Pioneer poet revisited

By L B Thapa 

Bhanubhakta Acharya is a luminous star of Nepali literature. He was an outstanding poet, who dedicated his entire life to enriching Nepali literature. Perhaps Bhanubhakta is the only littérateur of Nepali literature whose literary reputation has been well established both at home and in several parts of India.

Bhanubhakta’s life was not a bed of roses. He did face several trials and tribulations in his life, but nothing could deter him from his mission to contribute to the Nepali literature. He remained active throughout his life to enrich it. We can learn a lot from his life.

Bhanubhakta, son of Dhananjaya Acharya, was born in Chundi Beshi of Ramgha in 1814. This village lies in the Tanahun district in Gandaki zone. A voracious reader, he was quite a handsome boy but very different from his friends. He was not interested in sports and preferred to be always alone. Nevertheless, he had immense love and interest in nature and he could communicate with it. Later on, when he began writing poetry, he was truly inspired by nature.

Bhanubhakta was a prolific writer. He had such creative ability that he could even turn general conversation into a melodious poem. This kind of talent is very rare in any human being but he had such ability right from childhood. He wrote many poems but, unfortunately, today we do not have all of this writings. In fact, we have lost most of his exclusive poems. It has been assumed that Bhanubhakta wrote a lot of poems between 1769 and 1846.

As a young poet, Bhanubhakta went to India once to buy books and to meet his old literary camaraderie. He spent a few months in Banaras and then returned to Kathmandu. When he arrival, he was overwhelmed by Kathmandu’s beauty. He was fascinated at seeing beautiful temples, neat and clean streets, exclusive handicrafts, big markets, crowds of people, beautiful houses and palaces etc.

The beauty of Kathmandu had captured the very heart and soul of the young poet. He at once decided to reside in Kathmandu to pursue a career in writing. One of his friends came out to help him who made an arrangement to stay in a room in the house of Dharmadutta, a famous astrologer at that time. He came in touch with many learned people of Kathmandu. They were all acquainted with the writings of each other and it directly, or indirectly, benefited Bhanubhakta.

While staying in Kathmandu, Bhanubhakta was informed of a lawsuit against him at his village. He had to get back to his village, Ramgha, as early as possible. It was only at his village where he learnt about the lawsuit.

His neighbour, Giridhari Bhat, had never liked Bhanubhakata or his poems from the very beginning. Giridhari was also a drunkard and gambler. On many occasions, Bhanubhakta had done his best to show Giridhari the right path and had tried to persuade him to stay away from such bad company and look after this wife and children. But Giridhari had not paid any attention to Bhanubhakta’s advice.

It was Giridhari, who had made a petition at the court demanding that he get his land back from Bhanubhakta. Giridhari said Bhanubhakta had taken his land by force. The poet talked to Giridhari and tried to reach a compromise with him. But Giridhari refused to make reconciliation. Then Bhanubhakta decided to face the charges before the court.

Bhanubhakta returned to Kathmandu and once again got down to his work. He had no job that could fetch him regular income in Kathmandu. His friends managed a job for him in the accounts department of Shri-3 commander-in-Chief General Krishna Bahadur Junga Rana in 1835. His new job fetched him a handsome salary that kept him afloat. Now, Bhanubhakta dedicated himself to writing poetry. Everything was all right when all of a sudden something went terribly wrong. Unfortunately, Bhanubhakta failed to submit official accounts in time. He was accused of embezzlement that put him in a prison for five months.

His every effort to prove himself unaccountable for the embezzlement of official money turned out to be in vain when he was finally incarcerated. In fact, Bhanubhakta’s reputation was tainted but still he was confident that one day he would be released with dignity and the real culprit would be caught.

Bhanubhakta wrote poems even in prison. One day he asked for a pen and a piece of paper and a guard brought them to him. He then wrote a poem to the Shri-3 Commander- in-Chief who called for his release from the prison.

Bhanubhakta wrote and compiled Ayodhyakanda, Kiskindha Kanda and Sunder Kanda when he was in prison. In the same year he had to perform Bartabandha of his son, Ramnath.

He wrote another letter to Rana, requesting him to allow him to do the Bartabandha of his son. This time he succeeded in convincing Rana and ordered for his release for one week so that he could perform his son’s Bartabandha. He performed the Bartabandha and then returned to Kathmandu to complete the remaining days in prison. During his stay in prison, he also wrote Youdha Kanda and Uttara Kanda, thus he completed the Ranayana in verse form. Bhanubhakta wrote Bhaktamala and Prashnotara thereafter. In 1836 Bhanubhakta wrote another book of verse called Badhusikchha.

Due to his very poor health, he was unable to write at all, so he called his son to write the translation for him. Bhanubhakta dictated, and Ramnath wrote down, what his father told him; finally the translated work was finished. Bhanubhakta died in 1868.

If we look into Bhanubhakta’s writings, we find that he had made a careful choice of words while writing poems, which are simple, lucid, and easy to understand.

Bhanubhakta is honoured with the title Aadi Kavi (the first poet), who has occupied an outstanding place in the Nepali literature no other littérateurs have ever attained.

Office Office

By Damaru Lal Bhandari 

Deep down the book under review is assuredly a glowing tribute to the Pankaj Kapoor sit com which goes by the name of Office Office and is known for depicting the hydra of corruption in public life in India to a remarkable degree indeed.

However, the writer of the book has tended to analyse the menace rather than come out with any melodramatic presentation of corruption which of course has tended to render the world around us as more and more a dirty place and fit only for embezzlers and confidence tricksters.

The writer begins by saying what comprises corruption by mentioning in passing the perceptions of the onlookers who could but don’t bother to change the world around them. Interestingly, he has taken pains to find out for the rest of us as to what the leading figures in their domain had to say when it comes to define corruption.

The importance of the book lies in the fact that it does not merely lament the immediate fallout of the menace but also outlines what impact will it have in the long run. Of course those who have been left to bribe their way out by shelling out hard earned money would already know what corruption is and how has it changed their lives. Then there are people who have eked out fabulous life fleecing whoever comes to them. Misinformation, influence-peddling, sycophancy, butlerism and so on and so forth are some of the words which certainly are hallmark of the system since long back.

Which brings us to the legal mechanism evolved over years but which has still failed in a spectacular way. So much so that the writer has rightly mentioned that these things have ended up encouraging corruption in its own way.

Meanwhile the writer also says and perhaps rightly that the practice of punishing the wrongdoers and rewarding the one who has done well in not put into practice. Which means the world around us still belongs to the vile guys while the people who burn themselves out are left out in the cold. Interestingly, whatever happens rather quickly has all the indication of certain give and take. For example while anyone who aspires to procure a driving licence many have to wait for a long time in, say, Hong Kong, the same can be arranged by bribing the right cop here. Well isn’t it funny and at the same time painful too?

The writer has presented a classic case of how even well-meaning people somehow or the other come under the shadow of doubt under quintessential circumstances. The case in point is the one which involves disinvesting a certain parastatal in which a certain officer happens to pick up a company which is a multinational but has offered less than the other one which is an unknown entity. In this case awarding the company to the first would be taken as a surefire case of corruption.

Unless the officer in question is bold enough to have his way, it is likely that he may have to give way to what corrupt colleagues suggest and pick up the seedy company under seedy circumstances. The punch however lies in the fact that the well meaning officer is likely to face corruption charges if he happens to pick up the multinational since the wolves in the offices and in higher places are likely to believe that he had sold himself away for a song (sic).

The writer has also suggested ways in which the rot could somehow be done away with given political and societal commitment. In fact, the book is a serious effort by the local standard since it deals with the issue from even different perspective even as it cites enough anecdotes. Of course he has, among others, pinpointed at the need to redefine the role of anti-graft agencies for any appreciable change in the anomalous behaviour of a large number of people in our largely corrupt society.

The ‘symbolic’ poet

By Dr shiba datta gnawali 

Born in Dublin on June 3, 1865, William Butler Yeats was one of the greatest English poets, who always hammered his thoughts into unity. His wide and varied contribution to the art and craft of writing has paved the way for the perfection of modern English poetry. His life and poetry are inextricably interwoven. It is, therefore, impossible to understand his poetry without the knowledge of the events of his life.

Many people played a very important role in his life and work. The most famous among them was Maud Gonne who was a source of inspiration for his subject matter. It is believed that it was his meeting with her at the age of 23 that transformed Yeats into a great love poet. He always carried in his heart the image of this beautiful woman Maud Gonne but she did not care for his "butterfly-talk"; she thought it out of character. He never succeeded to win her heart. After marriage too, he was not free from his personal worries. As a result " A Vision" was born. The poet was not happy, yet because of his old age. So out of his dissatisfaction, he wrote his best poems such as, The Tower, Byzantium, Sailing to Byzantium etc. In search of peace, he went to India and pondered over the Upanishad. He developed a new philosophical ambition, according to said by him, "To plunge myself into impersonal poetry, to get rid of the bitterness, irritation and hate my work in Ireland has brought into my soul. I want to make a last song, sweet and excellent, a short of European Geeta, or rather my Geeta, not doctrine but song".

Yeats has also been considered as a great symbolic poet. His obscure symbols used in his poetry are taken from his occult studies. He not only chose them for reasons of fitness and harmony, but also to stand for more than themselves and arouse a flock of associations in the mind of readers. Yeats also used different symbols in his later poetry to make the poems more mysterious and powerful.

Ireland was the moulder of his mind, which eventually became the sounding board for most of his verse and the great stimulating impact on his life. But despite being Irish, he became a perfect English poet and writer. Perhaps that strange territory, that phantasmagoria, was his rich possession of poetry; and for it the English critics very quickly claimed a Celtic Kingdom.

Yeats was the greatest figure of the age. He owed much to Ireland, as Ireland Awed much to him, but he was a world poet as well as an Irish was recognized in 1923 when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature. His poetic career started in the 1880’s and ended in the latter part of the 1930’s. He died on January 28th, 1939. Praising his poetic power, T.S Eliot called him "The greatest poet of our time- certainly the greatest in his language, and so far I can judge, in any language".

No poet in that period has written more about his family, his friends and himself than Yeats and no one has been more successful in enlarging them to heroic proportions. He drew upon their memories, mingled personal symbolism with them, and created in the process of Homeric simplicity, which conveyed his regard and respect for his friends.

Yeats was, no doubt, the greatest love poet of the 20th century. All his creative works are marked with fine poetic touches. The principal themes, apart from love, in his poetry are the philosophy, the nature of history, and the idea of rebirth and transmigration of souls. Politics, philosophy, mysticism, mythology, thoughts, occultism, symbolism, magic, the Irish Literary Renaissance and his personal beliefs and many other things are mingled with each other in his poetry. He was convinced with the principle that absolute beauty could be created only through the use of symbolism. Religion, which purified his inner life, was symbolism.

In an age of bitter turmoil, Yeats continuously marched forward to achieve artistic perfection until the last moment of his life. The greatness of his achievement lies in the fact that he was able to bridge the gulf between romanticism and modernism. What one admires in Yeats’ poetry is, in fact, not its mystery, its magic or even its atmosphere, but its passion, its humanity, its occasional marvelous lucidity, its technical mastery, its integrity, its strength, its reality and its opportunism.

Yeats was very sincere in his expression. He wrote about what he believed in. What distinguished Yeats from other writers was not so much his power of self-criticism as his realism. For him art was greater than the artist. There is no doubt, it was Maud Gonne who made Yeats a true poet and who filled his life with inspiration. Actually, his hopeless love for Maud Gonne led him to reality. She transformed him into a great love poet. What was remarkable about his whole career was his sustained power of development. He was a non-stop writer. As his poetic confidence became forceful he also drew his theme from divergent sources. Thus, his poetic power increased like the full moon.

The stream of Yeats’ romantic twilight was interrupted by his "public life" . The development was the result of three main influences: the influence on him of certain changes in the social life that took place during his life and that of his friends; the influence of his interest in magic; the influence on him of symbolic theories of poetry. The more he advanced ahead, the better became his poetry. His limited sources became divergent and his poetry became more forceful, more rigorous, more passionate, more imaginative, more naked and more confident. He was not only in contact with the literary movement of his time but he was also deeply involved with people who made it. Through his poetic caliber he went on renewing his poems as per the demand of his talent.

Yeats was not a flower that could flourish on foreign soil. His inspiration ultimately depended upon the roots he had formed in Ireland, and he expressed the hope and beliefs that the end of his life would be as full of Irish activities as the start of it. All his life he was subjected to mentors, sometimes younger than himself, who supplied the deficiencies in his stock of philosophy, connoisseurship, stagecraft or mystical experience.

On the whole, we can say that Yeats was the greatest poet of his time. He led the Irish Literary Revival, a movement of late 1800’s and early 1900’s that stimulated new appreciation of traditional Irish literature. He developed elaborated theories about history as a recurring cycle of events. He also expressed his personal views about history and life through the use of old Irish tales and the facts and legends of Irish history. Until his last breath, Yeats continuously wrote better poetry. His last poems written before his death are unforgettable for their grandeur. Some of his last poems could be obscure but they are dominated by their supreme quality. As a young man, he garnished a paucity of ideas with a great deal of mysticism. As an old man, hard, bright and clear in intellect, he had no need to garnish nor for circumlocution.

Yeats’ poems are all weighted with thought. They all have a strong intellectual appeal. They are the products of a philosophical mind. The poet is an erudite man and the readers should be able to comprehend his poems. They are full of references and allusions. They are profound, symbolic and they illustrate his stylistic quality. They also possess super architectural quality.

Because of his continuous efforts to write better poetry until the last minute, he occupies a great place in the field of English literature. He himself was happy with his poetic achievement. One he himself said, " I am happy; I have found what I wanted. When I tried to put all into a phrase I say, Man can embody truth but he cannot know it. I must embody it in the completion of my life." In this way, finally, he proved himself as a great poet of his time and bade farewell to his poetic world in 1939.

Poetry, Pokhara and mules of Annapurnas

By YUYUTSU R D SHARMA 

On the great Tibetan
salt route they meet me again
old forsaken friends… 

On their faces
fatigue of a drunken sleep
their lives worn out,
their legs twisted, shaking
from carrying
illustrious flags of bleeding ascents. 

Age long bells clinging
to them like festering wounds
beating notes
of a slavery modernism brings: 

cartons of Iceberg, mineral water bottles,
solar heaters, Chinese tiles, tin cans, carom boards
sack of rice
and iodized salt from the plains of Nepal Terai.
(Mules)

This poem of yours is more Nepali in spirit than any Nepali poem" commented Khagendra Sangraula. We entered Prithvinarayan Campus. It was like entering my own Baring Union Christian College which I had left years ago and where I had felt the first thrill of entering a world beyond my own cloistered hometown. ‘Mules is a good poem,’ Tulasi Diwas added. Wide road lined with green bushes and tall grasses seemed alluvial and youthful. "But his mules eat all the grass that Ramesh’s girl in a recent poem wants to pull out," joked Bimal Nibha, referring to Ramesh Shrestha’s recent long poem. Rajiv Pahadi takes us on a round of his campus, guides us down the memory lane—.the first few huts, the first campus classrooms that founder Principal George John built years ago. Some of the pictures show shattered thatched roofs that collapsed in a fierce storm. There are some recent photos in the campus museums of a modern classroom aflame, out of a fierce confrontation between Maoist students and armed police. ‘May such incident never occur again", the caption below the photo is almost like a prayer, a poem prayer.

As we move on, escorted by the students like rich tourists, I am stunned to see a massive rock, huge, round and smooth, a mammoth marble in the middle of the campus compound. "It is called Bhimsen Dhunga" says Soveet Dhakal. "Bhimsen is said to have thrown it from across the confluence of two rivers, Seti and Kali that skirt the campus compound". Standing on the edge of the green field of campus, we see two rivers meet like two long-lost hillside sisters described in a folk tale.

The landscape is idyllic but the multistoried building of Manipal Hospital pricks like a needle in the viewer’s eye. Couldn’t they have found more eco-friendly design? It stands like on ugly knife in the heart of the green paradise. Earlier on, at Hotel Anand we had rehearsed recitals of our poems — Narayan Dhakal, Govinda Bartman, Ramesh Shrestha, Khagendra Sangraula, Tulasi Diwas and Bimal Nibha. Govinda had read my poem "Mules" in Nepali in a passionate way, bringing out the tears and blood out it. I thank him. Others listen attentively. The good things they say about my poem make me feel like a young boy. They pick up the threads from last night’s debate on poetry. We had been taken to Lamagaon, on way to the historic palace of Sarangkot on a hilltop. A tall ravishing Sahuni of Lamagaon with her long hair cascading down to her knees had served us local wine and roasted chicken. Later I was told she comes from Churmrung, a small settlement on the way to Annapurna Base Camp and that had explained the mystery of her long hair.

But what we couldn’t understand were the questions like these: What is a poem? Dr. Johnson had once said—Don’t ask such a question. We can only say what poetry is not. And secondly, must a poet always be in a position to explain what he is writing? No, No. Govinda Bartman strongly protests. I don’t think a poet should be forced to speak on his works. I add— Many Dalit or tribal poets don’t even know what a poem is but they are writing marvelous poems. Tulasi Diwas raises Mohan Koirala’s question. Khagendra dismisses the argument, saying after 1990 upsurge, relevance of poetry like that of Mohan Koirala’s came to on end. You can’t befool people with your obscurantist poems. But Mohan Koirala is a wrong example, I say, a false illustration. A good poet may not even want to talk about his art of writing.

The debate drags on into the poetry reading we have at the campus auditorium. In the open competition, most of the young poets read poems that were in one way or the other related to the present Maoist Insurgency. Night vision or Bright vision, pen or sword, Buddha and Barood (dynamite) dominate almost all the poems they read. I’m reminded of Laxmi Karki who was raped in this very campus by police during pre-1990. Democratic Demonstrations. I read my poem "Laxmi Lekali" which I had then written inspired by this incident and published in Saptahik Bimarsh. A student narrates how commandos circled them and locked them up in the hostel and smashed their jaws:

Laxmi Lekali
sister of our butchered dreams

Laxmi Lekali
the foolish cops who conspired

to dictate
awe of your slogans

who plotted to smash
heightened pagodas of your integrity

knew very little about
the consequences of raping the urge of flame. 

Laxmi Lekali
the urine that they forced you to drink 

has erupted ulcers
of rage on my quaking shoulders. 

What surprised me in that Poetry Festival organized to mark the 190th anniversary of Adikavi Bhanu Bhakta is how most of the senior poets of Pokhara employ Sanskrit meter to express their feelings. Most of the poems read earlier on and the ones read by Pokhareli poets possess stark reality of pure journalism. I point this out. Khagendra Sangraula says: A poet should write in a language that a man walking in the street speaks. Narayan Dhakal declares: Probably Tarun Tapaswi by Lekhnath Paudel was the last landmark poem in Sanskrit meter. Tulasi Diwas like a literary anarchist brushes aside all these viewpoints: "Even Kabir can’t be any touchstone today. Poetry kills the God it worships and refuses to accept any Party." When my turn comes all I can say is: A poem should have authenticity of a news report and complexity of a romance: 

Stone steps
of the mountains embossed
on their drugged brains,
like lines of aborted love
scratched
on the historic rocks of waterspouts. 

Starry skies
of the dozing valleys know
the ache
of their secret sweat. 

Sunny days
along the crystal rivers
taste
of their bleeding eyes. 

Greatest fiction
of the struggling lives lost,
like real mules
clattering their hooves on the flagstones,
in circling
the cruel grandeur
of blood thirsty
mule paths around the glacial of Annapurnas.
(Mules)