Best 66 quotes of Suman Pokhrel on MyQuotes

an uneasy rhythm of life is more life like than an easy death

Every morning I wake up with the news of bloodshed. I feel my body, desperate to know whether I'm still alive.

I salute my desires with a bow. were it not for them to come and play mind would be empty just like me.

All trees and birds sky and stars bosoms and bangles were seeing everything.

A portion of life, every moment gets torn out of me hurting, and flees away.

A reader cannot take poetry by expanding it beyond his/her consciousness, rather can take by shrinking it within.

As you entered the room stirring air with suppleness of walk waking up the stillness with jingles of cymbals making curtains dance to the sound of bangles aroma wafted into air from canvas and copybooks my paintbrush grew restless and pen became enraptured my eyes, hands and some other parts of my body became electrified.

At such moments felt my mind wake up with the temptation of life gathering courage for flowering beauty even in the desert of living.

Chance of source language influencing the target language and that of the translator intervening onto the style of original writer are major challenges in literary translation.

Desires stay unaware of man’s fragile existence authored by scarcity

Does the beauty of life remain alive without making a comparison?

Every moment age is creeping up stealthily, but life, life is melting down like a candle that is flickering around.

Haunted trees covered behind the curtains of their own leaves stare at the dark from the fringe of streets.

Having been ripped open and drained by the crowd When I enter my home, Many homes seem to be waiting for me to give a shape to this life which is about to perish.

I am gazing-- desires unaware of destiny frisk about my mindscape like children.

I am still alive.

I dread to think of a society devoid of love, compassion and humanity.

I found the Taj Mahal as the most appropriate example of artistically expressed love.

I had read on the face of surroundings; some broken, some disconnected, some cracked expectations.

I know you’ll speak no truth at this time. I’ve to be guided solely by your silence, your eyes and the inaudible appeals of your heart.

I like desires like children and their plays that tease me now and then into knowing life.

I liked you everywhere on you.

In how many minds should I go crazy? Whom should I ask?

In literary translations, it is this very articulation of expressions that matters the most to bring home to the readers the full essence of the original text in question.

In this atmosphere Where you have to go perennially crazy only to survive, Which auspicious moment should I choose to become mad?

In translation of poetry; there exists a possibility of components like imagination, art of wordplay, skill of constructing internal rhythm and expand of knowledge of the poet getting affected by the constraint and differentia of the translator.

I shall not go out at all given that my love is here shall always stay attached to these hearts. I shall never bid farewell to this place! But I have to send this body anyhow from here.

I shall bestow you my love, and you give me yours.

I shall give you a song, and you fill melody in it.

It incinerates unceasingly, trying smiling in illusion of being alive; it keeps broiling continuously and restlessly sparkles around like a blaze of lighting flame, life is melting down like a candle that is flickering around.

It’s not my wish to walk intoxicated; to live for never is not my choice.

I've climbed up here holding the hilt of time's sword by driving it into my tender heart.

I want the fever to grab me forever and want you to be my fever.

Literary translation is not merely an act of picking words from one language and keeping it by dipping in the vessel of another language. Those words need to be rinsed, washed, carved and decorated as much as possible.

May my pain remain drunk singing its own love songs.

May my pains remain with me, I won't utter, I express it not.

Love is the cruelest event.

May the dead body of agony remain asleep resting its head on a pillow of flowers.

May I discard the outer cover of time from the layers of poetry by immersing the poet in its entirety within me

May I exchange T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland with the future of this earth like a lunatic’s dreams and make one season of poetry farming by tilling with the pen of desire.

May I free myself from the ever-pressing chest and enter the garden of imagination by leisurely hiding brain on hill summits.

May I pack all inventions in burlap and hide them in corners of Einsteins’ brains.

May I splinter away from myself break into whole units and live in each with perfection!

May I take off clothes covering shame at the border, leaving them hanging on dry trees of arrogance, and run by wearing the rays of the sun.

May life remain enamored of its own charm.

May the river of love always flow from its own lap.

My heart itself is a wound, no medicine can cure it It deepens further if stared at, and hurts more if touched.

Neither my acts have wiped the woes of any sufferer out, nor have I cured pains of wounded ones; with the faith pompous mercenary, O' Glorious! O 'Lord Almighty! how can I bow my head in your adulation?

Neither my deeds contain any essence nor, my gestures have sense of zeal, my days are creeping forth for nothingness; with this body deficient of heart and soul O' Glorious! O' Lord Almighty ! how can I come close to you?

On translating text into the new language as it is in source language, there is a chance of it being emerged as an absurd sentence in the target language making no sense at all. In the attempt to make the translation meaningful to the target language, there exists a risk of the original work getting meddled by the translator’s style.