Let me sing you a song on freedom
It has been going on for ages, and
I couldn’t hold it anymore,
It has indeed started to harness its own will
Against my claim that I am still a free man!
This song on my freedom,
It cries in its morbid soliloquy
It plays my part, it plays your part
And you and I, somewhere under a gloomy sky
Recite many an untamed verses, and they thought
We are here for the waiting, for a brighter tomorrow!
This song on my freedom,
It summons many a trial on me
It seeks many unsound reasons!
Yet, I continue to sing
Listening alone, like a cry
For numerous gallows, in a single cry!
Let me sing you a song on freedom
Let me sing you a song on freedom
For your freedom
For our freedom
It has been going on for ages, and
I couldn’t hold it anymore!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Requim of a lost Dream!
My silence and the darkness ahead
I feared, what if I looked damn for a demon
In the dark, without a word for the soul
Standing in silent vicissitudes and
Ever approaching living dreams,
Like a staccato in a rhythm
In some wintry evenings
All bleak and hoarse, and
My being came to a halt
In audible screech…
And, My friends,
They proclaimed of a dream
And the dead song, unequivocal
Of the dream, dreaded feared, for
A requim in the dawn, of
Some late risers, like
You and I…
Then,
Every one of us
In my silence
Called me a dead poet;
But did we know
I was long dead
Even for a dead poem
That I recite in our numerous graves!
Forgive me my friends
I did tried to weave few dreams
But it seems
We are singing songs of dead
Evermore!
m still happy
i tried hard to weave a cocoon
but the seasonal weavers have already harvested them all,
i tried hard to fake a corpse
but the occasional nightmares drove the dreams away,
i tried not to die a deluge in the ocean of poems
but the anonymous fireflies bring me my private literature!
you may not have known,
i have tried to conquer my heart and body with listless steps
but the gait, it has taken my back a toll,
i have tried to save a morsel a day through the hopeless nights
but the earnings have lost the chequered in the midst of tears!
but i am still happy with these little pains here and there
but what i abhor is me wraping in half-eaten mulberry leaves
even the silkworms in *Ishok Ching*, they have their dues cleared
before the moths mate, with few coupling here and there
but the seasonal weavers have already harvested them all,
i tried hard to fake a corpse
but the occasional nightmares drove the dreams away,
i tried not to die a deluge in the ocean of poems
but the anonymous fireflies bring me my private literature!
you may not have known,
i have tried to conquer my heart and body with listless steps
but the gait, it has taken my back a toll,
i have tried to save a morsel a day through the hopeless nights
but the earnings have lost the chequered in the midst of tears!
but i am still happy with these little pains here and there
but what i abhor is me wraping in half-eaten mulberry leaves
even the silkworms in *Ishok Ching*, they have their dues cleared
before the moths mate, with few coupling here and there
Cactus and Poems!
I buried my poems
With my body
In a barren dream
And plant a cactus
Above the insoluble grave
Of fear!
Next morning
I found myself with sprouts of thorns,
Thorns, everywhere
In my chest, everywhere
In the body, for every hair;
And the poems
They resurrect
As thorns!
Of each poem I betrayed
There is a thorn, and
They grew like quaint dreams
Of December, and
My poems with every concoction
In its easy demeanor and
Craven of weary words, hushed:
‘My body is still buried,
Dreaming and still worshiping visitors;
In dreams, in a vainly wrought coffin
Of hope, for a future yet to impregnate!’
With my body
In a barren dream
And plant a cactus
Above the insoluble grave
Of fear!
Next morning
I found myself with sprouts of thorns,
Thorns, everywhere
In my chest, everywhere
In the body, for every hair;
And the poems
They resurrect
As thorns!
Of each poem I betrayed
There is a thorn, and
They grew like quaint dreams
Of December, and
My poems with every concoction
In its easy demeanor and
Craven of weary words, hushed:
‘My body is still buried,
Dreaming and still worshiping visitors;
In dreams, in a vainly wrought coffin
Of hope, for a future yet to impregnate!’
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Soliloquy: A commando in melancholy!
Who are you?
Is this the simplest of the simplest questions, or
The hardest of the hardest riddle?
I never knew, your name would someday drive me crazy!
Like this: What is your name, or even
Like this: How would you like me to call you:
By a name or by a title or by that signatory stamp of a dead man!
Asking and wanting to know who you are
It has indeed become a maligned thought and
I hardly able to conjure up any signs of living
Even if the blood that oozed past your nostrils
Smells the dreams of lives!
I think I have endured it for too long
And now, it looks like I have become a part of you, each one of you
With each unreadable names and every unrecognizable face
That's why I wanted to know who you are!
Is it a curse unto myself, or is it just another plain revelry
With few descriptive symbols like a tattoo in the name of your beloved, or
The name of your little daughter in your wrested wrist
Then I professed not to harm you again,
I thought, you are a shadow unto myself and
I ought not touch you again, for the love that beholds too many dreams!
*** 11/20/2009 ***
Is this the simplest of the simplest questions, or
The hardest of the hardest riddle?
I never knew, your name would someday drive me crazy!
Like this: What is your name, or even
Like this: How would you like me to call you:
By a name or by a title or by that signatory stamp of a dead man!
Asking and wanting to know who you are
It has indeed become a maligned thought and
I hardly able to conjure up any signs of living
Even if the blood that oozed past your nostrils
Smells the dreams of lives!
I think I have endured it for too long
And now, it looks like I have become a part of you, each one of you
With each unreadable names and every unrecognizable face
That's why I wanted to know who you are!
Is it a curse unto myself, or is it just another plain revelry
With few descriptive symbols like a tattoo in the name of your beloved, or
The name of your little daughter in your wrested wrist
Then I professed not to harm you again,
I thought, you are a shadow unto myself and
I ought not touch you again, for the love that beholds too many dreams!
*** 11/20/2009 ***
paper bullets
I couldn't afford to buy a gun,
Not even that toy gun of few rupees
For a bullet and few cartridges!
I couldn't dare a dream without dream
So living among the corpses of unknown affiliations;
I thought of using some paper bullets
To fend myself off the stray bullets!
Don't you know bullet respects bullet?
Sometimes, it’s better instead to die holding a gun
However it looks funny, even with cartridges of paper
Then to allow myself harness with nose-pipes through intestines;
For here, in my land
Everybody is dumbfounded with each gunshot
And we all know, we always eat and speak, not with the mouth.
Yes, I thought of using paper bullets
For I know, I can afford to make paper bullets
For I have grown up with aspirations drawn from the books
For I have seen the tears of burning libraries and
Its tarnished scripts taking flight with ashes.
I thought, bullets made from paper,
They will do some kind of justice to all of us.
And the best part, we don't have to be a lousy illiterate first.
For heaven's sake, we will be using books
Though in a different form, then
There will be no extortion, no matter how we fare each chak-kouba.
I mean, we can all afford to sacrifice few books from our blurbs
And even more, by doing thus
We can flaunt the bullets, these paper bullets
Like a pen, like a…a pen in the pocket of ministers that they seldom nibble
But I am pretty sure, with all our aspirations
We will be using these bullets more often than not.
For a long time, since the day I was born a Meitei
I always wished to have a gun in my hand.
How it would have looked?
A gun in the hand of toddler Jayanta's hand,
And sounds of gunshots from his little drooling mouth
Sometimes with a suckling of complaint for the weaning dream
Sometimes with a crying curse against the real gunshots!
Damn you God! It’s so surreal
And, this is how we grew up with different names
With bizarre accreditations
In different leikai's under the cloud of suspicion
Entrenched from the decades of struggle!
But we dreamed on dream and dream and dream.
In these decades, we have lost our sanity
Oh, I wish I have had a gun, in the name of the freedom
So that I can die in the womb itself.
At least, I will have a name attached with the gun
But unluckily, there ain't any gun I can be proud of holding
Nor for my parents while I was still a lump of blood.
And, everybody is happy devising new forms of protest!
Do I need to remind,
Bullet respects bullet!
So help me make bullets of paper
And the gun, oh my dear!
There is no dream without gun
There is no dream without gun
There is no school without gun
There is no body without gun
There is no grave without gun
And the paper bullets
Our best friend!
Not even that toy gun of few rupees
For a bullet and few cartridges!
I couldn't dare a dream without dream
So living among the corpses of unknown affiliations;
I thought of using some paper bullets
To fend myself off the stray bullets!
Don't you know bullet respects bullet?
Sometimes, it’s better instead to die holding a gun
However it looks funny, even with cartridges of paper
Then to allow myself harness with nose-pipes through intestines;
For here, in my land
Everybody is dumbfounded with each gunshot
And we all know, we always eat and speak, not with the mouth.
Yes, I thought of using paper bullets
For I know, I can afford to make paper bullets
For I have grown up with aspirations drawn from the books
For I have seen the tears of burning libraries and
Its tarnished scripts taking flight with ashes.
I thought, bullets made from paper,
They will do some kind of justice to all of us.
And the best part, we don't have to be a lousy illiterate first.
For heaven's sake, we will be using books
Though in a different form, then
There will be no extortion, no matter how we fare each chak-kouba.
I mean, we can all afford to sacrifice few books from our blurbs
And even more, by doing thus
We can flaunt the bullets, these paper bullets
Like a pen, like a…a pen in the pocket of ministers that they seldom nibble
But I am pretty sure, with all our aspirations
We will be using these bullets more often than not.
For a long time, since the day I was born a Meitei
I always wished to have a gun in my hand.
How it would have looked?
A gun in the hand of toddler Jayanta's hand,
And sounds of gunshots from his little drooling mouth
Sometimes with a suckling of complaint for the weaning dream
Sometimes with a crying curse against the real gunshots!
Damn you God! It’s so surreal
And, this is how we grew up with different names
With bizarre accreditations
In different leikai's under the cloud of suspicion
Entrenched from the decades of struggle!
But we dreamed on dream and dream and dream.
In these decades, we have lost our sanity
Oh, I wish I have had a gun, in the name of the freedom
So that I can die in the womb itself.
At least, I will have a name attached with the gun
But unluckily, there ain't any gun I can be proud of holding
Nor for my parents while I was still a lump of blood.
And, everybody is happy devising new forms of protest!
Do I need to remind,
Bullet respects bullet!
So help me make bullets of paper
And the gun, oh my dear!
There is no dream without gun
There is no dream without gun
There is no school without gun
There is no body without gun
There is no grave without gun
And the paper bullets
Our best friend!
A Drunken Poem!
Who else need a song for the broken heart
Who else ever thought of a nice trickling
That damn lucky bullet
It hit hard in my conscience
It’s still wedged inside my abdomen
Where every morsel rots before digestion
Where every bowel of intestines panics
But I continue to survive
Sucking the bullet
Through mutilated veins
And we both survive
In mutual understanding that
Lives and let live.
A damn lucky life, for
A damn lucky bullet!
*** 11/18/2009 ***
Who else ever thought of a nice trickling
That damn lucky bullet
It hit hard in my conscience
It’s still wedged inside my abdomen
Where every morsel rots before digestion
Where every bowel of intestines panics
But I continue to survive
Sucking the bullet
Through mutilated veins
And we both survive
In mutual understanding that
Lives and let live.
A damn lucky life, for
A damn lucky bullet!
*** 11/18/2009 ***
a heartless soul
never have i known
me becoming a bastard of my own creation
then there were nights
through the haze called dream, and
you came calling every night, and
i continue to grow as just another shadow
happy waiting for the moments of ecstasy
in the filament of treason? or
trying to enliven another night
in the fields of pretention and ruse?
for you
i continue to slit each fang
waiting for few droplets of virgin blood
if your hearts were to be ever open,
for you
i fathom my purlicue
thinking, you once hold them ruffled
if you were ever to feel them alive
but each masquerade, i played
you were all there in joyous pretense
may be i was the wrong one
for myself, even to call a dream haze
may be i have created myself out of sheer fascination
though, i called myself a bastard
for myself in my own shadow
and you continue to chastize me:
how upsetting a soul can be
when there is no heart at all!
no, we have lived among the tricks
possibly asking for more pretension
where heartless souls play taunt
smiles, kisses, caresses
and i continue to remind her
they are all fake
like a heartless soul in the naked winter!
***11/18/2009***
me becoming a bastard of my own creation
then there were nights
through the haze called dream, and
you came calling every night, and
i continue to grow as just another shadow
happy waiting for the moments of ecstasy
in the filament of treason? or
trying to enliven another night
in the fields of pretention and ruse?
for you
i continue to slit each fang
waiting for few droplets of virgin blood
if your hearts were to be ever open,
for you
i fathom my purlicue
thinking, you once hold them ruffled
if you were ever to feel them alive
but each masquerade, i played
you were all there in joyous pretense
may be i was the wrong one
for myself, even to call a dream haze
may be i have created myself out of sheer fascination
though, i called myself a bastard
for myself in my own shadow
and you continue to chastize me:
how upsetting a soul can be
when there is no heart at all!
no, we have lived among the tricks
possibly asking for more pretension
where heartless souls play taunt
smiles, kisses, caresses
and i continue to remind her
they are all fake
like a heartless soul in the naked winter!
***11/18/2009***
Love Song!
For me
Love stories are menace of uncontrolled hearts
The effete truth that begets uncertainties
For you
You will say ‘You are colour-blind'
Like fireflies in the fields
For you
Fields grow wih wild flowers
And fireflies hum in wild songs.
Whatever, please look at this love story.
Who has rotten to the heart
Can never be redeemed with a mention of love
The boredom of highest order, if it could be written off, ever
For a mere trouble of certain generation
For the sole reason that it besets the reason
Then, my dear, what’s the ordeal
You say it?
Love wasn’t the only thing!
Dont say that I didnt paint your back
When you dry your hair in my eyes
I know this much though
Lovers draw images of loose cannons
Some smoked, some stuffed, some mellowed
Instead, look at these images
These few images, I wrought from the streets of Manipur
They penetrate deep inside my heart, and I cry
With every mention of love and reconciliation
Because, I know my heart has rotten
And your back, my dear
It's all red
Red with stamps of my name
Red with strokes of your swab.
Whatever! This is what you said.
Damn you, my beloved
That touch you often complaint about
I have lost long time back
When we were young and tender
And now, you feel it for the men,
The touch of gloat;
Damn you, my beloved
You are such a misery to me
You made me hump my own back
And my love lost its way.
So where is the love that you blamed me for?
I haven't got any heart to love you.
Yes yes
I am a colour-blind.
What I knew was the colour of red
Drawn from certain spectrum of my existence
A moist colour
A lukewarm colour
The colour that stick
And you thought
I stalk you when I touched you
You might not have known
I have tears for eyes
My lung lugged your heartbeat
Feared was me
For your name
hat you have sold to his surname.
And you called me "My Name Is Red"
I should have asked:
"ঐবু ঈরো"
Then my dear
My streets are painted afresh
And your back
It reverberates what we have lost in the ordeal
Of love and hate
You being the one, and
I being another.
So sad!
*** (November 20, 2009) ***
Love stories are menace of uncontrolled hearts
The effete truth that begets uncertainties
For you
You will say ‘You are colour-blind'
Like fireflies in the fields
For you
Fields grow wih wild flowers
And fireflies hum in wild songs.
Whatever, please look at this love story.
Who has rotten to the heart
Can never be redeemed with a mention of love
The boredom of highest order, if it could be written off, ever
For a mere trouble of certain generation
For the sole reason that it besets the reason
Then, my dear, what’s the ordeal
You say it?
Love wasn’t the only thing!
Dont say that I didnt paint your back
When you dry your hair in my eyes
I know this much though
Lovers draw images of loose cannons
Some smoked, some stuffed, some mellowed
Instead, look at these images
These few images, I wrought from the streets of Manipur
They penetrate deep inside my heart, and I cry
With every mention of love and reconciliation
Because, I know my heart has rotten
And your back, my dear
It's all red
Red with stamps of my name
Red with strokes of your swab.
Whatever! This is what you said.
Damn you, my beloved
That touch you often complaint about
I have lost long time back
When we were young and tender
And now, you feel it for the men,
The touch of gloat;
Damn you, my beloved
You are such a misery to me
You made me hump my own back
And my love lost its way.
So where is the love that you blamed me for?
I haven't got any heart to love you.
Yes yes
I am a colour-blind.
What I knew was the colour of red
Drawn from certain spectrum of my existence
A moist colour
A lukewarm colour
The colour that stick
And you thought
I stalk you when I touched you
You might not have known
I have tears for eyes
My lung lugged your heartbeat
Feared was me
For your name
hat you have sold to his surname.
And you called me "My Name Is Red"
I should have asked:
"ঐবু ঈরো"
Then my dear
My streets are painted afresh
And your back
It reverberates what we have lost in the ordeal
Of love and hate
You being the one, and
I being another.
So sad!
*** (November 20, 2009) ***
I Want To Wear My Freedom!
I want to wear my freedom
And conquer the world in love
I want to wear my freedom
And live a life in harmony
I want to wear my freedom
And die a peaceful death in her arms.
Look,
This is my freedom
That he is wearing a camouflage
In the fields, in the forests, in the villages
Afraid of farmers
Afraid of Christmas carols
Afraid of kids going to school
And my freedom
It looks torn and tortured
So how do I stitch its being;
For they say
‘A stitch in time saves nine’
But for my freedom
A needle big enough to prick the earth
I guess, can only stitch it,
And a spat of sewing
Like machine guns firing at will
I guess, thus can only sew it.
I want to wear my freedom, at any cost!
***(11/27/2009)****
And conquer the world in love
I want to wear my freedom
And live a life in harmony
I want to wear my freedom
And die a peaceful death in her arms.
Look,
This is my freedom
That he is wearing a camouflage
In the fields, in the forests, in the villages
Afraid of farmers
Afraid of Christmas carols
Afraid of kids going to school
And my freedom
It looks torn and tortured
So how do I stitch its being;
For they say
‘A stitch in time saves nine’
But for my freedom
A needle big enough to prick the earth
I guess, can only stitch it,
And a spat of sewing
Like machine guns firing at will
I guess, thus can only sew it.
I want to wear my freedom, at any cost!
***(11/27/2009)****
My Psychedelic Poem!
If you ever see your favourite rack
You will know, it has got smuts left by my invasion;
There, in its every shelf
I have hidden my prominence like titles of expansive books
Some gifts and some bought, but
All hollow except the rim of covers, and
Those bookmarks of yours through every page
Of words and numerous blots
They are like my lies for a lifetime of moonlit dreams
I couldn’t hold onto myself
So I tried interpreting myself
For better or worse, that I don’t know
But, I was sure with one common alibi
I wasn’t me and I can get hurt in lot many other ways;
In fact, life itself wasn’t that beautiful
For me to hold on and expanding like a swelling balloon for a bang.
That wasn’t the truth, to say the least
But the common denomination for a living
It has to be the bliss and hope and forgetfulness.
After a brief living
I accept life receptively
Like an ever expanding mind dotted with coalescing new collages
Of dreams and few conversations on death and its afterlife!
invitation!
***(11/27/2009)****
You will know, it has got smuts left by my invasion;
There, in its every shelf
I have hidden my prominence like titles of expansive books
Some gifts and some bought, but
All hollow except the rim of covers, and
Those bookmarks of yours through every page
Of words and numerous blots
They are like my lies for a lifetime of moonlit dreams
I couldn’t hold onto myself
So I tried interpreting myself
For better or worse, that I don’t know
But, I was sure with one common alibi
I wasn’t me and I can get hurt in lot many other ways;
In fact, life itself wasn’t that beautiful
For me to hold on and expanding like a swelling balloon for a bang.
That wasn’t the truth, to say the least
But the common denomination for a living
It has to be the bliss and hope and forgetfulness.
After a brief living
I accept life receptively
Like an ever expanding mind dotted with coalescing new collages
Of dreams and few conversations on death and its afterlife!
invitation!
***(11/27/2009)****
a hEAvY bOOkSHelF
If you ever see your favourite rack
You will know, it has got smuts left by my invasion;
There, in its every shelf
I have hidden my prominence like titles of expansive books
Some gifts and some bought, but
All hollow except the rim of covers, and
Those bookmarks of yours through every page
Of words and numerous blots
They are like my lies for a lifetime of moonlit dreams
They are like my pretense that the day was actually an invitation!
***(11/27/2009)****
You will know, it has got smuts left by my invasion;
There, in its every shelf
I have hidden my prominence like titles of expansive books
Some gifts and some bought, but
All hollow except the rim of covers, and
Those bookmarks of yours through every page
Of words and numerous blots
They are like my lies for a lifetime of moonlit dreams
They are like my pretense that the day was actually an invitation!
***(11/27/2009)****
A Gray Poem!
My body, it reminds me of my lies
Within muffled voices in some raunchy streets
For every grotesque face in its crooked by lanes
I save my body like a heap of fool’s gold
Within aggrieving charms of glitters
Yet the voices within, though muffled
Yell at my steps, for every single step
They have million reasons to chastise me.
Then, my dear friend
How do I live thinking it’s all fair
For a body, a soul and person
Having to survive a torrent of abuses
Like love, kindness and help
Within the realm of unknown walls.
My dear friend,
My body, if you look closely
It wears a pie of colours, streaked with
Random strokes of nature
In jealousy, hunger and lies
And it looks a portrait of self effacing wave
In tatters, spread across the face of existence
Splattered with ignorance and disbelief
And this was when, I touched you.
Then, there lies ahead
The street I couldn’t fathom,
In your image, like a creek with few trickling of hope
In some dim lit alleys down your way
And my lies consummate in final ecstasy
For every hope that I professed humble, and
For every step that carries me through your street
Yet, my body wasn’t there
And I worried:
Was it a lie, for the body to survive all these while
In your shadow, following that ugly shadow of yours
And how I dare myself
Reminding, I am myself a lie!
So my dear friend
I don’t have a body, nor a soul
In fact, I am a no person
So, no pain in my existence
No repentance, and
No identity to haunt you!
***(November 21, 2009)***
Within muffled voices in some raunchy streets
For every grotesque face in its crooked by lanes
I save my body like a heap of fool’s gold
Within aggrieving charms of glitters
Yet the voices within, though muffled
Yell at my steps, for every single step
They have million reasons to chastise me.
Then, my dear friend
How do I live thinking it’s all fair
For a body, a soul and person
Having to survive a torrent of abuses
Like love, kindness and help
Within the realm of unknown walls.
My dear friend,
My body, if you look closely
It wears a pie of colours, streaked with
Random strokes of nature
In jealousy, hunger and lies
And it looks a portrait of self effacing wave
In tatters, spread across the face of existence
Splattered with ignorance and disbelief
And this was when, I touched you.
Then, there lies ahead
The street I couldn’t fathom,
In your image, like a creek with few trickling of hope
In some dim lit alleys down your way
And my lies consummate in final ecstasy
For every hope that I professed humble, and
For every step that carries me through your street
Yet, my body wasn’t there
And I worried:
Was it a lie, for the body to survive all these while
In your shadow, following that ugly shadow of yours
And how I dare myself
Reminding, I am myself a lie!
So my dear friend
I don’t have a body, nor a soul
In fact, I am a no person
So, no pain in my existence
No repentance, and
No identity to haunt you!
***(November 21, 2009)***
Landscape!
For an old miser like me,
Who frets over the qualms of life,
Dying silently in the obscurity, and
Waiting for one last journey, is
Like a futile adventure against the destiny.
Talking about Destiny
It reminds me of certain trail, of a
Poet, a barking poet
Who barks at everything
For the black holes of undying chasm
For the graves that embrace unknown souls;
And with every pause, he says:
‘Graves and black holes
They are the landscapes with new meaning
No pretention, no fluttery, but
The landscape of a new civilization’.
Then, I kneeled
And watched the space between my legs
Upside down, it looked a morbid architecture
Left unwanted for the future
With few urinated walls of ruins
And there, I saw my body
In resurrection, like a landscape drawn poorly
For a makeshift barrage
From the lame shin who can’t follow a girl
To the mouth of sinking lips, cursed with kisses;
Little far away
Through the space between my legs
The black holes, they swerved through the nadir
And raised as graves, there
Souls hovered wearing familiar masks
And again
I am frightened for the life.
My legs,
They dropped with an awful thumped
There the poet stood tall
With his half grinned humanity
And I was left for the body.
For him
My body was one of those black holes, and
For me
My body was the grave!
*** (November 18, 2009) ***
Who frets over the qualms of life,
Dying silently in the obscurity, and
Waiting for one last journey, is
Like a futile adventure against the destiny.
Talking about Destiny
It reminds me of certain trail, of a
Poet, a barking poet
Who barks at everything
For the black holes of undying chasm
For the graves that embrace unknown souls;
And with every pause, he says:
‘Graves and black holes
They are the landscapes with new meaning
No pretention, no fluttery, but
The landscape of a new civilization’.
Then, I kneeled
And watched the space between my legs
Upside down, it looked a morbid architecture
Left unwanted for the future
With few urinated walls of ruins
And there, I saw my body
In resurrection, like a landscape drawn poorly
For a makeshift barrage
From the lame shin who can’t follow a girl
To the mouth of sinking lips, cursed with kisses;
Little far away
Through the space between my legs
The black holes, they swerved through the nadir
And raised as graves, there
Souls hovered wearing familiar masks
And again
I am frightened for the life.
My legs,
They dropped with an awful thumped
There the poet stood tall
With his half grinned humanity
And I was left for the body.
For him
My body was one of those black holes, and
For me
My body was the grave!
*** (November 18, 2009) ***
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The Sisterhood!
she went home searching for a new reason
and send me a season
wrapped in the colour of blood
and here, i called myself a red
like a message wrapped besieged
within the realm of sisterhood
it brings me spirits from home
and, I continue to dream
for a fasting soul
many a feasts look meagre,
the hunger will never die
and the spirits will never rest
and my dreams
you judge them for snorts
but for a dream
it costs me a lifetime
a dream within dream
oh! it is the season of ningol chak-kouba
but for every tarmac that paints red
and every pebble that soaks blood
it will be a season of vengeance
for each one us who dare to roam restless
even after scorched through lies and lies
and spirits continue to dream
for a sisterhood this ningol chak-kouba
and send me a season
wrapped in the colour of blood
and here, i called myself a red
like a message wrapped besieged
within the realm of sisterhood
it brings me spirits from home
and, I continue to dream
for a fasting soul
many a feasts look meagre,
the hunger will never die
and the spirits will never rest
and my dreams
you judge them for snorts
but for a dream
it costs me a lifetime
a dream within dream
oh! it is the season of ningol chak-kouba
but for every tarmac that paints red
and every pebble that soaks blood
it will be a season of vengeance
for each one us who dare to roam restless
even after scorched through lies and lies
and spirits continue to dream
for a sisterhood this ningol chak-kouba
Saturday, September 19, 2009
GOD IS A FOOL!
I
being a god
he must have known from a long time back
it is not easy waiting for the sacrifice
man are handmade specimens
not borne off any promised womb
as he has been made to belief
through the ages
from the flood of seeds
to the drought of fear
but, man are sewed from the bits and pieces
though through lies and imitation
and feed into the wombs
like a living ghost in the streets
waiting for its gestation
waiting to be accepted as human
and even thinking of an altar;
and poor god
he is also just another dreamer
he doesn’t know
there is no sacredness in man’s secret rituals
offering him demons
in his own image
for every occasion
in death and birth
god, as he did so many times
moves his mask in intrepid sacrilege,
it seems to him,
the sacrifices that we offer
completes the scheme of existence
in unison and truth
but he is a fool
waiting for sacrifices
in these times of horror
all impure and fake
II
even for a lesser mortal
even in the meekest of meekest gloat
even in the cruelest of seasons
even in the lousiest market of bidding
you will find the offerings
apt and genuine
but
waiting for a sacrifice here
it deserves you a rebuttal
in the face of your own creation!
being a god
he must have known from a long time back
it is not easy waiting for the sacrifice
man are handmade specimens
not borne off any promised womb
as he has been made to belief
through the ages
from the flood of seeds
to the drought of fear
but, man are sewed from the bits and pieces
though through lies and imitation
and feed into the wombs
like a living ghost in the streets
waiting for its gestation
waiting to be accepted as human
and even thinking of an altar;
and poor god
he is also just another dreamer
he doesn’t know
there is no sacredness in man’s secret rituals
offering him demons
in his own image
for every occasion
in death and birth
god, as he did so many times
moves his mask in intrepid sacrilege,
it seems to him,
the sacrifices that we offer
completes the scheme of existence
in unison and truth
but he is a fool
waiting for sacrifices
in these times of horror
all impure and fake
II
even for a lesser mortal
even in the meekest of meekest gloat
even in the cruelest of seasons
even in the lousiest market of bidding
you will find the offerings
apt and genuine
but
waiting for a sacrifice here
it deserves you a rebuttal
in the face of your own creation!
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
No Title!
My body lays idle like a corpse but it has got no shame
It breathes and smells the soil
And pretend to move in the whiff that brings the news of rain;
It still thinks breathing makes us alive
The smell of the soil soaked with blood,
It thinks, profusely makes our senses shiver in half-truths.
Yet, this body lays idle
In the streets, in the fields, in the mortuary
Everywhere it goes, like a stone seeking redemption
In silence and solitude, and in defeats!
Looking at it,
It seems I have become so death
That there is no dream for me;
Looking at it,
It seems breathing is all that I can do.
***(August 23, 2009)***
My Dead Poem!
As my life nears a conjugal obsession with death
I thought of writing few more poems on dead
May be, this way, I will hold on to live
Another thousand year, within myself
Stalking the death itself!
Everybody says I am a dead poet
But I think, my poems are alive
Much more alive than myself
My poems affirm a recourse on living
My poems challenge lives
My poems fear death
What else do I need from my poems
They are unto themselves
In dead and birth
I only write the way it comes
Even in dead thinking about another birth!
You may seek a sacrament
Saying these lines, these very lines are pitiless whims of a mortal
Or you may even think them to be a portentous shadow of my lies
But I carry them wherever I go
In my heart, knowing good enough that someday I will die
So what’s the harm writing few more dead poems
While I am all alive.
***(August 08, 2009)***
I thought of writing few more poems on dead
May be, this way, I will hold on to live
Another thousand year, within myself
Stalking the death itself!
Everybody says I am a dead poet
But I think, my poems are alive
Much more alive than myself
My poems affirm a recourse on living
My poems challenge lives
My poems fear death
What else do I need from my poems
They are unto themselves
In dead and birth
I only write the way it comes
Even in dead thinking about another birth!
You may seek a sacrament
Saying these lines, these very lines are pitiless whims of a mortal
Or you may even think them to be a portentous shadow of my lies
But I carry them wherever I go
In my heart, knowing good enough that someday I will die
So what’s the harm writing few more dead poems
While I am all alive.
***(August 08, 2009)***
Killing Feilds!
I was mistaken
He wanted to kill me for a deer
In some dense forest
They came with all their gears
For a hunting, no prejudice
They thought, it moves
And true, I moved for my limbs!
Little later, there was a cry
They have shot someone else
In the field
They thought, there is no name
No identity, no fruit of tomorrow
‘we better off to a new terrain,
We better cleanse it off, for
a smooth path’.
After few minutes, another bang in my eardrum
It reverberates, recoiled like a spring:
You hold it tight and it sprung.
Some rallies, some cries…
Damn it, my ear was not a tin drum!
Again, little far away from my grave
They stroll and dogs barked!
***(August 08, 2009)****
He wanted to kill me for a deer
In some dense forest
They came with all their gears
For a hunting, no prejudice
They thought, it moves
And true, I moved for my limbs!
Little later, there was a cry
They have shot someone else
In the field
They thought, there is no name
No identity, no fruit of tomorrow
‘we better off to a new terrain,
We better cleanse it off, for
a smooth path’.
After few minutes, another bang in my eardrum
It reverberates, recoiled like a spring:
You hold it tight and it sprung.
Some rallies, some cries…
Damn it, my ear was not a tin drum!
Again, little far away from my grave
They stroll and dogs barked!
***(August 08, 2009)****
Monsoon And My Dream!
They said, finally Monsoon is here
In its full glory, clouds wrapping dreams
Blood sweet raindrops, and ever opening arms
Of lovelorn souls, with occasional echoes
Of names lost in waiting game of meetings and promises.
I too knew Monsoon, for its date with dreams
I too loved Monsoon, for its grandeur of royal reception
I too wait for Monsoon, as my heart is parched, and
I wanted to soaked myself, the soul and body
With the raindrops distilled from the sky above
So that my tear never ran dry in this abandoned desert
I wanted those raindrops to hit my bare chest
So that it bore another well of summer springs, in my heart
I wanted this earth to embrace the Monsoon
So that the grave that laid evident to her innocence is wet again
And I could smell her sweat, drenched with tender remembrance!
They said, Monsoon has arrived
And everybody walks beside me
Leaving me behind in my own trail
They said, Monsoon has indeed arrived
And they all talked about me, looking at my hollow being
And blamed me for the reason, of Monsoon being late
In a land of dreams and continue talking:
Every July, somebody will cry and the poor Monsoon
It changes its course in depression, thinking:
"What do I do looking at the tears, in fact
I have no match for tears
Tears have silent wishes, and
My thunder and lightning, and they fade;
Tears are trifle and petite, but
My torrid downpour only caused floods of desire and
I got the blame of having a merciless despondent
But the tears, every single drop carries warmth of the heart;
And, tears don't dry even if I have to wait for a seasons!"
They said, this time Monsoon is fair to us
I continue to dream in closed room
Trying to feel the life in her lifeless body!
***(July 27, 2009)***
In its full glory, clouds wrapping dreams
Blood sweet raindrops, and ever opening arms
Of lovelorn souls, with occasional echoes
Of names lost in waiting game of meetings and promises.
I too knew Monsoon, for its date with dreams
I too loved Monsoon, for its grandeur of royal reception
I too wait for Monsoon, as my heart is parched, and
I wanted to soaked myself, the soul and body
With the raindrops distilled from the sky above
So that my tear never ran dry in this abandoned desert
I wanted those raindrops to hit my bare chest
So that it bore another well of summer springs, in my heart
I wanted this earth to embrace the Monsoon
So that the grave that laid evident to her innocence is wet again
And I could smell her sweat, drenched with tender remembrance!
They said, Monsoon has arrived
And everybody walks beside me
Leaving me behind in my own trail
They said, Monsoon has indeed arrived
And they all talked about me, looking at my hollow being
And blamed me for the reason, of Monsoon being late
In a land of dreams and continue talking:
Every July, somebody will cry and the poor Monsoon
It changes its course in depression, thinking:
"What do I do looking at the tears, in fact
I have no match for tears
Tears have silent wishes, and
My thunder and lightning, and they fade;
Tears are trifle and petite, but
My torrid downpour only caused floods of desire and
I got the blame of having a merciless despondent
But the tears, every single drop carries warmth of the heart;
And, tears don't dry even if I have to wait for a seasons!"
They said, this time Monsoon is fair to us
I continue to dream in closed room
Trying to feel the life in her lifeless body!
***(July 27, 2009)***
My Bible!
Oh! Man
He is as good as any other poem
Disturb your conscience, was Eliot afar;
When he clear his throat
You will know, he is about to make you clear
Of all the doubts that you think hampers you grow a man
There is no hymn of Amen or Ibudou Pakhangba
But he knows where is Burma and what did our little sister did,
There is No Waste Land, there is no any Byzantium
For him, Tiddim Road bleeds at Malom.
He is as good as any other poem
Disturb your conscience, was Eliot afar;
When he clear his throat
You will know, he is about to make you clear
Of all the doubts that you think hampers you grow a man
There is no hymn of Amen or Ibudou Pakhangba
But he knows where is Burma and what did our little sister did,
There is No Waste Land, there is no any Byzantium
For him, Tiddim Road bleeds at Malom.
No wonder,
I count myself an educated, civilized and a worthy patriot
With my untamed poems on death and its loose conclusions
That someday I ought to die in her lap
One among her numerous sons!
I count myself an educated, civilized and a worthy patriot
With my untamed poems on death and its loose conclusions
That someday I ought to die in her lap
One among her numerous sons!
Oh! Man
There were nights I thought of him, and I got
Dreams stoic and dreaded like a pineapple in Churachandpur
All eyes but blind
And I laughed
What have I done,
In fact, Oinam High School wasn't too far
Few rapes and a lake of sorrow.
There were nights I thought of him, and I got
Dreams stoic and dreaded like a pineapple in Churachandpur
All eyes but blind
And I laughed
What have I done,
In fact, Oinam High School wasn't too far
Few rapes and a lake of sorrow.
Let’s laugh a while and celebrate...
Only yesterday, he is back from the killing fields of Manipur
And he brought a book in the name of our lost literature
That sang Kwairamband Bazar and its many crooked by lanes
With each name spelled like a Gandhi and Nehru
And I wished to give each sojourn a definitive verdict.
Only yesterday, he is back from the killing fields of Manipur
And he brought a book in the name of our lost literature
That sang Kwairamband Bazar and its many crooked by lanes
With each name spelled like a Gandhi and Nehru
And I wished to give each sojourn a definitive verdict.
On the Kanglasha and its Sahebs
But, look at him
He brought a book, few pages old and wrought in the mist of Sahitya,
A book seasoned with extinct Lamgi Chekla and Pi Thadoi;
Each word I uttered with drunken wisdom,
It proclaimed a bible for Apaiba Thawai!
But, look at him
He brought a book, few pages old and wrought in the mist of Sahitya,
A book seasoned with extinct Lamgi Chekla and Pi Thadoi;
Each word I uttered with drunken wisdom,
It proclaimed a bible for Apaiba Thawai!
Help me, I wanted to cry
Help me, I wanted swear
And this Bible, within each imprints,
I seek a vigour, a new morning
Sometimes I thought sacrosanctfor its sake, but what do I do
That’s non-native, in the land of Sanskrit hymns and Bengali script
Oh! He brought this book
That’s bible for me
That speaks of Chaoba, Kamal and Meenaketan;
Tonight, my drunken wisdom says
Embrace it tight
This is my Bible
A Bible surfaced by Akhu!
Help me, I wanted swear
And this Bible, within each imprints,
I seek a vigour, a new morning
Sometimes I thought sacrosanctfor its sake, but what do I do
That’s non-native, in the land of Sanskrit hymns and Bengali script
Oh! He brought this book
That’s bible for me
That speaks of Chaoba, Kamal and Meenaketan;
Tonight, my drunken wisdom says
Embrace it tight
This is my Bible
A Bible surfaced by Akhu!
***(July 20, 2009)***
I THOUGHT OF DEAD AS A NEW POEM
I didn’t know that it takes time
Even for the dead to adjust and act upon accordingly
And look at me, this little lousy son of a man
Trying to walk like a phantom
Undying and haughty, head on, like an un-castrated bull!
Dead takes time to build its empire
It creates heroes out of nothing
I can be a hero to these lesser mortals anytime I want to be
But the dead, it thinks, I am not worth a dead;
Dead takes time to heal the deadness
It invokes and fascinates the living, thus
Harnessing every agonizing aspects of life, and
Me, a tasteless little moron, appreciate it for nothing;
But, the dead, it thinks and act, and
Wait for the right moment to build and expand its empire
From a wobbling distant cousin to life
Today, it carries a heaven of festivals
For each of us, with our choicest feasts!
And just now, I am recollecting myself a life
Bit by bit, from the first wail of a kid to todays hoarse complaints
And thinking about dead, if it really cares for what we do.
May be it’s a dream, asking for myself in altogether a different robe.
Sorry, I am still alive.
***(July 18, 2009)****
Even for the dead to adjust and act upon accordingly
And look at me, this little lousy son of a man
Trying to walk like a phantom
Undying and haughty, head on, like an un-castrated bull!
Dead takes time to build its empire
It creates heroes out of nothing
I can be a hero to these lesser mortals anytime I want to be
But the dead, it thinks, I am not worth a dead;
Dead takes time to heal the deadness
It invokes and fascinates the living, thus
Harnessing every agonizing aspects of life, and
Me, a tasteless little moron, appreciate it for nothing;
But, the dead, it thinks and act, and
Wait for the right moment to build and expand its empire
From a wobbling distant cousin to life
Today, it carries a heaven of festivals
For each of us, with our choicest feasts!
And just now, I am recollecting myself a life
Bit by bit, from the first wail of a kid to todays hoarse complaints
And thinking about dead, if it really cares for what we do.
May be it’s a dream, asking for myself in altogether a different robe.
Sorry, I am still alive.
***(July 18, 2009)****
BEING MYSELF
How do I accept myself in this rot
Of faith and sin?
I did it by writing few lines a day
Like my own breathing,
Though sometimes choked up with all the lust and pain
Of being myself.
That’s why I asked myself, many a times…
How do I accept myself while the whole world is against me?
My poems, my rituals and emotions
They feel like allergic, and
Their imprints are all evident in the air
Like a ever hovering prison for me
Waiting to hop upon me, and
I living in these tortured months of exasperation
Seeking pleasure out of everything!
***(July 17, 2009)***
Of faith and sin?
I did it by writing few lines a day
Like my own breathing,
Though sometimes choked up with all the lust and pain
Of being myself.
That’s why I asked myself, many a times…
How do I accept myself while the whole world is against me?
My poems, my rituals and emotions
They feel like allergic, and
Their imprints are all evident in the air
Like a ever hovering prison for me
Waiting to hop upon me, and
I living in these tortured months of exasperation
Seeking pleasure out of everything!
***(July 17, 2009)***
Oh July! Don't let me sleep!
How many days, for
How many days, did I slept
Hands tight, clenched fist, swollen heart
Until woken up by these cries!
July is a horror month
It bore me my curse
It pants ever slowly like a dying old man
July, the monsoon, the moisture
I don’t know what to mop and what to soak
But, someone cries every night
In this month of July, and
I sleep carrying my dead body
Wherever it wishes to go,
From gardens to graves
From libraries to mortuaries.
Oh July!
She still smiles at me;
You are a horror month
You let her go, with all the smiles
And I sleep every night
Waiting for her, to touch me again
But, how do I endure
Your cries, calling for a date with poets
Yet asking for a reason to be aloof, and alone.
Oh July!
Don’t let me sleep,
Even if my body brings the qualm of a drunken daily wager
Don’t let me sleep,
Even if my house drips your heavy downpour, like a crying widow
Don’t let me sleep,
Even if I have to wake up early for my gate, to welcome the thieves.
Oh July!
Don’t let me sleep,
I can’t wait for another July!
***July 16, 2009***
How many days, did I slept
Hands tight, clenched fist, swollen heart
Until woken up by these cries!
July is a horror month
It bore me my curse
It pants ever slowly like a dying old man
July, the monsoon, the moisture
I don’t know what to mop and what to soak
But, someone cries every night
In this month of July, and
I sleep carrying my dead body
Wherever it wishes to go,
From gardens to graves
From libraries to mortuaries.
Oh July!
She still smiles at me;
You are a horror month
You let her go, with all the smiles
And I sleep every night
Waiting for her, to touch me again
But, how do I endure
Your cries, calling for a date with poets
Yet asking for a reason to be aloof, and alone.
Oh July!
Don’t let me sleep,
Even if my body brings the qualm of a drunken daily wager
Don’t let me sleep,
Even if my house drips your heavy downpour, like a crying widow
Don’t let me sleep,
Even if I have to wake up early for my gate, to welcome the thieves.
Oh July!
Don’t let me sleep,
I can’t wait for another July!
***July 16, 2009***
COMPOSING AN EULOGY
It was only yesterday, that
I wished to compose an eulogy on the death of man;
They said, man is dead and its remnants are all scattered,
Like tatters strewn all over a raunchy street
Like unpublished poems of some anonymous fireflies
Like the fabled alteration of hope
Like a poem in hurry, all gloss and some lethargic comments.
It was only yesterday, that
I wished to bury the hatchet, against an animosity called writing
With certain last page for a torn folio;
They said, there’s nothing like last page, it’s always like
The first draft that got drown in the sea of disbelief.
Man are never to be trusted!
Little while ago, a broken window and
A heap of cow dung, and
Few flies above, that hovered like some sequential paradox
They seduced me and I forgot to blame the howlers
For all the nasty euphemism;
They said, I look lot like a closeup man, ready
To be impaled and jeer for what I have siege a subtext within a rhyme.
That’s half truth and another half naked:
Me writing poems;
I blame if for who I am!
***(July 16, 2009)***
THIS IS THE POEM OF MY LIFE
1.
how would i know
the cries of words
when they are left unheard
to the mercy laden taunts of jingoist
how would i know
the worries of dead
when seasons are shoved and heaved around
for the wreckage called life
how would i know
if she ever cried
when the crops wail for a trinkling of hope
but i know why i write poem
i write poems to appease every restless word
i write poems to disown me, in the crowd
i write poems so that i can walk like a death man
2.
no more, thus i announce the death of me
i don't know how my corpse would be buried
i don't know how my grave would be dug
i don't know how my body would riled in the pyre
i don't know how my funeral would reek
but what i know is
my grave will host a scroll of poems
my funeral will be a procession of dead poets
3.
when i write poems, it invokes no magic
when i recite my poems, my voice crumbles
when i read your poems, my heart sinks
but the cinders of wood from my pyre
they will sing songs, and the sparks
they will applaud my poems
4.
oh, you don't know my wife
every night, when i kissed her
she recites me a poem, everynight
a poem a night, from the scribbles
that i left after each intercourse
she thought, my poems are fake
and she blamed me how i made her fake
i don't know how
but she did hate my poems
when i returned home after days rigour
she would recieved me with my poems
at the doorstep
so that i could see the hunger in her face
because, i did recite while she moan
so that i could feel her frailty
because, i did feed her only the poems
i didn't know how
but she survived, until
one day she dragged me at the altar of oblivion, and there
she slit her throat and offered me every drop of blood, and said
"this is the poem of my life".
***(July 10, 2009)***
they said, i hoarse
they said, i sulk
they said, i fake
even when i was dying,
then oneday,
one bright sunny day
i proclaimed thus:
death be my fren, in good and bad times
because, this living world
flowers, pretty damsels
blood and soul
they all think,
i fake
they all think
i hoarse
they all think
i sulk
when i die
when i cry
when i fight.
thus death becomes my best fren, and
he teaches me how to stand
he teaches me how to breathe
and he is always near me
waiting for me, every night!
and i never ask
how many frens you have got
and i will write poems
no matter he loves me or not
***(July 06, 2009)***
Manipur, Do I Need To Cry For You?
Manipur, you are a long lost dream
That is how I lament, that is how I mourn
But should I never cry!
My village, it overran a river
With few dotted bluffs on faith
And I grew up there, like pebbles
In the river stream, nothing disturbed
Except few ripples in the navel.
Today, that navel is growing deeper
Sometimes, it looks like a gorge in certain discreet highway
With many a unnamed veins for blood thirsty mongrels;
Sometimes, it looks like a pond of serenity
Revered by not many, but filled with tranquility;
Sometimes, it looks like a bowel of uncooked intestines
Ready to be feed upon and absorbed in the veins.
Manipur,
Tonight, far away from your valley
I ponder for a reason not to cry for you
There came the answer with few trickling of teardrops
And, that same ripple bowel
With infested malice,
It gathers what my teardrops could offer
And, it smirks!
Do I need to cry for you?
***(July 05, 2009)***
That is how I lament, that is how I mourn
But should I never cry!
My village, it overran a river
With few dotted bluffs on faith
And I grew up there, like pebbles
In the river stream, nothing disturbed
Except few ripples in the navel.
Today, that navel is growing deeper
Sometimes, it looks like a gorge in certain discreet highway
With many a unnamed veins for blood thirsty mongrels;
Sometimes, it looks like a pond of serenity
Revered by not many, but filled with tranquility;
Sometimes, it looks like a bowel of uncooked intestines
Ready to be feed upon and absorbed in the veins.
Manipur,
Tonight, far away from your valley
I ponder for a reason not to cry for you
There came the answer with few trickling of teardrops
And, that same ripple bowel
With infested malice,
It gathers what my teardrops could offer
And, it smirks!
Do I need to cry for you?
***(July 05, 2009)***
Thursday, July 2, 2009
I Stopped Praying For The Death!
I stopped praying for the death,
It bears no fruit, even if the dead has got any womb
I stopped praying for myself,
It doesn’t suit my scheme, even if I had to wake up early
I stopped praying for my brothers,
It doesn’t make them patriots, even if they die fighting for the land
Oh, I stopped praying for the peace,
It doesn’t end any war, even if my heart yearns for it.
From today, I promised to myself, thus…
I will only pray for the living, whatever it counts
Living bullets, living souls and living dreams
Even for a dead body, that lives in my mind.
It bears no fruit, even if the dead has got any womb
I stopped praying for myself,
It doesn’t suit my scheme, even if I had to wake up early
I stopped praying for my brothers,
It doesn’t make them patriots, even if they die fighting for the land
Oh, I stopped praying for the peace,
It doesn’t end any war, even if my heart yearns for it.
From today, I promised to myself, thus…
I will only pray for the living, whatever it counts
Living bullets, living souls and living dreams
Even for a dead body, that lives in my mind.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Drought!
Something didn’t quite die
It continues to live, day after day
Asking questions and raising million mutinies;
Perhaps, I was still there
At her doorsteps, waiting for an answer
Or may be,
I am unto myself, alone in the grave, waiting
For a resurrection!
That day,
She returned home late, and
Brought home a fiend mask, and
Said, somebody plant her a bastard for the occasion
So that, she be accepted a ceremonial bride for the occupation
That day,
She returned home, and
The lore continues and my morning toil ceased;
They said its drought!
That day stood evident for her lost fertility
From that day, my grave was my home
And everyday,
I stood at her doorstep asking for the answer!
It continues to live, day after day
Asking questions and raising million mutinies;
Perhaps, I was still there
At her doorsteps, waiting for an answer
Or may be,
I am unto myself, alone in the grave, waiting
For a resurrection!
That day,
She returned home late, and
Brought home a fiend mask, and
Said, somebody plant her a bastard for the occasion
So that, she be accepted a ceremonial bride for the occupation
That day,
She returned home, and
The lore continues and my morning toil ceased;
They said its drought!
That day stood evident for her lost fertility
From that day, my grave was my home
And everyday,
I stood at her doorstep asking for the answer!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I Don’t Need An Army To Sleep Well!
I don’t need an army to sleep well
What I need is a meal, a bed and a pillow
I am not asking for the blanket,
Not even the warm body of my beloved
She can sleep where ever she wishes
Yes, I don’t need an army to wait for the morning!
I Hate Freedom!
While I was still a kid
They bring all sorts of guns and lots of ammunition
They bring lots of pamphlets and cries
And suddenly, they all died
Leaving me with some dreams and their anthems!
Few years later,
I found myself fighting for the freedom
Though I couldn’t care much about it,
They said, I need freedom
So that I can be raised like one of them
In fatigue, in camouflages
In the drain, in the ridges
In the psyche, with hunger
They said, freedom comes with hunger!
Today, I hate freedom
It dies with liberty
Every time I open my arms, for some love
It came asking for the reason.
It asked: give me a perfect reason;
I had no answer, thus
I continue fighting for the freedom.
They bring all sorts of guns and lots of ammunition
They bring lots of pamphlets and cries
And suddenly, they all died
Leaving me with some dreams and their anthems!
Few years later,
I found myself fighting for the freedom
Though I couldn’t care much about it,
They said, I need freedom
So that I can be raised like one of them
In fatigue, in camouflages
In the drain, in the ridges
In the psyche, with hunger
They said, freedom comes with hunger!
Today, I hate freedom
It dies with liberty
Every time I open my arms, for some love
It came asking for the reason.
It asked: give me a perfect reason;
I had no answer, thus
I continue fighting for the freedom.
Another Dead Poem!
In the dead of the night,
I pretend to be a dead man,
So that I can sleep a while, like all of them
In the dead of the night,
I pretend to be a wise man,
They all said, dead men are wiser
They know no worries,
They live for values unknown to life
For which every second soul howl.
In the dead, we all sleep, and
I want to sleep a while like a dead man
Be wised and happy.
I pretend to be a dead man,
So that I can sleep a while, like all of them
In the dead of the night,
I pretend to be a wise man,
They all said, dead men are wiser
They know no worries,
They live for values unknown to life
For which every second soul howl.
In the dead, we all sleep, and
I want to sleep a while like a dead man
Be wised and happy.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Watching The Dying Moon!
The planetary movements
The rising of the sun and glowing of the moon
And the whims of mortals; as
Good sermons on the creation,
It invokes me my infatuation.
By the threshold on a procreation
I observed too long to called it a living,
For another universe, with many a stars, and
Inconsequential moons, with more creatures
Calling for life, living everywhere
In the universe!
My nights are lonesome,
Even more are the stars
They blink unto themselves
And the dying moon, in my sky
I create numerous paintings, with
Falling stars and congregations of monsters
On virtues of having a world within the grasp of a mind,
In the mind of a poet, like my dreams
On a busy traffic, beggars, limbs, luster and waiting!
I see everything, in the night,
While watching the dying moon!
The rising of the sun and glowing of the moon
And the whims of mortals; as
Good sermons on the creation,
It invokes me my infatuation.
By the threshold on a procreation
I observed too long to called it a living,
For another universe, with many a stars, and
Inconsequential moons, with more creatures
Calling for life, living everywhere
In the universe!
My nights are lonesome,
Even more are the stars
They blink unto themselves
And the dying moon, in my sky
I create numerous paintings, with
Falling stars and congregations of monsters
On virtues of having a world within the grasp of a mind,
In the mind of a poet, like my dreams
On a busy traffic, beggars, limbs, luster and waiting!
I see everything, in the night,
While watching the dying moon!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
His Plot, The Stage and Me!
Somebody came to kill me
He wanted to help me understand this life
By killing me, with his bare hands
With a knife, sharpened for the purpose
With few silent strokes, pulling my hair
Cutting my limbs, toes, fingers, ears
One by one, dissecting the chest,
Plucking the heart and lugging the intestines
So that those pieces can be packed in a box
Like a package for best kept secrets
As a gift to the life, the life himself!
He said, no use of coffins
They are so expensive, they are
Rather weird too, to fill pieces in a coffin
It’s odd, it will look funny
So, better a box, cheaper and handy
There you need only a pair of hands, to hold it
And carry it wherever you want
‘Why disturb others for your death’
And you can even place it next to you, like a pot
Wherever you wish to lay sit from shrines to morgue
And those pieces inside, pieces of your body, people will think it
For a gift pack, or even the holy water, and there
Half the purpose is served for being borne, another
Half was consumed when you are death, for the purpose.
So no worries, while you proudly reside in and
Have a better understanding of the life,
Inside the box, within the rim of a box
The world outside, will admire you, they will
Wait for a glimpse of the box that contains you
Though in pieces, and they will think they are blessed
You know, this world is made of confusion,
That’s what I want you to feel, for the life
In the midst of it, you are the answer and them
The scraps from your shadow,
No need for the cross, no need for the inferno
The box is enough; a box is enough for a modern man like you.
Then I said, if that’s all you wish me to experience
Why the box, and what’s need to be killed, or
To be a dead man in pieces;
I can experience that feeling of living inside the box
By simply living in my thatched hut!
He countered it, and said
You have limbs, and your hairs flaunt a living, and
You may even stretch your leg and
Open your mouth, in a yawn and
Someday you will think that
Someday, like these birds,
Can fly in the sky, with joy and freedom
That I don’t want
That’s what I don’t want from you
For you, a little confusion is enough,
Even after you are dead!
I didn’t know, he had a larger scheme for me
He wanted me, my body, my being to rest in peace, and
He knew, there aren’t any better place, proposition
Other than being stuff a box, though in pieces
To attain the nirvana, of what we could call peace or
Understanding life!
Box is good, much better than my thatched hut, and
Even better than what we called motherland,
They have these sulking prerogatives,
Like obsession and responsibilities
But once you are packed inside this simple box,
There will be no obligations, no worries
Of what’s going there, outside its rim
Thus you will know what is life,
The bliss of ignorance!
He said,
You don’t!
He wanted to help me understand this life
By killing me, with his bare hands
With a knife, sharpened for the purpose
With few silent strokes, pulling my hair
Cutting my limbs, toes, fingers, ears
One by one, dissecting the chest,
Plucking the heart and lugging the intestines
So that those pieces can be packed in a box
Like a package for best kept secrets
As a gift to the life, the life himself!
He said, no use of coffins
They are so expensive, they are
Rather weird too, to fill pieces in a coffin
It’s odd, it will look funny
So, better a box, cheaper and handy
There you need only a pair of hands, to hold it
And carry it wherever you want
‘Why disturb others for your death’
And you can even place it next to you, like a pot
Wherever you wish to lay sit from shrines to morgue
And those pieces inside, pieces of your body, people will think it
For a gift pack, or even the holy water, and there
Half the purpose is served for being borne, another
Half was consumed when you are death, for the purpose.
So no worries, while you proudly reside in and
Have a better understanding of the life,
Inside the box, within the rim of a box
The world outside, will admire you, they will
Wait for a glimpse of the box that contains you
Though in pieces, and they will think they are blessed
You know, this world is made of confusion,
That’s what I want you to feel, for the life
In the midst of it, you are the answer and them
The scraps from your shadow,
No need for the cross, no need for the inferno
The box is enough; a box is enough for a modern man like you.
Then I said, if that’s all you wish me to experience
Why the box, and what’s need to be killed, or
To be a dead man in pieces;
I can experience that feeling of living inside the box
By simply living in my thatched hut!
He countered it, and said
You have limbs, and your hairs flaunt a living, and
You may even stretch your leg and
Open your mouth, in a yawn and
Someday you will think that
Someday, like these birds,
Can fly in the sky, with joy and freedom
That I don’t want
That’s what I don’t want from you
For you, a little confusion is enough,
Even after you are dead!
I didn’t know, he had a larger scheme for me
He wanted me, my body, my being to rest in peace, and
He knew, there aren’t any better place, proposition
Other than being stuff a box, though in pieces
To attain the nirvana, of what we could call peace or
Understanding life!
Box is good, much better than my thatched hut, and
Even better than what we called motherland,
They have these sulking prerogatives,
Like obsession and responsibilities
But once you are packed inside this simple box,
There will be no obligations, no worries
Of what’s going there, outside its rim
Thus you will know what is life,
The bliss of ignorance!
He said,
You don’t!
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sick Days!
Should I count my sick days
Or, should I count my birthdays
Either way, I have lost the count.
Good things do they come
But, did I ever asked my share
I know, I have lost the trail.
Never mind.
We have to respect the man,
The man who knows filth and dirt
But, do I have anything to do with him?
Let’s see again:
The distrust that overlook the faith
And the wish that plays evident with the sin;
Are they a worthy couple?
May be!
In fact,
My body is a clay vase,
My soul is sinner’s paradise
And my heart is placed little around the bend
A corner, where love digs faith!
This clay vase, often I paint dreams
But the soul sucks the heart
And the pastel sinner counts the sick days!
Or, should I count my birthdays
Either way, I have lost the count.
Good things do they come
But, did I ever asked my share
I know, I have lost the trail.
Never mind.
We have to respect the man,
The man who knows filth and dirt
But, do I have anything to do with him?
Let’s see again:
The distrust that overlook the faith
And the wish that plays evident with the sin;
Are they a worthy couple?
May be!
In fact,
My body is a clay vase,
My soul is sinner’s paradise
And my heart is placed little around the bend
A corner, where love digs faith!
This clay vase, often I paint dreams
But the soul sucks the heart
And the pastel sinner counts the sick days!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
I Didn't Grow Up Properly!
I didn’t grow up properly
I had numerous infatuations, and they slapped me
For every slogan I shouted
They said, I disturbed their agenda, and they slapped me
For who I was?
The first age, I was obsessed with guns
The tender age of seven eight nine, I didn’t know
How they all went smoked, with billows from the barrels
And somebody hide his second hand gun beneath my pillow
And I thought I deserve a try, whichever direction it fires
The sound was bustling and the next morning
I have had my first slap in the face.
Mama wanted me to behave and grow tall
The gunshot was forgotten and I became a darling
And my grandpa called me Gandhi, he said
I obey and can write difficult names for invitations
For marriage and obituaries,
Spellings of names I couldn’t pronounce, and
Nonnative spellings of words from the occupation
Then, my first long pant came uninvited
Something tickled me, I was a lousy connoisseur
Wanted to taste the bud, flowers and nectar
Bees and buzzes, thus I got my second slap
I didn’t know the reason.
And I know, I didn’t grow up properly
But happy was me, with all the slaps
They said, I deserve them, for the following
To be a good man, one day, to live a good man!
Anyway, I was growing that very way, for that way
But a single slap, I couldn’t agree with, and
The chilled morning, the chilled bone
The expensive fare, the back bench
The tuition, the examination
The dream, my parents
And the slap
This is loose
But the slap was the humiliation
It mortified my being and the dreams gone sour
But I still don’t understand why he slapped me
Early in the morning,
To a boy who was going for few lessons
On Physics and Chemistry;
I still don’t know who was he and why he was waiting for me
Early in the morning.
I still don’t know had he got any kid of my age
Going to school and waking up early for an extra class
I still don’t know, how many he would have slapped
I still don’t know, had they all went quite
Like me for all these years
I still don’t know, how many kids deserve the slap
Yes, I dint grow up properly
In the land of million mutinies,
My land, my land
Spare those kids
They are innocent
They are the dreams, and
Someday, they will sing songs on you and your valour
But, for every single slap, my land
You lose a son, you wreak a dream
With every slap, you destroy a family
With every slap, you create an outlaw
So, spare those kids
They are innocent.
Yes, I didn’t grow up properly
In my land, and today
I am in exile, weaving a dream for the land
Earning a few pennies, to grow a farm
Full of innocent dreams and
Create a my own land
Where kids can wake up early and got to school
Without any fear of slaps and checking drills
Where kids can learn lessons on best of sciences and poems
Without worrying about strikes and bandhs!
I had numerous infatuations, and they slapped me
For every slogan I shouted
They said, I disturbed their agenda, and they slapped me
For who I was?
The first age, I was obsessed with guns
The tender age of seven eight nine, I didn’t know
How they all went smoked, with billows from the barrels
And somebody hide his second hand gun beneath my pillow
And I thought I deserve a try, whichever direction it fires
The sound was bustling and the next morning
I have had my first slap in the face.
Mama wanted me to behave and grow tall
The gunshot was forgotten and I became a darling
And my grandpa called me Gandhi, he said
I obey and can write difficult names for invitations
For marriage and obituaries,
Spellings of names I couldn’t pronounce, and
Nonnative spellings of words from the occupation
Then, my first long pant came uninvited
Something tickled me, I was a lousy connoisseur
Wanted to taste the bud, flowers and nectar
Bees and buzzes, thus I got my second slap
I didn’t know the reason.
And I know, I didn’t grow up properly
But happy was me, with all the slaps
They said, I deserve them, for the following
To be a good man, one day, to live a good man!
Anyway, I was growing that very way, for that way
But a single slap, I couldn’t agree with, and
The chilled morning, the chilled bone
The expensive fare, the back bench
The tuition, the examination
The dream, my parents
And the slap
This is loose
But the slap was the humiliation
It mortified my being and the dreams gone sour
But I still don’t understand why he slapped me
Early in the morning,
To a boy who was going for few lessons
On Physics and Chemistry;
I still don’t know who was he and why he was waiting for me
Early in the morning.
I still don’t know had he got any kid of my age
Going to school and waking up early for an extra class
I still don’t know, how many he would have slapped
I still don’t know, had they all went quite
Like me for all these years
I still don’t know, how many kids deserve the slap
Yes, I dint grow up properly
In the land of million mutinies,
My land, my land
Spare those kids
They are innocent
They are the dreams, and
Someday, they will sing songs on you and your valour
But, for every single slap, my land
You lose a son, you wreak a dream
With every slap, you destroy a family
With every slap, you create an outlaw
So, spare those kids
They are innocent.
Yes, I didn’t grow up properly
In my land, and today
I am in exile, weaving a dream for the land
Earning a few pennies, to grow a farm
Full of innocent dreams and
Create a my own land
Where kids can wake up early and got to school
Without any fear of slaps and checking drills
Where kids can learn lessons on best of sciences and poems
Without worrying about strikes and bandhs!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Has The Dead Arrived?
Everybody is singing the songs of dead, and
Nobody really cares if it has, indeed, arrived?
I have known a long time ago, even
Before I wasn’t conceived inside my mother’s womb,
For a matter of fact, that time,
Mother, all of a virgin and naïve
She didn’t even know who my father would be, and
That someday, I will be writing poems on the dead.
My father, he is still a proud man, with little money
And my mother, worried about the future, pray
Every night and quietly my plan weaves in the dark
For another poem, for another dead poem!
Today, as I write another dead poem,
Existence becomes a mockery and it ridicules
The passion, that we called life!
These dead poems, I worry
Had they borne along with me, in their shadow
Of innocence and pittance, to celebrate
Subjugation as debt of alliance;
Those dead poems, I worry
Had they conspired along a generation, in the shadow
Of illiteracy and exploitation, to mark
The extinction of a clan!
Lot more dead poems
Lot more dead poems
Dead poems from classrooms
Dead poems from kitchens
Dead poems from farms
Dead poems from offices
These dead poems, they can’t be silent witness
These dead poems, they are the songs of our time!
My worried mother, she called me back home
She has graves ready for each of my dead poems
So I asked:
Has the dead arrived?
Nobody really cares if it has, indeed, arrived?
I have known a long time ago, even
Before I wasn’t conceived inside my mother’s womb,
For a matter of fact, that time,
Mother, all of a virgin and naïve
She didn’t even know who my father would be, and
That someday, I will be writing poems on the dead.
My father, he is still a proud man, with little money
And my mother, worried about the future, pray
Every night and quietly my plan weaves in the dark
For another poem, for another dead poem!
Today, as I write another dead poem,
Existence becomes a mockery and it ridicules
The passion, that we called life!
These dead poems, I worry
Had they borne along with me, in their shadow
Of innocence and pittance, to celebrate
Subjugation as debt of alliance;
Those dead poems, I worry
Had they conspired along a generation, in the shadow
Of illiteracy and exploitation, to mark
The extinction of a clan!
Lot more dead poems
Lot more dead poems
Dead poems from classrooms
Dead poems from kitchens
Dead poems from farms
Dead poems from offices
These dead poems, they can’t be silent witness
These dead poems, they are the songs of our time!
My worried mother, she called me back home
She has graves ready for each of my dead poems
So I asked:
Has the dead arrived?
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Death Cries In Manipur!
My presence was suspicious,
It smelt rotten spirits everywhere, and
Questions on morality repeated itself like a rhyme.
Something strapped my soul, it has got
Spikes that swerves between faith and betrayal
Yes, they are all legends in the streets of Manipur,
With play-cards, with fancy slogans,
And the Death stood there alone!
Little suspicious, in the games we play
Of killing, of brutality and brotherhood;
Ask me, are they real, these corpses,
These bruises, these slogans, these gallows?
I leaned on him and explained holding my guts:
No, these are the remnants, only the leftover
Of a great feast, fed upon and
Of carnal existence with revenge and extermination and
Of cleansing for a great civilization!
He cried.
It smelt rotten spirits everywhere, and
Questions on morality repeated itself like a rhyme.
Something strapped my soul, it has got
Spikes that swerves between faith and betrayal
Yes, they are all legends in the streets of Manipur,
With play-cards, with fancy slogans,
And the Death stood there alone!
Little suspicious, in the games we play
Of killing, of brutality and brotherhood;
Ask me, are they real, these corpses,
These bruises, these slogans, these gallows?
I leaned on him and explained holding my guts:
No, these are the remnants, only the leftover
Of a great feast, fed upon and
Of carnal existence with revenge and extermination and
Of cleansing for a great civilization!
He cried.
Running Away!
What I knew was death, yet
It seems, I am afraid of it
I have known it and I am aware of its eminence
Then, why I need to bother about it?
Yes, I have nurtured this life,
I have even dreamed of living a thousand year
But what?
Millions died and millions continue to dream
Few more despise it, lot more hate it
But what, what for me;
I know it’s coming, yet
It seems, I am running away from it!
It seems, I am afraid of it
I have known it and I am aware of its eminence
Then, why I need to bother about it?
Yes, I have nurtured this life,
I have even dreamed of living a thousand year
But what?
Millions died and millions continue to dream
Few more despise it, lot more hate it
But what, what for me;
I know it’s coming, yet
It seems, I am running away from it!
Kennedy's Question!
My friend Kennedy, he said
He is afraid of death and according to him
Dying in the hands of an illiterate, like those
Numerous killings in Manipur; and
What is even more remorseful is
All the education and dreams gone wasted in the drain
For every single corpse, known or unknown
There’s no reason for it, hell or heaven,
For good deed or sin!
And I said, you too portray like me
How we should die, then
I remembered, we cheered for the tenth time,
And continued talking about Manipur!
While drowning another peck of whiskey
Cigarette in one hand, he asked me:
Can you bear the first bullet, for the cause!
I didn’t answer and he heartily laughed, and continued:
Everybody is afraid to die, whichever form it is;
You die of cholera, you even die of accidents
But taking bullets, it’s not worth
Even for a patriot, whose bodies are like mine,
All flesh and some tender love!
I looked at him and filled another round.
The reminiscence looms large, and
Early morning newspapers and even the news
Brought home by keithel kabi(s),
They all bear the frightening aspects of life,
In Manipur, an eight passed pity upon a professor
With certain demand letter, with or without an insignia
And the stamp was the thunder of cheap bullets
And we were guilty by association, with
Dreams and aspirations and Hunger!
* Written some months back.
He is afraid of death and according to him
Dying in the hands of an illiterate, like those
Numerous killings in Manipur; and
What is even more remorseful is
All the education and dreams gone wasted in the drain
For every single corpse, known or unknown
There’s no reason for it, hell or heaven,
For good deed or sin!
And I said, you too portray like me
How we should die, then
I remembered, we cheered for the tenth time,
And continued talking about Manipur!
While drowning another peck of whiskey
Cigarette in one hand, he asked me:
Can you bear the first bullet, for the cause!
I didn’t answer and he heartily laughed, and continued:
Everybody is afraid to die, whichever form it is;
You die of cholera, you even die of accidents
But taking bullets, it’s not worth
Even for a patriot, whose bodies are like mine,
All flesh and some tender love!
I looked at him and filled another round.
The reminiscence looms large, and
Early morning newspapers and even the news
Brought home by keithel kabi(s),
They all bear the frightening aspects of life,
In Manipur, an eight passed pity upon a professor
With certain demand letter, with or without an insignia
And the stamp was the thunder of cheap bullets
And we were guilty by association, with
Dreams and aspirations and Hunger!
* Written some months back.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Waiting For Another Morning!
They called it morning blues,
For me, they were appetizers, for the day ahead;
My days start with little starters, that
They called whimpers, being not able to recite
In the morning, unlike crows and cows
And they called it morning blues;
Sounds without sounds,
They are yawns!
Hard to believe though,
Like the music in the background
Shrieks, fire guzzlers and chants
In the morning, I seek words that sound wise
Profound words and lots of words
That explain yesterday night’s hangover, over
A fickle play called life!
In the morning, I hate to recite
No matter how disturbed I was yesterday night;
Shadows and all, so I need starters
But they still called by whimpers and
I continued to celebrate life;
No matter how fickle it’s shade are,
Quietly, waiting for another morning!
For me, they were appetizers, for the day ahead;
My days start with little starters, that
They called whimpers, being not able to recite
In the morning, unlike crows and cows
And they called it morning blues;
Sounds without sounds,
They are yawns!
Hard to believe though,
Like the music in the background
Shrieks, fire guzzlers and chants
In the morning, I seek words that sound wise
Profound words and lots of words
That explain yesterday night’s hangover, over
A fickle play called life!
In the morning, I hate to recite
No matter how disturbed I was yesterday night;
Shadows and all, so I need starters
But they still called by whimpers and
I continued to celebrate life;
No matter how fickle it’s shade are,
Quietly, waiting for another morning!
A Talking Poem!
Few more lines could have done.
But nowadays,
Words are more or less like deadpans:
They obey my whims and
They boil.
My whims are self-effacing, like myself.
So where are those lines?
I found myself,
Most of the time, humbled by words and
The perils chug along.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
On Hope!
Nothing more, nothing less
A justice exonerated for a crime,
Another crime meted out for an engagement;
Restlessness, the fervour of new generation,
Had a say like a sermon, with
Good wine and cheap thrills;
Nothing more, nothing less
We still lived for an accidental cause
Like an overdose and a wild raunchy ride;
Simulation, the new essence of humanity
Procreate along the origin, and
Borne are we
Nothing more, nothing less
As humans, as greater mortals and
Dies a quite dead...
Nothing more, nothing less.
Someday, they will exonerate our fickle lies
Even after we are long death
May be for a greater cause called Hope!
A justice exonerated for a crime,
Another crime meted out for an engagement;
Restlessness, the fervour of new generation,
Had a say like a sermon, with
Good wine and cheap thrills;
Nothing more, nothing less
We still lived for an accidental cause
Like an overdose and a wild raunchy ride;
Simulation, the new essence of humanity
Procreate along the origin, and
Borne are we
Nothing more, nothing less
As humans, as greater mortals and
Dies a quite dead...
Nothing more, nothing less.
Someday, they will exonerate our fickle lies
Even after we are long death
May be for a greater cause called Hope!
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Mr.Patriot, I Am Waiting For You!
When I listen to those finger pointing songs
I think of you, Mr. Patriot and
Wanted to blame you hard: Where were you,
For so long, to comfort these bleeding
In the hills, in the plain, and in my heart
Should I tell you, Mr. Patriot
That we are late for the occasion
To sing our patriotic songs and convince them
That we are correct and true like morning sun!
Listening to those songs,
I think of the rot and dirt and the irritation
And numerous gentlemen with outrageous reputation
You know, they too called themselves patriots
I guess, might be of a different ilk, unlike you
I know, I even heard you singing in pain
For what you have seen in the dead men
For what you have heard from the wails of widows
But these patriots, they praise the death and
Never hesitate to hold the hands of widows;
What a shame, they even promise the compensation
Like poll-time gimmicks and rigged ballot paper
What a shame, they measure the virtues of the decease
And nobody was there to throw him a shoe!
Mr. Patriot, do you still think
Words are enough to awake the sleep and
Restore the hearty contempt for them
To feel alive again, for the endangered species? Or,
Do you still fear those cheap bullets and
Self-styled reformists who can’t read
What you have written, thinking
You are the only son of your parents?
Well, I too start writing poems
Voluminous poems on ghastly jokes, like
Death, self-respect and patriotism; you know
For us endangered species, these are jokes
Even to think of a natural death,
Even to talk about self-respect and
There is not a single parlance on patriotism, and
I incite myself, waiting for you!
I think of you, Mr. Patriot and
Wanted to blame you hard: Where were you,
For so long, to comfort these bleeding
In the hills, in the plain, and in my heart
Should I tell you, Mr. Patriot
That we are late for the occasion
To sing our patriotic songs and convince them
That we are correct and true like morning sun!
Listening to those songs,
I think of the rot and dirt and the irritation
And numerous gentlemen with outrageous reputation
You know, they too called themselves patriots
I guess, might be of a different ilk, unlike you
I know, I even heard you singing in pain
For what you have seen in the dead men
For what you have heard from the wails of widows
But these patriots, they praise the death and
Never hesitate to hold the hands of widows;
What a shame, they even promise the compensation
Like poll-time gimmicks and rigged ballot paper
What a shame, they measure the virtues of the decease
And nobody was there to throw him a shoe!
Mr. Patriot, do you still think
Words are enough to awake the sleep and
Restore the hearty contempt for them
To feel alive again, for the endangered species? Or,
Do you still fear those cheap bullets and
Self-styled reformists who can’t read
What you have written, thinking
You are the only son of your parents?
Well, I too start writing poems
Voluminous poems on ghastly jokes, like
Death, self-respect and patriotism; you know
For us endangered species, these are jokes
Even to think of a natural death,
Even to talk about self-respect and
There is not a single parlance on patriotism, and
I incite myself, waiting for you!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
I am afraid of this life!
I have a frightening little secret
I am afraid of dying
I know not too well its deadliness
But, I know it is quite frightening a prospect!
Somebody died yesterday, and
The corpse, I didn’t know, so beautiful;
Asked for a make-up, I don’t know why?
But, it said, I am afraid of its revelations,
And it wanted my company, I guess:
It wanted me to give a feel of it
The feeling of deadliness
The weariness of living,
Oh! What a thought for a living person, and
What a generosity from the death.
I am afraid of this life.
I am afraid of dying
I know not too well its deadliness
But, I know it is quite frightening a prospect!
Somebody died yesterday, and
The corpse, I didn’t know, so beautiful;
Asked for a make-up, I don’t know why?
But, it said, I am afraid of its revelations,
And it wanted my company, I guess:
It wanted me to give a feel of it
The feeling of deadliness
The weariness of living,
Oh! What a thought for a living person, and
What a generosity from the death.
I am afraid of this life.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Dirt Poem For A Lost Patriot!
On a certain bright, sunny day,
A self proclaimed patriot, wearing flakes of pittance
Mocks the dirty road, spits in the manholes
And jeers the stakes of skeletons in the pavement!
Later in the day,
A pacifist, swelled with hunger, cleans the dirt
And signs a treatise for the day, singing
Rhymes out of hunger.
In between, few glossed ads, and
Promises galore, all in the name of martyrdom;
In between, cacophony of anthems, and
Blunt bayonets, for many a mimed soldiers!
Then, suddenly the clash of ideologues
Stages erect and flags flutter,
There they met
Me in the crowd and duel,
I was the sole witness.
A weary duel,
I thought thus and left for home;
I wanted to spit again but my face wriggled, and
All of them follow my path, in hordes,
Like my shadow, poor stony shadows of skeletons!
A petrified soul, burdened with the treaty
Seek ways to becalm the unrest, in the dirt
But the nadir and the glow-signs, they
Drew me far, leaving flags in the wilderness, and
Anthems in hollow drums.
A self proclaimed patriot, wearing flakes of pittance
Mocks the dirty road, spits in the manholes
And jeers the stakes of skeletons in the pavement!
Later in the day,
A pacifist, swelled with hunger, cleans the dirt
And signs a treatise for the day, singing
Rhymes out of hunger.
In between, few glossed ads, and
Promises galore, all in the name of martyrdom;
In between, cacophony of anthems, and
Blunt bayonets, for many a mimed soldiers!
Then, suddenly the clash of ideologues
Stages erect and flags flutter,
There they met
Me in the crowd and duel,
I was the sole witness.
A weary duel,
I thought thus and left for home;
I wanted to spit again but my face wriggled, and
All of them follow my path, in hordes,
Like my shadow, poor stony shadows of skeletons!
A petrified soul, burdened with the treaty
Seek ways to becalm the unrest, in the dirt
But the nadir and the glow-signs, they
Drew me far, leaving flags in the wilderness, and
Anthems in hollow drums.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Rendition of a timid Patriot!
I took a deep breath, and
Pondered about certain sheep, black or white
For a moment, I thought of William Blake, and
How he did professed the sheep, or the Lamb, and
The obvious Innocence and the evident Christ!
The subsequent moment,
I was there in the ridges, hiding my skin
Because, I was afraid
Of cultivation they ploughed with spade and a rough mallet.
While counting the sprouts of freedom
Someone in the bush, next to me, hushed:
"Here lies the spirits of silent soldiers, and you crouched;
Rise and look, these blood streams to the plain, and
The present, past and future; all burnt in the trail
So rise, and rear many more lambs, if not now
Wolves will howl in daylight and weeping widows will curse endless nights!"
I sunk deeper, weak in the knees, and
Blamed the heart that nibbled in harmony, and
I know I am still a timid patriot, hiding in the ridges
But the rising inferno, it also burns my plight.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Whose Poem Is It, Anyway?
What it really takes for me to write a poem and what makes me write a poem? I think, I will never be able to understand. And I am not too sure either if it has got anything to do with what I feel. I still remember various one-liners, quotes and sayings on poems and why people write poems, more or less with the rhymes and forms. In fact, my poems are more of words in whichever form or order they wish to come by. We have got so many poets and self proclaimed poets amidst us; sometimes it is utterly amusing even to think of poets and this trade of being in poetry! For me, I think, I write poems, my so called poems, in anger. Yea, as a kid, I used to compose words to impress my friends. May be I still do it. But, those friends have left with their lives and I am here alone, seeking friends within myself, who can understand what I feel and why get angry. I think, I write for myself and to channelize my anger.
Good times have passed since I first wrote my first poem. Theme was rather funny; on a tree. A tree soaked in monsoon rain. I borrowed the words from the books I have read, listened and imbibed in the classes, in tuitions, in playgrounds and from funga wari. Those words have able to leave a permanent mark on my life. I still think, I think with those words. Even more, there were stories, real or make-belief, from my parents, grandparents and local guardians. The bullets whizzing past my grandma's ears, long rifles with bayonets, saving the last cruse for another day, having to eat only the dried fish while hiding…during World War II and many duels involving Japanese and British armies. Those stories were real stories for me and I can still relate with places and remnants of that great period. The stories of many a rituals and celebrations, those stories still reverberate and I compare those events with what is happening, including my own part, playing roles. Unluckily, these recurring roles eclipsed the stories I have heard and cherished for so long. May be, I have also changed. I might have involved myself with these roles I am playing, sometimes a terrorist, sometimes a poet, sometimes a thief and?
Then, whose poem is it? I don't know!
Today, death comes easy in my poems. Everybody dies in my poem and the graves are the pages I save to write. Those stories were overshadowed by the events I cannot understand. I have beautiful memories. I enjoyed my childhood in the abundance of nature and freedom. Until this happened?
They carried my first poem in school magazine. From that day, I have become the seeker of angst. And my land also started to fume, giving company to my anger and restlessness. Now, I am comfortable with death poems and happy to harness the anger within. Hope, I will be able to keep this anger as long as I am alive. At least, it will keep me busy.
Reasons for anger: everybody knows!
The fields I once roamed freely have become killing fields, my classrooms where I first learn to respect the National Anthem have become barracks of armies carrying the National Flag of that very nation, our famed Nine-ridges have become another thousand ghettos; what else? I am angry because, places that live in my heart have been reduced to ashes. I am angry because my Motherland is bleeding. I am afraid if our children will ever understand the stories I have listened from my grandparents! And I really doubt if we will ever have our children!
And most of my poems, they manifest the anger I harvest. I think our children, at some point of time, will read these poems in their full glory! Hope this is how stories continue…
Good times have passed since I first wrote my first poem. Theme was rather funny; on a tree. A tree soaked in monsoon rain. I borrowed the words from the books I have read, listened and imbibed in the classes, in tuitions, in playgrounds and from funga wari. Those words have able to leave a permanent mark on my life. I still think, I think with those words. Even more, there were stories, real or make-belief, from my parents, grandparents and local guardians. The bullets whizzing past my grandma's ears, long rifles with bayonets, saving the last cruse for another day, having to eat only the dried fish while hiding…during World War II and many duels involving Japanese and British armies. Those stories were real stories for me and I can still relate with places and remnants of that great period. The stories of many a rituals and celebrations, those stories still reverberate and I compare those events with what is happening, including my own part, playing roles. Unluckily, these recurring roles eclipsed the stories I have heard and cherished for so long. May be, I have also changed. I might have involved myself with these roles I am playing, sometimes a terrorist, sometimes a poet, sometimes a thief and?
Then, whose poem is it? I don't know!
Today, death comes easy in my poems. Everybody dies in my poem and the graves are the pages I save to write. Those stories were overshadowed by the events I cannot understand. I have beautiful memories. I enjoyed my childhood in the abundance of nature and freedom. Until this happened?
They carried my first poem in school magazine. From that day, I have become the seeker of angst. And my land also started to fume, giving company to my anger and restlessness. Now, I am comfortable with death poems and happy to harness the anger within. Hope, I will be able to keep this anger as long as I am alive. At least, it will keep me busy.
Reasons for anger: everybody knows!
The fields I once roamed freely have become killing fields, my classrooms where I first learn to respect the National Anthem have become barracks of armies carrying the National Flag of that very nation, our famed Nine-ridges have become another thousand ghettos; what else? I am angry because, places that live in my heart have been reduced to ashes. I am angry because my Motherland is bleeding. I am afraid if our children will ever understand the stories I have listened from my grandparents! And I really doubt if we will ever have our children!
And most of my poems, they manifest the anger I harvest. I think our children, at some point of time, will read these poems in their full glory! Hope this is how stories continue…
Saturday, February 28, 2009
1.
Once, we were farmers
Every morning, at the bark of a crow
Many a yawns gasped, and
Sung songs tilting the fertile soil,
No urea, no phosphate
A spade, a tilt and a pair of bullocks, and
Look today, a pair of goblets:
One in the hilltop, and another
Deep inside the psyche, and
All the sermons, shadows of occupation
My dear, I was destined to forget the servitude:
Farmers were long death!
Recently, my heart beats rather insane
My cold hands desperately seeks trigger happy guns, and
My eyes, somebody told: red, red!
Every morning, at the bark of a crow
Many a yawns gasped, and
Sung songs tilting the fertile soil,
No urea, no phosphate
A spade, a tilt and a pair of bullocks, and
Look today, a pair of goblets:
One in the hilltop, and another
Deep inside the psyche, and
All the sermons, shadows of occupation
My dear, I was destined to forget the servitude:
Farmers were long death!
Recently, my heart beats rather insane
My cold hands desperately seeks trigger happy guns, and
My eyes, somebody told: red, red!
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Dead Poem!
In the land of dead
All the poets write dead poems
On obituaries and dreams
Without graves and shrouds, and
Death becomes just another face of life.
Far away from my land
I still try to smell the dead,
In my dead poems, through
The faces I see and images I grow up with
And all you can do is: read,
Read these lines, without knowing
I am bleeding!
Friday, February 20, 2009
A Poem!
I am a poet, who wear bullet proof vest
I am a poet, who is afraid of stray bullets
I am a poet, who dies every night with his words;
And I am a wasted poet.
Siroy Lily was sweetheart,
I have had a photo of it.
Now I have another fence,
And few more graves.
That day, I proposed a Thangkhul Girl
Today, I know a Meitei widow
And my mother wants me to marry
But the girl is caught in the curfew.
I am a poet.
I know I can write poems in hurry
I know I can chide them all
Guns, roses, condoms and strikes
But I am not sure
If I am afraid?
A cozy gun, hidden below my pillow
Another rose in my garden
And few used condoms in streets;
A frightened poet isn’t enough,
I know strikes are coming.
I am a poet, who is afraid of stray bullets
I am a poet, who dies every night with his words;
And I am a wasted poet.
Siroy Lily was sweetheart,
I have had a photo of it.
Now I have another fence,
And few more graves.
That day, I proposed a Thangkhul Girl
Today, I know a Meitei widow
And my mother wants me to marry
But the girl is caught in the curfew.
I am a poet.
I know I can write poems in hurry
I know I can chide them all
Guns, roses, condoms and strikes
But I am not sure
If I am afraid?
A cozy gun, hidden below my pillow
Another rose in my garden
And few used condoms in streets;
A frightened poet isn’t enough,
I know strikes are coming.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Marriage Of Stones!
I walk towards my grave, unknowingly
And the petite pebbles, they
Promise to be my mate, in the journey;
And I accept the proposal in fancy.
My feet, few joints and
Other incredible limbs pray, and
Each one of them takes on the journey.
You need little prayers and
Not so pleasant pleas,
They are afraid:
The bondage, the delight and the haunting!
Little beyond the gaze,
I see my grave
Few sprouts of marigold saplings
Few careless cinders, and
A tidy mound.
My petite mates, they
Ask me questions unknown, and
Wanted me to molest their inhibitions
But the journey continues
Chants, garlands, pipers.
A beautiful marriage.
And the petite pebbles, they
Promise to be my mate, in the journey;
And I accept the proposal in fancy.
My feet, few joints and
Other incredible limbs pray, and
Each one of them takes on the journey.
You need little prayers and
Not so pleasant pleas,
They are afraid:
The bondage, the delight and the haunting!
Little beyond the gaze,
I see my grave
Few sprouts of marigold saplings
Few careless cinders, and
A tidy mound.
My petite mates, they
Ask me questions unknown, and
Wanted me to molest their inhibitions
But the journey continues
Chants, garlands, pipers.
A beautiful marriage.
Dull Limbs!
Me, as a human being, is dull
My body parts are of no use
They are rather mundane
And I hardly refer them with their names.
Each night,
When the whole world sleeps;
Each one of them tries to wake me up
They writhe and score
And the bed sheet,
It mopes the bleed, silently.
The stain of blood and the sweat;
It smell trivial to my senses
And I continue to ponder over a dream.
A dull dream for a dull person!
My waking dreams and
Few talking wheels of the night,
They furnish my living aspirations and
I travel few miles more
Fighting for the limbs that I don’t know and
I observe few more genial events for my dreams.
My dull limbs,
They can’t see the pitiless depiction of life
Instead, they watched the blood stained sheets
And appreciate the misread in the stain.
My body parts are of no use
They are rather mundane
And I hardly refer them with their names.
Each night,
When the whole world sleeps;
Each one of them tries to wake me up
They writhe and score
And the bed sheet,
It mopes the bleed, silently.
The stain of blood and the sweat;
It smell trivial to my senses
And I continue to ponder over a dream.
A dull dream for a dull person!
My waking dreams and
Few talking wheels of the night,
They furnish my living aspirations and
I travel few miles more
Fighting for the limbs that I don’t know and
I observe few more genial events for my dreams.
My dull limbs,
They can’t see the pitiless depiction of life
Instead, they watched the blood stained sheets
And appreciate the misread in the stain.
Passion Poems!
Passion poems
Like crimes of passion,
Live in tender infatuation, towards
Unknown slavery, and
We mere mortals seek fancy pages
Like tombstones in the desert.
Like crimes of passion,
Live in tender infatuation, towards
Unknown slavery, and
We mere mortals seek fancy pages
Like tombstones in the desert.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Poem Of A New Year!
A half naked woman, in her late twenties
There she stood with scratches, waiting for me
In the lawn, waiting for a magic.
A part of a true story.
In the shadow, a shivering movement of limbs
Another dismantled stretcher, and a crying daughter
In my lap, a pillow of her bosoms.
Another true story.
A window with a torn curtail
A door without lobs
And a passage of torn letters;
The house couldn’t interpret the pain
The half naked pregnant woman carries.
This is my poem of a new year,
True stories of heartless despairs.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Death Fragrance!
It’s hard to follow the whims insane
It’s hard to understand the rhetoric lies
But the fragrance of livelihood,
And the certain evidence on inhibition;
They all come in hordes
While I am dying!
Like a routine,
I return to my four-walled rented room
Anytime I wanted to return home;
Certain fragrance draws me there
And I wish to call it my home.
Like a die hard habit,
I breathe my soul, in and out
Every time I wanted to feel alive;
The exhilarating gasp in the mouth
And I wonder about this life.
Not to be taken seriously,
I was not happy doing the rounds, of a life
Breathing, eating, sleeping
All I wanted was to smell the life, and
Lost in its fragrance.
It’s hard to understand the rhetoric lies
But the fragrance of livelihood,
And the certain evidence on inhibition;
They all come in hordes
While I am dying!
Like a routine,
I return to my four-walled rented room
Anytime I wanted to return home;
Certain fragrance draws me there
And I wish to call it my home.
Like a die hard habit,
I breathe my soul, in and out
Every time I wanted to feel alive;
The exhilarating gasp in the mouth
And I wonder about this life.
Not to be taken seriously,
I was not happy doing the rounds, of a life
Breathing, eating, sleeping
All I wanted was to smell the life, and
Lost in its fragrance.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Diagnosis!
That day, I wore nothing but a thin layer of skin
And they put me through a machine
The machine sucked my soul through little veins
And they call hope in practice.
And amidst the duel
I observed a funny exercise
And they called it Diagnosis!
My beloved, who wore a sub-routine make-up;
She murmured and touches my breath,
Her tender palm in my rippled chest
And few drops of tears,
And I thought,
We have a lifetime to copulate.
The machines
They stoop so low
They devise all fickle mechanisms
And there, I was a pig
A dirty pig
A snorting pig;
A pig through the machine
And the conclusion was a pretentious hope.
The machine and me and the diagnosis;
My weary skin couldn’t care less,
Except for a hope:
Besides my body,
She stood tall!
And they put me through a machine
The machine sucked my soul through little veins
And they call hope in practice.
And amidst the duel
I observed a funny exercise
And they called it Diagnosis!
My beloved, who wore a sub-routine make-up;
She murmured and touches my breath,
Her tender palm in my rippled chest
And few drops of tears,
And I thought,
We have a lifetime to copulate.
The machines
They stoop so low
They devise all fickle mechanisms
And there, I was a pig
A dirty pig
A snorting pig;
A pig through the machine
And the conclusion was a pretentious hope.
The machine and me and the diagnosis;
My weary skin couldn’t care less,
Except for a hope:
Besides my body,
She stood tall!
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