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When we are young, we all are poets, when we become old we all are philosophers. There are exceptions, people remain poets all their life, and some are philosophers from the beginning, and there are those who are poet and the philosopher, philosopher and the poet.
Poetry comes from the heart and philosophy seeps out of our mind. We learn to unfold our mind when we grow older and then our heart rapidly becomes weak.
Sometimes I’m amused at how much poetic and philosophical we are in our everyday life. Once a friend of mind said something that surprised me a lot. He said: Have you ever tried taking yourself out of you and look at yourself from that place (he pointed at the coffee mug). This guy had never read poetry or philosophy; actually he had never read books apart from his school and college textbooks.
The senryu I present here are the actual words uttered during everyday conversations between the father and the child (that’s me).
My father said to me:
I was seeking pleasure
Already trodden wrong path
Cannot be corrected
Can you, father
Mother, father and the child
I remember the time when everything crashed. The following day, I packed my rucksack and took a bus. During the 12 hours journey, I began thinking about possibilities.I saw my father’s farm.
I came here to be lost
I found myself
Father and the child were talking about the social problems women in Nepal faced and the new law about “marital rape.”
“Inner consolidation,” the father said and paused for a while. The child completed the sentence.
Fresh wounds of new mothers
That would be treated between men's legs
Father! You were someone there
How often do you converse with your father?
My ancestors had helped the Ghurkha King by giving money, during the unification of Nepal in the 18th century. They fought against the autocratic rule in 1950. One day my father was showing me a copy of a document that stated the facts and he suddenly said:
A terrible life being a legend
You are dead
Long before you die
A Publication had accepted his manuscript, but my father retired from the city and went to live in his farm. He has another book about political history of Nepal but he doesn’t want to forward the manuscript to a publication. He has aborted brilliant ideas for fictions and non-fictions. “Have you ever thought yourself as an agriculturist?” I asked. He answered: A gardener...
Burrows time to create an identity
Wants the time to stop
Tomatoes are ripe
© 2011 Vinaya Ghimire