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mother, i have / inherited / your hands. / each wrinkle speaks
Old and new poetry written by Tibetans, listed by newest first.
To see all the poems of an author, click/tap their name.
mother, i have / inherited / your hands. / each wrinkle speaks
the chang tastes just like the one / your grandma makes every winter before she leaves / for dorje-den and varanasi,
Exile / is a marigold / blushing luxuriantly
Wonder if I flew above the malice, / and into your heart, / brushing through the hymns,
Why do you do that? / disfigured polka dots / on the back of my dress / ironed just yesterday
All that has been embedded / in the deep ruins / of an abandoned root / is now watered with the vows,
Smell of freshly churned butter tea / Coming from our 4 ft. square kitchen, / In our small home back in Bir / Where our long sighs tell our grief
In the cold snowy mountains / In Tibet / Her nomad parents — / named her Tenzin / A privilege worth risking it all.
They say / you become what you eat / So she ate flowers / All these years
I lay on my bed crying holding onto my Mother’s chupa / that always sits on my bed, / I wiped off the tears / And put on her chupa
Atop a trestle table / A Chinese man lays out / Four skinned dogs, / All equal sizes but one has
Over the smoky charred cow-dung cakes / under the luminous stars, of sobbing zephyr
I miss Lhasa where / The undulating valleys and wide open plains / Are bedecked with a garland of green meadows and trees,
Poem by Tendor: I heard someone in the street say / This was the year when you lost
Poem by Tsoltim N Shakabpa: With the setting sun / In the twilight of my days / My work completed
Somewhere along the path, I lost it, don’t know where or when.
I am a dog / A Tibetan dog from Kyegu / A few days before the earth shook
I am just a tiny one / All I wanted was to play / Hide-and-seek
The Cat put us through hell, / Killed my kin, dreaded my mind.
We should celebrate Losar / Some say … / To open a new chapter / Be Tibetan,