Many Nepalis put great stock in bravery, seeing no irony in praising the bloodlust of Gurkhas in the same breath as they claim for themselves the apostle of non-violence, Gautam Buddha.
Many Nepalis put great stock in bravery, seeing no irony in praising the bloodlust of Gurkhas in the same breath as they claim for themselves the apostle of non-violence, Gautam Buddha.
All Nepalis are poets at heart. How could they not be, living in this terrible contusion of the sublime and the second-rate? So every day is poetry day in Nepal, even if someone, somewhere, deemed 21 March to be World Poetry Day and we feel bad we missed it. We’ll make up for it. To […]
On 20 February this year, the eighth-grade students of East Horizon English Higher Secondary School in Jhapa found their language teacher, Rekha Ma’am, seated amongst them. That day, our team of four weary Word Warriors was taking on her role. After 16 long hours on a night bus from Kathmandu, we decided to throw our […]
Weave then, weave o quickly weave your sham veneration. Knit me webs of winter sagehood, nightcap, and the fungoid sequins of a crown. – Wole Soyinka Dear Sirs, I wish you’d arrived sooner. I’ve been waiting since 1983. HQ sent a notice of disapproval. A 7-year-old, they wrote, has scant need to speak […]
When I have a daughter, I will pinch her every day so her skin turns to rhino hide – so she feels no pain when cornered by a stranger’s hand at play. When I have a daughter, I will lash her with my tongue – so she is ready for it when someone […]
1. I knew a man who was made from echoes of all the men I knew before him. He thought it was fate, and as I lay for the first time with my head in the familiar groove between his shoulder and chest, I let him marvel at how well I understood him. […]
Daddy Wears White After letting the receiver hang Precariously from the table You had gone up to the roof I had already seen the watery edges Before I heard the echoing question on the phone The last time you cried, I pointed at the stars And said “Look, everyone we love, takes our pictures from […]
MORNING SONGS Raindrops rest on golden waves, She tugs and pulls with an ivory comb. Coffee brews in the kitchen, She hums an old Celtic tune. Curtains drenched in warm orange light, The oak trees sigh on 9th Avenue. She plucks a rhododendron from the forest, She hums an old jhyāurey tune. […]
Nothing wears its cape of spring like
the magnolia tree in their yard does
after waking from the naked ugliness
of its gnarled, rough stumps of winter…
