperous like Shah Jahan was, I'd not have waited for my beloved's death before I erected a Taj Mahal.

Unceasingly, I stand holding the selfsame earth.

In how many minds should I go crazy? Whom should I ask?

Haunted trees covered behind the curtains of their own leaves stare at the dark from the fringe of streets.

Lampposts look in the glow of their defeated light robbed by the fog but cannot tell if the streets lying by stretching limbs in courtyards are sleeping face downwards or supine.

Life's mystery continued to trouble me, a question came to my mind, is freedom dearer than life? or does it become easier to live when life becomes difficult?

Desires stay unaware of man's fragile existence authored by scarcity.

Sightless flag scolding environment that surrounds it dances in the joy of being a flag.

My heart spread rainbow in the room like colours of youth and lilts of life's melodies.

I know you'll speak no truth at this time. I've to be guided solely by your silence, your eyes and the inaudible appeals of your heart.

I've to settle before I lose the presence of mind- whether I should use brush or pen or my eyes, hands or something else and create a unique composition all in you.

You who are sitting before me have the power to change my consciousness into painting, poem, melody or anything else!

As you entered the room stirring air with suppleness of walk, waking up the stillness with jingles of cymbals, making curtains dance to the sound of bangles; aroma wafted into air from canvas and copybooks, my paintbrush grew restless and pen became enraptured, my eyes, hands and other parts became electrified.

If you were not what you are shaped by my life's melodies, one who is standing before you overflowing with energy carrying myriad desires, that would not be me.

The dream too thinks twice, gets filtered to go soft to be seated on children's eyes.

Let me not so much be lost in involvements as would make me incapable of recognizing the fragrance of the flower beaming in my own yard.

Thank God, my name isn't in the list of those who died or were killed yesterday!

I like desires like children and their plays that tease me now and then into knowing life.

I salute my desires with a bow. were it not for them to come and play mind would be empty just like me.

Commands- you're sure to hear from above if you're placed down below.

I chose none to ask, why the wind was blowing there chasing the fogs.

I wanted to paint a picture, in indelible print, across the canvass of my heart.

I would regard meanings given by others so far as refreshing boon, I would still be enamored of rose or any heartless flower's smell if tender tides of your affection had not suffused the pollen of my heart with loving aroma.

I shall not go out at all given that my love is here shall always stay attached to these hearts. I shall never bid farewell to this place! But I have to send this body anyhow from here.

I feel my body, desperate to know whether I'm still alive

I am gazing- desires unaware of destiny frisk about my mind-scape like children.

Does the beauty of life remain alive without making a comparison?

Having been ripped open and drained by the crowd, When I enter my home, many homes seem to be waiting for me to give a shape to this life which is about to perish.

Still enveloped in a blanket of dreams he (life) continued to lie still, pretended as if he was in a deep slumber.

These heads sheltered by umbrellas be they of Zeb-un-Nisa, or Catherine; of Cleopatra or Fenichka live with their own stories.

Should I ask everyone the question that should not have been asked? Or should I, turning up to the sky, be answering the question that's not been asked?

Where heart lived is what is lived.

Without asking anybody's advice, I turned myself insane sitting under the same sun and the same clouds. I believed all along one day everyone would go mad just to see me sane

all trees and birds sky and stars bosoms and bangles were seeing everything.

I had also read on the face of surroundings; some broken, some disconnected, some cracked expectations.

I've touched some sentences and have kissed some words.

Whether anybody comes to convince me or not, a part of my life does always ache arresting my chest.

I've climbed up here holding the hilt of time's sword by driving it into my tender heart.

Do not think; I've reached where I am now, by slipping like a landslide or evaporating like a cloud.

Eyes that obstruct the road can be removed, but what happens when hearts block the passage?

May I splinter away from myself break into whole units and live in each with perfection!

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