Vishvanath Prasad Tiwari

Vishvanath Prasad Tiwari- Eminent Poet, critic Editor of a Hindi journal - Dastavej (from 1978), Critic and member Sahitya Akademi. he has 5 collections of poetry and 8 collections of criticism and two travelogues. He got prestigious award - Sahitya Bhooshan and visited several literary meets in India and abroad. His poetry presents the soul of Indian literature.

Saw Mill

Its running
With so much immodesty
That fire sparkles from it
Eucalyptus grown up nearby
And cedars of Himachal
Running towards it
In its reign of terror .

Music of birds heard no longer
And its cacophony has made
Kernels infertile
In distant mango orchards

My kid child is watching it in excitement
That how does it run
How automatically one log pushes the other
And it goes forward
By bringing out its heart
Looks shining as a piece of marble

My child is watching
The greatest miracle of his time
Sharp penetrating teeth
Running wheels and strap

The child is shouting in delight and clapping
But I tremble.

Very soon it'll go through my heart
Brings out a chair from my inner self
For a king to have his seat
The king will be on his throne
And celebrate picnic .


No, not in this room
Under that stair
Put them in the corner of that garage
Where there's no room for refrigerator
Where life- size glass can't be put .

Put them in Jute bags
Cover them with mats
Put some of them under wooden sheets
Put some books
On broken flower pots

Send them to Taxila
Or where you want
We don't want to inherit books
Someone will snatch passbooks
Someone will search key to locker
Farms will sparkle someone's eyes
In someone's secret coin treasure

Oh , the time
Books will be hopeless
Like the old grandmother
Where ever keep them
They'll continue to wait

In any century
One misguided boy
In search of his way
Will visit in darkness

You'll recognize them by touch
And will open your heart slowly
In which , endless time is in sleep
And tired truth
Suppressed anger
And dumb love
That couldn't be captured
By enemies spy .

The Agony of Humanity

Buddha wasn't the first to witness it
Its story is endless
No one could express it thoroughly
No one could write it completely .

No religion , no sacred book
Could accommodate it in its totality

In each form , in many shapes
How much externally
And how much internally
Are you going to witness this agony?
We need not to go to any fortune teller
Not to any hospital , city , village or forest

You can see from the place
Where you stand
Paving downward way like water
And more downward
Burning as fire
Roaring as an ocean
This agony .

No school of thought , No organization
No weapon .
No king , no parliament
No bill board

Yes , you
If offer a palm of water only
It may lessen
The agony of humanity
A bit .

The story of endless births

I remember
My story of endless births

My father insulted me
I burnt myself alive in the sacred fire
Organs of my body were cut apart
By the circular weapon of Vishnu

The mother who gave me birth
Left me helpless in the forest
Birds reared me
I was called Shakuntala
My lover refused to recognize me .
I came out from the earth
They called me Sita
Immersed into the fire ordeal of the earth

Just after the birth
I was thrown away in the mango orchard
And was called Amrapali
I was beautiful
Thus became the possession of the entire town

Burnt as a brave woman
Sold as a prostitute
Devadasi, Draupadi
Daughter in law , and the possession of the town
So many names and shapes given to me .

My story is spread in all
Earth , wind ,
Water , fire , sky ,
Desert , mountain and forest

I remember
My story of endless births.


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