SkyTrain

A. S. Pradhan | July 13, 2015

The SkyTrain is

less of a transit mode

than a miniature world,

full of surprises. The daily

commute opens up a new

vista; rarely do I see

the same face. This

pretty woman, a stranger,

seated across the aisle,

keeps staring at me

through her 
stylish sunglasses,

with a disarming smile,

her face bright and smooth

as porcelain,

like a white rose 
in a thorny bush.

Feeling awkward, but
being the polite man that I am,
I smile back,
looking right into her eyes.

When the train approaches
the next stop, she gets up

from her seat,

still staring at me

with charming smile.
Wondering if we have
met before, if I know
her from somewhere,

I get up, too, without
realizing why I even got up.

She then gathers her bag

and, to my surprise, 
unfolds a cane.
Then I realize why she
is staring at me as I see
her guide dog, ready
to lead her out

safely into the world.
I sit back, feeling
blindingly stupid.

Read more...

The Perspective

Ajay Pradhan | June 28, 2015

From the giddy height

Of the mountain top

You look at the town

Far below down.

With no trace of grace

On your vein face

That's full of smug frown

You look around.

You think of human race

Far behind your pace

That lives in that town

As merely clown.

And above them all

With a heart full of gall

You think you stand tall

And the rest can fall.

With a swooning head

And a swelling chest  

With sighted eyes

But like clouded skies.

With a murky mind

And thoughts too blind

What do you find

But perspective misaligned?

You think you bear

Power extraordinaire

Deem yourself of great renown

The one with the dazzling crown.

So you look below

And think as though

With a smirk on your lips

And a mind out of grips.

That all men below there

Are beneath you, for sure.

And  your ego bloats

And your mind gloats.

You think you're

Master of all

The rest of them

Just too small.

But, oh, omnipotent

You let your ego float

Wrap your mind under a coat

And forget to take an important note.

Those men down

Below in the town

When they look up

At the mountain top.

They don't see you at all

For them you're too small

They have a different perspective

Maybe your view is defective.

Read more...

Revolution or Nightmare?

A. S. Pradhan | June 17, 2015

At a time of turmoil,

violent demonstrating crowd

in the street outside

In a pitch dark night.
Unrelenting crowd against
unrelenting ruler.

The husband, the wife

and their baby girl

huddled

in the ground-floor room,

scared for safety. 

Their own breathing

seemed amplified

through megaphone.

The room,

separate from the main house,

that fronted the open yard

of the residential compound

with walls,

but missing gate.

It was a small world

of the young couple

And their little baby.
His world. Almost violated.

Gunshots pierce

the night air,

dispersing the mass

of demonstrators.

A strident crowd

break from the mass

and entered the compound,

shouting, screaming,

then kicking at the door.
Chest thumping,
heart pounding.
Panicking.

Were they seeking

safe shelter?

Or were they

looking to kill?

Who knew!

The man,

scared to death,

had one mission:

To save his young family.

To save his world.

Fearing the door

would be broken in,

He pushed the sofa against it

Shutting the revolting crowd

Out of his small world.

It seemed like an eon

When finally the crowd left

Leaving the small world

The young family called home.

They said, it was revolution

For the young family

It was

a fearful nightmare.
Lasting, etched in mind.

Note: Based on real events of 1991 People's Movement in Kathmandu.

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Sufi Song: Ballad of Mahua Pokhari

A. S. Pradhan | June 17, 2015

Man:
A hundred stormy seas
A hundred-thousand miles
Shall I gladly cross, my love
To come see your smile

Woman:
No tall promises I need
Nor do I want a big deed
All I beseech you, my dear
Is take my hand and lead

Man:
A thousand different hamlets
A thousand miles apart
Will look for you in each, my dear
Until my life does depart

Woman:
For hundred years shall I wait
Look for you from morning until late
At the door of my father’s house
Until you come brighten my fate

Man:
A hundred stormy seas, my love
A hundred-thousand miles
Shall I gladly cross, my love
Just to come see your smile

Woman:
Sing to me this our own ballad
Until I turn hundred years old
And I’ll sing you a duet of love
That for thousand cows cannot be sold

Man and Woman:
Will cross a hundred stormy seas
Will travel a hundred-thousand miles, my love
And come back to this Mahua Tree
And beneath it, will sing again our ballad of love

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The Luminous Lace

A. S. Pradhan | June 17, 2015

The moon comes up after the sun goes down.

Waits for her turn every night.

Knows and accepts her rightful time,

with a face that’s cheerful and bright.

The poor moon has no other choice, right?

She lays no claim for any other right.

No complaint about why the bright day isn’t hers,

as it is for all others.

Or, she’s not allowed to emerge and play and splurge

in the bright sunshine. She doesn’t whine

nor complain, nor ever shows any pain.

The moon isn’t poor; she’s patient and more.

Happily, the moon makes the most of what she gets:

The nightly black velvet. So delicate.

With love and care, and diligence that’s rare

she does covet and decorate,

with luminous lace, and half hidden face,

that enchants with awe, as if by law

the children of earth who’ve taken birth.

She teases and pleases, the pain that she eases.

The moon isn’t poor; she’s ingenious and a doer.

Whether its April, May or June,

the moon makes the Sun take his own turn,

and that she’s wise, not letting him rise up in the skies

until it’s time for the moon sublime

to take her rest and go to her nest.

The moon isn’t poor; she’s got many a lesson and lore.

The full moon, the half moon, the crescent moon.

And when it’s time for renewal, the new moon.

But never a tired moon, nor ever a whining moon.

So, why do we, the other children of earth, celebrate the birth

of our own device when it’s only nice,

but when it’s tough and the going is rough

do we so complain and the injustice we feign

if we’re behind in line? For moon, it’s just fine.

The moon isn’t poor; she’s got lessons in store.

Criticize you must when there’s no basis for trust.

But when it’s not your turn, patience you can’t burn,

Learn from the moon, you’ll get your turn soon

If you go with your pace, to take your own place

With dignity and grace.

If only the gift that you embrace

Adorn with own luminous lace.

You’re not poor; ‘cause you’ve learned the moon’s lore.


Note:
This is a free-verse with unmetered structure. The moon is a metaphor for the children of earth, that is, we, men, women and children. The message it carries is one of patience, dignity, and ingeniousness--virtues that we often forget when we relate with each others.

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Reclaiming Identity by the Water's Edge

A.S. Pradhan | June 14, 2015

I'm going today to the water's edge
To a secluded spot behind the hedge
To meet with someone I haven't seen
Since when I was barely a teen

The rat race has kept him busy
Finding time has never been easy
With goals set high wherever he went
Working hard but rarely content

One dream achieved, another arrived
The daily grind, no pleasure derived
Morning, noon and night ended
With heart's desire unattended

Now we only care for things blue chip
Always on the go for one-upmanship
We've become strangers with little time
Yet embrace strangers if they have dime

I wonder if he'll today recognize me
If he'll remember the Mahua tree
Where as little boys we played and rested
Those little pleasures have now been bested

We've come far from years ago
Can't get those years back, we all know
Years ago I was him and he was me
Inseparable, we let the world just be

People now look at me like a big shot
But my identity has vanished in a melting pot
So today I reached the water's edge
Just to be reminded of my youthful days

He was already there, sitting under a tree
It looked like he was eager and free
Upon hearing me arrive, when he turned to me
I was staring at the stranger that was me

So, by the water's edge today
In the banks of English Bay
I talked with a stranger that once was me
And I reclaimed my identity


Note:
Have you ever lost your identity? Have you seen it vanish in the melting pot? Then go to the water's edge, have a little conversation with yourself, and reclaim it and find yourself again.

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Memories Forever to Hold

Note: Written in memory of my father for Father's Day, June 21, 2015.

Ajay Pradhan | June 12, 2015

When I look at the morning Sun
And go for walks, with so much fun
Or stand in the shadows of tall fir trees
Enjoying the vista and the fresh cool breeze
I miss the sweet home my father built
And I miss the wise words he spoke with lilt

When in summers I go to beach
And watch the gulls that swoop to reach
For a fish in waters from a school
As I stand with my feet in a sandy pool 
I miss the fishing trips my father took me on
And remember hauling in bagful of prawn

When in late summer I bide my time
And sing a song without trying to rhyme
And when I look at the clear blue sky
And see the hawks and eagles fly
I miss the festive season of Dashain
My father teaching me kite-flying

When by SkyTrain I commute to work
Sometimes I see an officer, sometimes a clerk
And when I see the world go by
Beautiful sights that please the eye
I miss the train ride my father took me on
To my village of Chandranagar on winter vacation 

When I go for a hike to the distant hill
And sometimes see a churning water mill
And when I tread down a solitary trail
Enjoying the pine trees and their spicy smell
I miss the exciting stories my father told
These are loving memories forever to hold 

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The Meaning of Life

Ajay Pradhan | June 7, 2015

You've toured the world
You've traveled far
You've done your
Whole nine yards
But, son, have you 
Seen your own backyard?

You've given it your go
You've learned to say your yes and no
You've savored the mirth and joy
And earned life's great glory
But, son, have you read
Your mother's own story?

You've earned a name
You've overcome the bane
You've done your deed
To secure a lasting legacy
But, son, will that all mean much
To those who are saddled with penury? 

You've scaled the height
You've got success on your side
You've made the mark of your life
For the world to admire
But, son, when you're all alone
Do you think about the meaning of life?

Read more...

Motherland: Longing and Belonging

By Ajay Pradhan | Oct. 26, 2013 | May 4, 2015

Musky winds, this dewy night
Took my mind to a soaring height
Eyes wide shut, as they say
On the clouds, there I lay
Searching again for some light
Seeing nothing, but a nimble sprite.
From the misty lair high above, I looked down
Bejeweled like a bride, I saw my town.
There the mountains stood, donning white caps
And the valleys lay, with welcoming laps.
Come back, my son, they whispered from down there
Wander no more, you belong nowhere but here.
The moment of truth and of longing
Came rushing in torrents, too overwhelming.

Oct. 26, 2013

Note:

I wrote this poem in Oct. 2013 and posted on social media. At the time, I had suspended Humanature Journal from the public view. Now that I have reactivated it, I'm posting this poem for you all.

This metaphorical poem is evocative of Kathmandu, the city I grew up in. The "bejeweled bride" is the metaphor I used for Kathmandu, the "mountains" and "valleys" for the fathers and mothers in Nepal and "musky winds", "clouds" and "misty lair high above", the metaphors for Canada. The poem echoes the motherland's call for its children to "wander no more" and come home from abroad as they, the sons and daughters, "belong nowhere but" there in Nepal. I wrote it in the moments of intense longing for our motherland.

Given the devastation from the earthquake of April 25th, the wellspring of emotions has opened wide and in full force. The sense of longing and belonging is no stronger ever before than at this time of national disaster. I hope this poem is more relevant now than when I wrote it a year-and-a-half ago.


May 4, 2015

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Ghost From the Last Century

Ajay Pradhan | October 12, 2013

On the phone, she said, "I'll be there"

He replied, "Can't wait to see you"

Each excited, thinking of the other.

She arrived in a gleaming red sedan

He came by a rusty horse-driven cart

Her midriff-baring glittery Versace gown

Unmatched by his faded raw cottons

She walked by, her body undulating

The fragrance of her Chanel Coco Noir

Leaving his senses intoxicated in its wake

Unnoticed, but unfazed, he followed her

Wondering if she didn't notice him

Or simply played a joke and ignored him.

As he approached her from behind

He saw the doorman usher her into a theater

By the door, he saw a sign that said

"By invitation only: Premier of a love story

Spanning two centuries, a young woman in love

With a ghost that belonged to the past--

The Ghost from the Last Century."

Alongside was a picture of none but

The woman in Versace looking into the eyes

Of a man, no one else but himself.

Perplexed, he turned around

And looked into the mirror on the wall.
He saw the reflection of the doorman
And of the woman in Versace;
But he saw no reflection of himself.

Oct. 12, 2013

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The Prisoner and His Moon

Ajay Pradhan | March 28, 2014

Incarcerated for life

within the impenetrable walls,
bound by rules of law
that he has but grudgingly accepted,
sat the lonely prisoner
waiting for his daily ritual
that brought him some happiness
mindful of blissful days.
Like last night, as every night,
today he sat and raised his head
his eyes set beyond
the tiny window
set high up on the wall
and gazed at the immense sky,
waiting to see in the far distance
the one true pleasure of his life,
the sight of the shining moon,
beyond the bounds, true,
blissful sight, nevertheless.

Read more...

The Deceiving Light

Ajay Pradhan

November 27, 2010

In the cold darkness of the night, 

she wandered and got lost.

Flickering light from a distant lamp

beckoned her in the nightly gust. 

With hope, towards it she rushed,
flapping her lustrous, mottled wings;
only to meet with her lurking death
on the hot surface of the porch lamp.
In the end, it was light, not darkness,
that deceived the poor butterfly.

 

Note:
Inspiration to write this poem came when I was at a hotel in Winnipeg, Manitoba at a wintry night (Yeah, in winters, people call the city Winterpeg) in 2010. I was there for a training at the University of Manitoba. The city was covered with thick blanket of snow. I was done for the day and was back at my hotel. It was a little too early to go to bed. So, I stood by the window and took in the wintry view. I saw a lamp post, with moths hovering around the light, some of them falling dead apparently due to the hot light bulb.

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Nepal Shall Rise Again

By Ajay Pradhan | May 2, 2015

A quake that struck
In a land that's far
Where the earth that shook
As in times of war

Oh, the Nature's power
Reduced to rubbles
The Dharahara Tower
And magnificent temples

Many a small houses
And buildings tall
Crumbled and collapsed
Crushing helpless souls

All that I could do
Was watch, horrified
With a heart that broke
And a mind, terrified

The chest that heaved
The throat that choked
Knees that wobbled
And tears that flowed

Distressed for the safety
Of the loved ones there
After many a frantic calls
Did I learn, safe they were all

But a week has passed, and
The heart is in desolation
As the more that I learn
Of the terrible devastation

Such is the pain
In the fragile heart
And unsettling agony
In mind's every part

From the nation in pain
I feel bad that I am far
But my motherland is always
Right in my heart

Though shaken is my soul
And my broken heart cries
I know that it'll heal again
As surely shall Nepal rise

Note: 

I am reactivating "Humanature Journal" blog after a hiatus of five years. Last week's major earthquake in Nepal has opened a floodgates of emotions in me, which I think and hope will become expressed through my words.

I had closed the blog from the public for personal and professional reasons in 2010. I have retained some of the blog entries from until 2010 and I have removed from public view many others.

In the coming days, I will post on this blog some other pieces I wrote and posted on social media during the hiatus in the coming days.

Read more...

A Small Step

By Ajay Pradhan | March 27, 2009

She walks across
a busy street
crowded with pigeons
not knowing
that a pair of protective eyes
watching her
intent to sweep her up,
lift up,
fly her to a place
set on cloud.
Is he her god of salvation?
Or her god from heaven?
Once across the street
she turns around
pauses
with a smile
on her face
she raises her hand
to the man looking
down upon her.
It isn't her god
of salvation,
nor is he
her god from heaven.
For her, it is
more than any god,
it is her father who
lets her cross
the street
for the first time,
under his watchful eyes,
with a sense of pride
in his heart,
that he just let his little girl
take a small step to
learning
the paths of her life.

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Serendipity

By Ajay Pradhan | September 19, 2008

When he looked
She saw
When he saw
She smiled
When he smiled
She felt
When he felt
She knew
When he knew
She loved
When he loved
It was serendipity

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Time to Say Goodbye

By Ajay Pradhan | September 15, 2008

I sent you a red rose in a bottle
With a message of love that is true
Not knowing how so very little
It would bear any meaning to you

I sent you my smile with the Sun
And love that is everlasting and deep
Not knowing how you'd spurn
The gift of love I sent wrapped in leaf

I sent you my best wishes with the birds
Wishes for a day and a year full of happiness
But amidst the wishes of many a shepherds
Mine evaporated with some rapidness

I sent you my love every single day
For that's only what I had left to give
But sadly you pushed my love away
It seems you only wanted me to leave

My heart's still for you, full of love and desire
Love and caring's still what I have left to give
But my love is no longer what you seem to require
So, it's now time to say goodbye and leave

Read more...

When a Kiss was More than Just a Kiss

By Ajay Pradhan | Sept. 5, 2008

He returned
She looked

He paused
She waited

He smiled
She sighed

He held her
She held her breath

He kissed her
And she swooned and melted

Someone clicked
And the world saw

























Note:
This is probably the most famous picture in history of a man kissing a woman. The man was a sailor, the woman a nurse, the place was the Times Square in New York City, and the day was the V-J Day on August 14, 1945. The day was the celebration of Japan's surrender in the World War II. The man and the woman did not know each other. The identity of the kissers have been speculated but still remains a mystery. Besides the crowd cheering the exuberant sailer and the surprised nurse, there was a third person in that scene that day. That person was Alfred Eisenstaedt, a Life magazine's photographer who shot this iconic picture of celebration, exhileration, relief, joy and victory.

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Picasso of Poetry

Ajay Pradhan
August 6, 2008

Abstract, her metaphors
Meanings deep under layers
Like an object of art in stupor
More profound than Monet's colors

Abstract, her poetic diction
Only to those who dare to know
Meanings more fluid than non-fiction
Like ebbing waves reveal and show

Abstract, her lucid mind
That hides something behind
Like Picasso's cubism artistry
Indeed, she's Picasso of Poetry

Note:
The image is Picasso's famous 1932 oil painting Le Rêve (The Dream, in French).
The painting sold for $48.4 million in 1997 and was the sixth most expensive painting ever sold at the time. In 2006, the painting's owner agreed to sell it for $139 million but before it was sold, Steve Wynn, the owner, accidentally damaged it by his elbow. If it had been sold at that price, the painting would have been the most expensive painting ever sold. After the painting was repaired, it was was evaluated to be worth $85 million.

Read more about Le Rêve on Wikipedia

The following image is not a painting by Picasso. It is a still from an animation short in which Picasso encounters his painting subjects.

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Suffused with Love

By Ajay Pradhan | July 29, 2008

As mist lifts
figures of speech glow,
drawing attention
to a mind in turmoil,
and making it obvious
the meaning behind.
Observer asks,
halcyon a charade?
King a drama?
A part of him
already dead;
he has no strength
to stage a drama
or a charade;
halcyon, king
any name you give him,
he waits, with hope
for the return of
his crested soulmate,
in whose eyes
he finds his world;
and whose absence
has made him pensive,
has made him feel
a deep sense of loss,
and deeper sense of sorrow.
But, he's there
with hope intact,
his heart suffused
with nothing but love.

Read more...

Kingfisher's Love

By Ajay Pradhan | July 24, 2008

He was a Common Kingfisher
she, a lovely Crested Bulbul;
when he first met her
he heard a calling
that came from his heart
and so he followed it
and did what it told him to do -
he began to love her.

Four seasons ago,
his love had pulled her to him
she'd flown to his little nest
from ten thousand miles away
from a faraway place
where apples grew big
and trees were taller
than anywhere else on earth.

Kingfisher's love for Bulbul
grew deeper each new day;
his love for her was unbounded
when it was his turn to fly to her in Spring,
he flew in sea storm, against all odds
yet he crossed seven seas
to be with his beloved Bulbul
because he loved her deeply, dearly.

Now four seasons later
the day had returned,
that he'd hoped would be
their first anniversary, that he'd
hoped would be a milestone
that'd see them fly into their future,
side by side and together
high up in the blue sky.

Sadly for Common Kingfisher
the anniversary was not to be
the milestone that never was
arrived, but without Bulbul's love
he'd followed his heart, but she followed
her dreams to the land of big apples
where Common Kingfisher had no place
where an Uncommon Heron held her dreams.

Perched alone on a tree branch,
part of him dead, pensive Kingfisher
looked around at the vast emptiness
and tears rolled from his eyes
lonely and feeling unloved, yet grateful
to Bulbul for lifetime's fondest memories
Kingfisher still followed the same calling
heartbroken, yet he kept on loving "his" Bulbul.

Note:




The inspiration to write this poem came to me very strangely... from two birds, actually. I think one was a Common Kingfisher (top photo) and the other was a Crested Bulbul (bottom photo). For the last one year or so, almost every day, the two birds came to my house ... always in the evening time. They'd always stay perched on the deck railings or window ledge or the roof, always together... playing. They'd stay there for about half an hour or so and then fly away, only to return the next day. But, recently... for the last one month or so, I have only seen the Kingfisher, not the Bulbul. I don't know where the Bulbul has gone. But, Kingfisher still comes every evening and just sits there, sometimes on the railings, sometimes on the ledge and sometimes on the roof… just sitting, not playing. I think the Kingfisher comes there in the hope that the Bulbul would return one day. The sight of the pensive and lonely Kingfisher is so sad that it prompted me to sit down and write this poem at this late hour of the night... or very early in the morning. This poem is dedicated to the Bulbul who has gone missing. (Photo courtesy: Unknown)

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