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Like unpublished poems of some anonymous fireflies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)***

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!