redemption: a poem!

so many of them declared me dead
seeing the muse succumbed in gloat
for poems were growl growled
but for me, who has stood
the hearing of deaf
i have chosen to walk away
"from their torments and wretched petticoats";
walking and dragging myself
"for the begging and their mercy laden taunts"
over the belief that, there
not so far away from my view,
lies my beloved, sleeping,
hiding inside a mound of requiem;
and i thrust myself
thinking of each morning i have waited
dreaming of each night i have wandered
in her tender dreams;
for her,
my poems were the corsets
she died into every night,
my poems were the birds
that took wing for her soul.

of late
the muse
she dressed rather unceremoniously
and in her invites
pleasures flew in remorse
so,
i wrote few poems
like dead birds flying and falling
and hiding feathers inside the pages,
like wedged memoirs of cursed duets
sung rather coarsely during mating
of intellects and socialites.

i have chosen to walk away
defeated and terrified
from such rituals of poetic extravagance;
those poems, i am afraid
shouldn't be buried with my dead body
for i will lie next to her
with her favourite poems

*** 01/26/2010 ***

lucky dogs!

if you ever looked through that window
through that window that rest
on the far right-hand corner of your painted room
you would have seen many a street dogs
prying on the foetuses,
foetuses of all sizes and audacity,
big, small, resonant, breeded, waxed
just shed form the womb
and thrown on the pavements
in the drain by the pavement
in the dustbins
in the schoolbags for books
they were all borne in the shackles
but walking as if they all borne
with the knowledge of the paths
and wriggling in the bin,
as if each one of them already knew the filth
and the lucky dogs, for them
kids, are the best of feasts
soft bone, silky smooth yet munchy flesh
and yet not a spray of dust
lucky dogs having a taste of human, their masters!

***01/26/2010***

why is that i couldn't cry

why is that i couldn’t cry, aloud
for us, brought up in hidden ridges
with scary nights of gunshots

tears have run dry
and we paint the pain like a dichotomy
on numerous patriots
dying hungry and in desolate cravings

why is that i couldn't cry, aloud

am i waiting for the coffins to fill with tears
am i waiting for the deaths to walk again
am i waiting for children to swear dead wombs

waiting for me to cry again
i have wrought dreams through umpteen promises
teasing martyrs in their graves
for every single drop of tears
may be they will chastise me
seeing me pretending a poet

waiting for me to cry again
i have harvested my soul with fickle desires
writing eulogies for each one them
and sometimes praying them to live my life
and to burry me there, in their graves
for i have done nothing of sort
other than waiting for tears

yet, i am still waiting for tears

a testimony, a poem

of many sleepless nights
there lives the odour
in its many layer of sits;
i seek virtue
for who i was
though, its beknown to all
no vistue for tramps
and the odour of tramps
who walks random streets
picking rags of torn relationships
wrtitng testimonies with words borrowed
and there, someday will be a full-circle
for i pity on those sleepless nights

silence breeds poetry

your poems hurt as much as my silence
they speak the untruth of my un-being
and i seek a canvas to paint my guilt
like meaningless noises perforated
through dilemmas of words
but how often did i played with the secrets
thinking them to be sources of my indignation
may be towards what i was fed to believe
then, your poems…
one after another
even after i have buried my sonorous claims
your poems...
one after another
continue to exonerate the untruth that have lived with me
like my own affirmation on your so called truths

poetry nausea!

"what do you do with your poems"
a slut asked me!

i said:
"i sleep with them,
they are my mates and
i am a polygamous poet, and
each poem,
they inhibit my fertile appellations
within each strand of belief, and
in the subsequent morning..."

she undid my eloquence and little subjectively
continued:
"do they beget children?"

i have a quaint look at her
then explained:
"my textuality,
at times figuratively overwhelm the congenial serviles
like wombs ready for cross fertilisation
and, we beget epigrams
in the subsequent mornings"

after a brief gasp
she said:
"is this your slutty poem
that i have been waiting for my response"

i said:
"no my dear!
i can, no longer, read hymns for you"

little later
i died in her lap!

My Whispers!

My whisper pierced through the womb
Asking for ominous revelations on the morning,
Waiting for a body;
Of the self!

My whisper, it waits ever eagerly
Ready to face the shivering December
Even like the hazy reflection trapped inside a mirror
For some images craved form the misty breathe
Of sleepless nights!

My whisper is burdened with a body
For it cannot drag the body,
My whisper, it consummates every night
With my thoughts thinking it for a womb
Through dreams and shadows;
But it cannot conceive a soul
Except few severed limbs.

And my whispers
They all die like my poems
Imitating burning voices and dreams
Of a generation lost in wilderness
Of freedom and its many loose interpretations!

***01/10/2010***

my drunken wisdom

thanks to my drunken wisdom
my heart is now filled with dying landscapes
each dream asking for exoneration, and
my frenzy deliriums, it seems
have taken the deepest slumber
never to be awaken, not even to contemplate
for a nostalgia called hope

thanks to my drunken wisdom
i can now prepare for a final journey
like a bird against the immense sky
of sunken blues, and silence
in the backdrop of black rainbow
searching the non-exstent "chumthang-makhong"

thanks to my drunken wisdom
i take few more names and happily
arouse my senses to headless rhythms
like licherous nights watching the full blown moon

thanks to my druken wisdom
today, i forget myself, for better
for a drunken wisdom
for a mute wisdom

***12/25/2009***

tears and farewell!

in a distant valley,
my wings lost the flight, and
my sadness crumbled within the memoirs
like tears of a moistened heart
that pants in the mist of vague truths
soaking the shroud, but
never to ease the pain; and
my memoirs, it kept hidden
inside a closet of few scented poems

when this clown returns home
with few coloured lollipops for his dead poems
bought with bloodstained dimes
their lyrical farewell welcomes
ready with garlands and jeers
of a battle lost to the self
ready to bury a petrified corpse
with my broken wings

and my eyes weep without any reason

***12/25/2009***

For The Benefit Of Mr.Poet!

I can’t write a mere poem
Poems need classes
Poems need freedom
Poems need a mouth.

But for me,
I need to write my kind of poems
Like a self effacing lie,
For a tomorrow I would never lived
I need to write my kind of poems
On dead and its many manifestations
For death is all, I can afford in this life.

***01/10/2010***

A Window For You!

The abundance of nature
it creeps inside my heart
ever slowly like a rainbow
beyond my floating dream, grazing the
distant horizon, after a brief spell!

Only then, I realized
i have been a blind man
shrouded with trembling truths
like a dead man in some splendid coffin
searching a gap, and
peeping through the indelible holes
left after violent strikes of burial;
there, I wished to open a window for you
without any wavy mirrors
that seldom reflects what we saw in each other’s eyes;
for you, I thought
green shoots and some flowers, and
pictures of lovers holding each other’s hands
like I hold yours, may
Open your heart!

I know not well
The pain you have endured waiting
Haven’t had the share of promises of meeting
Like you have searched for a fallen pen
That bleeds death’s chastity.
But I wish to open a window for you
Without any expensive curtail,
Curtails, for me, they hide stars

I wished to open a window for you
For these flowers, for these living roses
Whatever colour you choose to paint
I have kisses in their petals, like
I have stolen one from you!

***12/21/2009***