The Lake Fewa, An Unfinished Poem


From the shoulder of a hill

from a garden restaurant where

exhausted tourists lie, massaging

hysteric limbs of a nightmare,

from dingy tea-shop

of a grandma, crying from

the smoke of her charred dreams,

from the balcony

of a hut where a blonde Buddhist nun

sleeps with a local drug addict,

from Naudada,

from Lumle, from the luminous sheets

of the windows of a racing car

or like a despot

of once a famished principality, Sarangkot,

from an airplane

with nose of snobbery ticking

the gleaming summits of fishtail

from the colorful pages

of a coffee table book,

from the fury of the goddess

who created the lake to avenge

the unkind inhabitants of the valley,

from the sunken sockets

of a porter’s eyes where

magnificent draggers of Himal have grown,

from the obscene columns

of a magazine on frozen peaks of Himal,

printed from the evil ink donated

by some treacherous NGO,

from the bedroom of trekking couple,

about to reach an orgasm in unison,

from the bleeding eye of a folksinger

in love with local Sahu’s daughter,

from the prow of a ferry

scurrying over surface to measure its secrets,

from the tip of the fishtail

where lamblike sun bounces defunct,

from the unfinished draft

of this poem that I tear off

to look at the blue

of the Eye-lake, Fewa.

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