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!
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
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3 comments:
Fuck this Nation
Someday out of my funeral too
They will fill their pockets.
the roads will be blocked for one day
for all the songs i sing.
And if you say this is how they disregard
a patriot in this land of patriots,
Yes, I am a patriot too.
But don't splatter flowers on my coffin
dont write those same quotes
dont hurt the watchers with your cries
Just walk bold whether you wear black or white
Just tell them he was just a patriot
A patriot who pretended to be farmer
A patriot who cried in his songs
A patriot who wrote poem inside the burning house
A patriot who died for no cause as you will
A patriot who drowned in the dream of his generation.
And We are never Late for the occasion
as you know we are not talking of cultivation
which you claimed as your childhood profession
And Words are not enough as you know
for the sleepy eyes
We must make them open
or we must go them Blind.
And your Voluminous Poems will do it
but not by keeping it for me or you to read out
when we are dosed with Whiskey
but to recite it at Oinam Bazar
To recite it at Kangla GAte
To read out at Ema Keithel
to Recite it at SHiroi Hills
to Cry it out loud at Loktak.
For the Other patriots
Who celebrate counting widows
I just see them peeping into my windows
to hear my father counting his hard earned Money,
They are not patriots
they are parrots
of the cheapest kind
which utter what ever they have seen
which mimic badly their fathers
We must not die cheaply in their bullets
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