Inception: Laxmi Prasad Devkota (1909-1959), lovingly known as Mahakavi or Great Poet for his significant body of powerful writings in Nepali and English, commands immense respect in the world of Nepali letters. Nearly half a century after he left the literary scene, Devkota’s contributions in diverse genres of literature and many areas of Nepalese social and cultural life remain deeply felt and appreciated. Mahakavi Laxmi Prasad Devkota Study and Research Centre (DSRC) was set up in June 2005 at the initiative of writers, academicians and concerned citizens to honour the memory of Laxmi Prasad Devkota and to promote research and scholarship on his life and works.
The Devkota Centre thanks Ms. MEERA DEVKOTA, the poet's daughter, for allowing it to establish its office in Mahakavi Devkota's room in Kavi-Kunja free of cost. She is the owner of the house at Maitidevi.
No hairy ass…overloaded and overmiserable, drooping and dejected, dead spent and halting, in despair of life-energy, yet apologising to live, helplessly staring at the world with just a flicker of low level consciousness, a dying hide
To me, Bharat does not mean that heap of earth, which is the Himalayas, and which, standing as a wall in the north, is bound on three sides by the sea. I see Bharat as an imprint on the canopy of the heart. Genuine Bharat shines in…
Indeed, nothing troubles women like the Rahu of barrenness. It is this that eclipses their life. A woman’s life, life’s self-support itself, lies in giving life to earth. Her sole supremacy over man lies in her
Sky! You secretly nourish mere darkness that will devour you!
O! Of theft, O! You darkness
of hyenas, of owls,
Surely, my friend, insane am I
Such is my plight.
Quand le matin ouvre l'or
Où la neige de l'orient pur
Dans le ciel de Népal brille
What says this nightingale?
Well-formed downs of tear cover the skies,
Undulating like waves that billow within the heart
towards the queen-moon of loveliness.
In the full-moon splendor
surging, swelling, furrowing deep
rise waves that break along
the shores of language.
I become water, and mingle
with my country’s dust;
I drop down weeping ever