I’m still alive…
Born in Lower Bockray, Chirang Bhutan, in 1974, Pokhrel attended his primary education from Damphu Junior High School. He completed his secondary and higher secondary education from Nepal and has Bachelors degree in Humanities’ with sociology honors from West Bengal, India. He is one of the founding executive members and vice-chair of Bhutan Press Union (BPU) and founding member of Bhutaneseliterature.com, one of the much browsed literary sites of Bhutanese across the globe.
Also, currently is the Secretary of Literature Council of Bhutan (LCOB) established in 1993. He served Bhutanese Refugee Children as a volunteer teacher under Caritas-Nepal from 1996-2001 and taught in a few private schools in Nepal prior to his departure to the US.
He has an ardent interest in poetry, short stories, and drama work since his early days. Has contributed more than two dozens of his poetry works and write-ups both in English and Nepali in Kuensel Weekly published from Thimphu Bhutan in the past, an equal number of his literary works are published in other regional magazines and portals, and few of his dramas staged so far.
One of the founders of this portal, Pokharel served as Managing Editor from 2010 to 2014. He also served as Secretary of Literature Council of Bhutan (LCOB) from 2014 to 2019. Currently, he resides in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and works for BNS as its Chief Editor, President of Bhutanese Community Association of Pittsburgh (BCAP), Service Coordinator at Jewish Family & Children Service, Pittsburgh under Immigrant Services and Connections (ISAC) program.
R.N.Pokharel
California, USA
A bagful of bliss ‘They’ bagged
While I was in my fifteen.
Let God knows;
What taught them so-
What encouraged them so-
I know,
‘They’ were enjoying
My childish heart wailing.
Reminiscences still alive;
My pa looked toward his hard earned land,
Hard earned orange trees his hand hath planted.
My ma cautiously with a wish
-left the door open and wept,
And we set steps…to unknown destination.
My childish eyes witnessed
My childish brain recorded the episodes.
Guns were guiding our tracks,
Deny ain’t an option
Willy-nilly, we’re exiled.
A pinch of worry ‘They’ smelt
On hearing me living-
On knowing me growing-
Patriotism on me blooming.
For them:
we were to finish and rot
Decay and nev’ return.
Ramshackle bamboo huts
Survived me, sheltered me.
Against me and the like
Back in my hamlet…
Oil lamps lighted-
Prayers chanted-
Evasive ploy netted.
History it ran…
took its turn
A bag of bliss ‘They’ say bagged again
While i was thirty five.
Let God whispers them;
Might ‘They’ feel-
Oil lamps worked,
Prayers heard,
Evasive ploy well proven.
I left the bamboo hut
And the like- thousands too,
Yet, not rotten.
Yet, not perish.
I am an inch far in global village
‘They’ ‘re with pro tem bliss
‘They’ ‘re with odd wish
‘They’ ‘re sure at cul de sac.
History refolds in long run.
My ma who left the door open-
Is still alive.
My pa who looked toward his hard earned land
Is still alive.
My the then childish eyes
-Matured. Has witness visualized.
Patriotism blooming
Has hope magnified,
Heart grown stronger,
Amity flourished,
Wit enriched.
Bliss from The bag
Shall be mine one day,
Thro’ The door I shall enter and rise,
The evasive ploy be Mirrored.
I’m still alive.
I am not quite sure if the hope of the poet for bagging the bliss They bagged will come true soon but it made me remember my childhood days; the days I smiled from within my inner heart(innocence), my pa slept several nights in far away jungle for being not caught by the police, the village getting thinner and finally fled the country when I was six.
Yeah, I am still alive………..
Everybody should atleast read this.