I say to my heart,
“I have ears, eyes, tongue,
and every part, but not a sense,
to discern what is poetry and what is not,
what poetry is and what it is not,
but yet I behold poetry in every object-
in the rustle of the leaves, and on
the scorching dust of the streets.

Ah! Don’t worry, said my heart,
“It doesn’t matter
whether you recognize
poetry or not;
Let the poetry recognize you
for the poems are not born of the poet
the poet sprouts from the poem instead.

Henceforth,” Ask not what poetry is,
you yourself are a poem, my son,”
sang the voice of the Lord.

O Poet, O, the specialist of thoughts,
may be one day, I shall know
what it means to be a poem.


Copyright 2006 Bhuwan Thapaliya