My Love is Not

My love is not
quantifiable,
justifiable,
describable,
payable,
buyable,
demonstrable,
measurable,
or calculable.

So reasonable?
No.
Love doesn't live in ledgers
or fit inside a proof.
You cannot weigh it on a scale
or return it for a refund.

---

My Love Is

My love is:
undie-able,
viable,
doable,
lovable,
appreciable,
and forever.

It does not fade like a receipt.
It does not crack under examination.
It breathes in the ordinary—
a quiet hand, a shared silence,
a meal eaten slowly together.

It is not reasonable,
and that is its reason.
It does not ask to be proven,
only to be felt.
It does not demand return,
only to remain.

So if you ask me what my love is worth—
I will say:
Everything I have.
And if you ask me to explain it—
I will simply stay.

A Lost Hope

Failure is an orphanage—
all wishes grilled,
left alone, neglected.
A victim of sorrows and anguishes,
so paltry, so lamentable—a soul.

Redundant among the masses,
shouting at the loudest,
yet no one listens.
As if blind, dumb, and deaf,
you endure the blackest life.
Hopeless has no wish.



Time waits.
Time waits, but not forever alike.
It hides the lies,
untold the truth—
like the sun concealed behind clouds.
Yet it will rise shortly—
the joy of seeing the world,
the pleasure of being alone with oneself.



Failure and success,
good and bad,
high and low,
rich and poor—
all will disappear.
But these tests of fate will continue
as long as one is alive.



Blame it on time,
each and every day.
Too many promises—
promises to love,
promises to play,
promises to succeed.
An endless file of promises.

Odd, how we are drowned with dreams
and drenched with so many failures.

Harsh Cheers

Destiny is a man meant to be—
the mercy of little aberrations and abuse.
A life of worries and no care—
where will it go in the end?
Only in your dreams will you see.



So self-centered is humankind, full of hunger,
considering only its own control.
The rich have fun, the poor beg.
It's too disreputable—why these categories?



You are as astray as this eerie denizen.
You don't know why you were sent here.
It's under lock and key.
True to be fated?
This life, at times, must be reworked.



Some are religiously deluded
and provoke others,
messing up without benevolence—
factions in the name of God.
A horrible way. Everywhere is treacherous.



War and bloodshed, destroying life,
starving beggars and homeless people.
White remains white,
but the meaning of black is lost.
The sound of horrifying news persists,
and anytime, it will be at your door.



We are fenced in with aggression,
while our lives themselves are bloated with endurance.
Should we visualize humility?
Well, it is a thriller—
this world and this life.

Courage kill

He is a man I like,
though others turn away in dislike—
for his domineering hand,
his way of trying to save the land.


He saved our village from the Kyeshe contes
his hostilities, unwontedly the greatest.
The bond between two villages turned toughest,
and his name rose to the highest.



They called him many names—
Teingyen Wugpa and Tiger, carried like flames.
Wugpa dropped school after brawls
in which he made teachers crawl.



I say he is a courageous man.
Because of his courage, the family name now ran
into dust. When the police caught him in the jungle
for theft, his life began to bungle.



One night he entered the Lhakhang,
the life-size Ku's blinding as he sprang.
He was not afraid to raid—
the old precious Kus for his life's aid.



The police whipped him to death.
Blood rolled onto the earth.
He showed no effect,
only said, "I was the one—no defect."



Was the policeman lazy?
Or was the policeman crazy?
They tied both his hands tight,
denied him even the slightest light.



The captain of the war—a bold man—
did the boldest, never before had a man
done what ought not to be done.
Yet a good man attempts, and risks, and fights
even when he cannot win the sun.

Glossary

Kyeshe: fight catching waist. Like wrestling.

Lhakhang: Buddhist temple.

Teingyen Wugpa: deadly owl.

Ku: statue.

The poem is a true story of my man. Nobody dares to do bad things in a bold way like him. Inspired by his boldness…

Names’ Matter

Why is Barack Obama called Obama?

A name is not merely a name. It is not used only for identification and identity. A name truly reflects the personality and attributes of a person. A name means a lot. I would like to recall some typical names.

There was Nagchung (Sharchop for "black"), whom I met in class seven. He had a black face and a black heart.
There is Zangmo ("good"), who does all good things—for her own benefit, eh... for others.
And there is Gunda Raj ("goonda king") from India, who does all sorts of goonda things.
There is Elizabeth (like Queen Elizabeth), who always speaks ill of the good Queen Elizabeth.
There is Phenchung ("helper"), who talks about others and fills his own pocket.
And Dangpo and Mottay ("fat") are truly fatty Dangpos.
And you know, Towpai (a cow's name) has a face that looks like the shape of a cow's face.
Samzang is a person of good heart and full of religious conduct. One of my characters in a book is also named Samzang, who is beguiled by Ratu, the Tatu ("naughty") in the book.

All these bad-sounding names are no longer given. Many people now prefer westernized names. For Bhutanese, there is Sonam David Backhang, or popstar Jackson Dorji, or Sara Chokiss. Nowadays, many Bhutanese names are combinations of famous celebrities from around the world—for example, Jigdrel Uwang Cheks (JUC), which is a bit difficult for typical Bhutanese people to pronounce. Whether one name or three names, a person still remains who he or she is. Or does it have some power in these strong-sounding names? Well... for those who like modernity, it does.

What is Religion?

The world of illusion—
undefined, I provoke delusion.
Some say it is the fount of aggressiveness,
without description in its compressiveness.

Apostasy, too, a nihilism's pinnacle in crime,
shall never trek to nirvana.
Alienation of suffering we want—
elicit is the land of joy and manna.

It stipulates mothers of samsaric desire.
As a detector, won't lavishing a mare.
Religion, by whom it detests,
deluges to the labyrinth of samsara fastest.

Dreamingly dwelling in a mystery region,
the dedicators' sin is a ransom by religion.
Altruism it adores, that bears mercies;
a practitioner shall acquire many fancies.

Religion counsels us to pray,
with magnitude to discard being samsara's prey.
It adversely advocates being parsimonious—
in addition, a hotch-potch of economic learning.

Our sublime mind never realizes,
when passionately, life gets summarized.
After religion's profound knowledge, life gets discouraged.
Thus, for the cessation, scourge.

Reincarnation of the Lama—the true racy—
we worldly lovers, never understanding, seem dicy.
Some carp at religion with horror,
forlorn that the path to heaven becomes an error.

Delve into the indebted to the virtuous—
are they the impetus, the instruments to victory?
Virtue is a next life's summons.
Jekyll and Hyde are miracle judges in common.

Why are some reborn into the family of a tycoon,
others in hut houses, or homeless by the typhoon?
Past phenomena give the present fruition—
never regained by fortune.

True action and commitment reap in bliss—
peace, pleasure, and joy in a bliss that we shall kiss.



Note: This poem (an original version, not edited) was written by my brother Karma Dendup, 17 years ago. I didn't understand it when he read this piece to me often. But it inspired me a lot. Thank you, bro. What I am now is part of you.