ISSN 1758-6488
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Four Poems Poetry |
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Swing
for Prashant Timalsina
Everybody’s feet, they say, should leave the earth
During Dashain, and walk the air like the kites
That spool themselves all over the expectant sky.
And so, as goats were brought in droves from hills,
And buses, packed above and beyond all reason,
Swayed their ludicrous way towards villages
All over Nepal, enormous arches of bamboo
Rose and bowed to be tied in graceful support
Of the festival swings built in every village.
In Chaudaridara, inadequate with a camera,
I sat in awe-struck envy of the young
Cavorting in sprung rhythm above my head.
You want play swing? you asked at the high
Point of every arc inscribing the waiting sky,
And I drew back with a timid, earthbound
No, I’m too old. Children and the cool teens
Eyeing one another laughed. But for this week,
You persisted, old man also can play swing.
And the gods know I did – the camera has the proof –
While my legs, amazed at themselves, lifted
And pointed towards the light on distant hills.
I give these words to you as tikka, in gratitude
For your seven-years-old wisdom, dear Prashant,
Who taught me how to walk the air again.
