Showing posts from January, 2011

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Tales the dead man tells

When was the last time we met? On so many occasions
we have been stumbling upon each other, and I do
admit we have become so close that I lose the sense
of space and time in your company. Your unknown
human body would understand not, your dead mind
would appreciate not—the vicious mess and
nightmare that the ever increasing number of your
folks has instigated, decreasing me to a simple number
who has been divided by cold murders, monies galore
and utter dejection. I'm so colourfully hopeless.

Do you agree your number, however high, is now in
drains? You and your folks haunt no more in the desolate
leikai and leirak but live among us—now and then in the
talking shop of the scoundrels, in the jungles of liberty,
in every wakat meepham, in each line of my poetry, and
in the shadows that shroud the landscape. We meet so often
and I have seen you have sucked the life out of our living.
From losing in a stream of unconsciousness, I have now
started to speak your language. And I live to…

FIVE Reasons Why I Love Rock n’ Roll

Rock on out, the Joplin lady yelled. Graduated with a bang from the blues and jazz, country, gospel and neo-classical—rock n’ roll, for me, is the jack and master of all musical trades. In its ever transforming spaces, there has been also a Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On as the years pass rocking around the clock. Earlier I was fascinated with the sheer power of this form of music, listening to every genre I come across. Rock captured me in the same way Facebook has convinced us that it's cool to share online our social lives. Now I see reasons into rock. And when I say reason, I mean it in pure personal terms: it includes no nuance from Nietzsche, Camus, Hume, Plato and their ilk; and it is strictly abstain from the egg-headed, textbook approach.

1  Pulse

Believe it or not—as contrast to what we were taught in high school biology—I have a normal heartbeat of around 92 per second against any Tomba and Chaoba’s 72. Doctors say I h…

The public day

Hundreds of decorated tanks rolled down
The street this morning in the vale
No one came out to watch the spectacle withal
On this public day of the town
People they had marched to the mortuary
To fetch the masses who were dead happily
And lifeless bodies that would have come were busy
Jostling to get a line on the eighth page
Of the newspapers they will find their eternal place

Occasionally punctuated was the street with flowers
Strewn from the sky from jet planes from Russia
With colourful cloth banners saying they were picked
Specially from a large single garden
But the fragrance was lost
Before crossing the stream of scum

And away from the street
Unimportant people are lying down
On the shadows of their own death
Unimportant people are taken away
To the torture chambers of humanity
While there is merrymaking—
Self-glorification on the naked street
Flaunting the guns from Israel and America
Dancing to the tune of marching army bands

Paper plane blues

We are birds without the wings
squatting inside a box so crimson
gazing at the eyeshot so dark.
How would it be
if all of us write a poem:
Two and half million little verses
of tiny buds that would the lilies bloom
of colourful butterfly wings
of the winter's woes
of lights and azure heaven?

The places  are so peaceful,
The people are only too brutal,
Was it deliberate
We came into this box 
The apteral birds
Then without the roots
Now without the stems?

How would it be if we take
The two and half million little sheets
and turn them into a big paper aeroplane
Hop on it, recite each poem again
Singing and humming
In a child's artlessness
and soar across the skies
and fly away to the lowly earth
and land, land on ornamented trees?

But where do we get the papers,
and how do we express the words around
this mindless chirping,
when we are caged inside
this coop of commode?

Any time I'm in a moving thing, like an airplane, I'm
usually asleep before we even get on our way.


The great rush

Chasing small miracles

How much does this
final touch mean?
And how the mind rushes
through the ravines
Of the almost finished work
To my haste, the sweep hands
of the clock—it is grinning
You fickle little thing!

Uneasy, bang, unbend
Take a deep breath; count to ten
The world ain’t ending tonight
Many people are going to
drink blood
And many more who will
eat bullet
When the minutes are
hiding behind the seconds
Let me finish the varnishing.


Black seeds and others

Half dead in our sleep, we missed the
sowing festival of construction, of
pomposity and power, in the hours of
our time. The saplings are now growing,
watered with blood and puke and scum.
Now we can also bleed and puke and die.
We can bleed and puke and die now.

The air smells pungent, the fire oppressively
hot and so intolerable. The soul cannot take
it anymore when the earth goofs up in the
troubled waters. Fuck the ether. The
authority — rubber-stamp hordes of farcical
plays and carbon copies of detached heads
— builds on their whims. On us they trampled
with their shit-smeared foot. If this is reality, let it
be guillotined. Year in and year out, violence
comes knocking on our head, violence comes
as the uninvited guest, violence comes so
menacingly — we are bleeding hate of the times.

Animal urges, when the stomach is full, they
are restrained. And us, a thousand stomachs appetise
our urges, filling with the scum and puke. Stolen,
looted, the stomachs become paunches of malign that
cast shadows of mis…

Between equal and unequal distribution

Between equal and unequal distribution
There are the differences galore
The hills are taller than the valleys
The rich are richer, the poor only too poor
Roses are red but the grass is green
Happiness, it cannot be how sad you are not
The government cannot be the people
The guns fire, and the syringes only fix.

Between equal and unequal distribution
The sameness, the balance do make up
Lullabies, we hear in the gunshots 
Serenity, so real—we find inside the syringes
The thieves, they are the owners now
Truth is how much the facts are concealed
And the truth is we are only animals.

Between equal and unequal distribution
Life's lost in merely living it on
The road to death are now marked
The filth has cheated itself to become clean
And the looted possession weighs heavier
Between this equal and unequal distribution
Where are the roads leading to?

Read this poem in Manipuri

It’s my way or the highway

One day a long time ago,  I traveled across the town in No Man’s Land. A place where you find blood flowing in streams. A place where darkness shrouds the sky, more than the burqas has been stifling sexuality in faraway Afghanistan. All of a sudden in the fervour, I was in a nameless highway, like a snake in a flood of misery the road skidded. The naked carcasses on the roadside shamelessly smiled at me.
The chilly winds started blowing so unfriendly, it had shuddered every heat  of the land. Yet it was less hostile than the people on the mountains looking down on me. And it was less worse than the living experience of the people. And it was less vicious than the fuckfaced authority. And I got up to go forward.
The verdant landscape, punctured by various hues of blue in its artlessness best made me happy. The mystery of the nature weighs more than the contrived grandeur that can be measured in lengths and breadths. —At least in my perception. And then I saw some tree-people, their fa…

From a winter’s night walk

The weather is so disgraceful in Delhi, and it disrobes humanity of its vanity. In summer, the mercury rises to 45 degree that makes us want to go naked. On the opposite side of the year, when the uncongenial cold gives us the seasonal kick in the derrière, it hurts as if we have been wearing nothing.

Single Click: Open Season

Personally I prefer winter to summer. Well, life could have been so meaningful if it means choosing between the least number of alternatives. Perhaps we have these seasons to offer some clues into the essence. Now I was saying winter because some thick sweaters and jackets plus a room heater and an immersion rod  can give me company, and I’m alright in these winters of discontent. Though it’s quite terrible waking up, I agreed, but it’s lot easier than facing the summer’s wrath. Remember the sweat that pours off your brow on those sultry May mornings, and then the oppressive heat that follows throughout.

Springs and autumns have sank into irrelevancy by virtue of t…

On waiting

Many suns have risen
The morning has also become old
Yet I have been waiting here
As new as new it can be
And as fresh as
The oodles of fresh flowers in March
The silence of a dead night
The mother in the labour room
The excitement of an impending fete
Like meeting a friend from the past
Like a lover yearning for his love
Like a child with bright, glistering eyes
Like an animal on a full stomach
Here I am, with prospect—waiting
for no Godot, but looking into
The wrinkled matutinal face of winter airs
—for the Arrival.

Songs of Desires

p  r  e  f  a  c  e

Songs of desires is a collection of poems, mostly written in 2010, and which I have posted on my blog. I have to document them lest I might delete all of them in a fit. Even if I throw some tantrum and burn the print-out, I’m sure I’ll have them on the net now. But I know I’ll not delete them from the blog as well as burn them down—I’m not that impulsive. I still regret shredding my journals in the past out of sheer ignorance and annoyance before posting online or putting the copies up somewhere.

When I write I’m too political at times. Poetry, though, is not my area of expertise. I’m only more adept in establishing nonconformitive thoughts and finding ways to live normal with them. In a way, I’m just a normal guy in a normal life with a normal day-time job. When I look around, longing to see some sense why we are here, living on this planet—everything is so fucked up outside my ‘self’, which really disturbs my inside. T…

For the love of bonfire

It’s good to warm the bones beside the fire. No time for Pink Floyd now! Time is, we are rigorously told, money. And when I cannot even buy time for home, I only wish for one thing. Especially when the cold airs from the Himalayas sweep through the city, I always long for the daily small bonfires that I used to enjoy with my folks in our hometown. The latest electric heater is no match for the pleasure from basking in the yellow and orange flames in the open. Without question, the heater—inside the comfort of my room, with a regular power supply—is much more cosy and warmer, however, it has no feel nor flavour. Or the feel-good factor of the bonfires, for that matter.

I grew up in a place where life rushes at the riotous speed of a bullock-cart. When nothing really happens, the gossips do make up for it. And the best place to eavesdrop was our local club and its backyard was our permanent bonfire place! Surprisingly, there were so many things that would accompany the gabfest and the f…

Dreams and nightmares

If only Utopia was possible
How the air would be so blissful
If only this unreal real was unreal
And if only the dreams were real
And I would not want to be the birds
And I would not search in the words
And good it will be to paint the world with sables of truth
And no more will be the uncouthness of the youth
And no more will there be rejection
And no more will there be dejection

But now when I walk through the street
I see the only route of the offbeat
For the familiar roads, they are smeared with blood
The people and equally, the things grunted
We are forgotten, but nay forsaken
The armies and cops would remind us often.

I saw my dreams and nightmares
As I wish now, as my heart shares
Let these days be only in my sleep
Out from the slumber, let peace and justice seep.

1|1|11 Happy New Year!!!



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