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Showing posts from August, 2012

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Television Tales

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Gil Scott Heron
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised





Is it in Death?

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Is it in the weeds
Is it in heroin
Is it in whiskey
that we see a country?

It is in my hole at the rear
The country shackles us with fear
With cheap fake goods from China
With more heroin from Myanmar
With untold tragedies of unknown terror;

now, never too sure
how we ever proceed
all this protest for peace;

Is it in guns we find freedom;
Is it in killing we find liberty;
Is it in us, no matter what; 
Is it in me, no matter what?



The Poem-Home

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I brought from home a bag of poems
Now in the heat they are so still
Now so far from home have I been
I can't take them back
The poems melt like the hail in the rain
I can't let them go like this

No I am not far from home
My poems are my home

My poems are my home
My home is made of heap of poems
There is no state, no god, no man
I bring here my poems a bag of poems
My home is made of poems.

04:01 AM 8/20/2012

Outside the Chamber

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I'm not sure where am I
This moment is what makes me
I'm alive but it's hazy
All the things are so blurred
The people have become
Zombies and all the sounds
Echoes in the distance

Silent echoes, blurred views
All the indistinct sounds
All the senseless sights
Suddenly I realise
In wonderland I'm now

It is at the field of
Heaven where I'm now
And where the weeds grow wild
And where poppy plays the
Only protagonist;
Us, we get other roles.
What role am I in now,

Indistinct and unclear
Silent echoes, blurred views
Everything is bleary.

No I'm wrong I'm not here
Silent echoes, blurred views
Indistinct and unclear

Suddenly I see it
Again, this time it's clear
I'm chained with India
Whoever has done it
Whoever has chained us
Let it go, if not me
I will take its share of pain;
Let it go, if not me
It has got a baggage
Of thirty-three crore gods
Of one billion people
Let it go, if not me
I'm just a wasted man.

12:11 AM 8/19/2012




Letter to the Editor

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With regards, we request you publish this letter not as a letter
But flash it a news nevermind if it is not even a news
It is our story, the stories of the strugglers
There is no other way but impose our words and judgment, kindly
Publish or perish, you might even perish after publishing,
We know the world been so uncertain these days;
In publishing it, tho' we will get the pleasure as much as in making you perished
We cannot help it, in uncompromising positions we taken a stand;
Horror's our identity; the doctors the engineers know most
Fear's our name; the people know most,

so here it is, our stories, the lives of the brave brotherhood
there a furnished house for our secretary, please note down
We bargained it with our hard-earned money
We always get only hard-earned money
And it's located, a foreign mainland city, far from the dirty unwashed
No foolish tribesman dare dream such dream such delight;

a roundtrip for the advisor to the land of happy people
This is a si…

Yours Faithfully

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The first cut was the deepest
But it had sunk a long time ago
Never it was hoped
this moment would come,
Never it was hoped
You would indulge in it,
oft cutting deeper with sadist thrills
You are the controller,
You must go on, go on
You have paid the money
You don't have to rape a whore
Always faithfully
Do I submit before you, my master
With no regret must I tell you,
must I not change my belief
I believe you want me to believe
I belong where you want me to belong
I'm being what you want me to be
Yours faithfully, my master,
I'm the citizen of your kingdom.

8/20/2012 11:03 AM 




Work is Worship?

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All along the years I have always thought that work is a curse. Blessing in disguise? I'm not sure anymore, but lately, as the number of boring days increases so much, I have changed my mind for good. Work, any kind of work on personal and professional terms, saves us from the drudgery of life. Imagine a life in which all of we have to do is just sit and watch the sun and the moon and stars, all day, all night, only sitting and eating and walking and running and losing ourselves in endless streams of entertainment and ennui. It would be the ultimate disaster, a suicide of the soul. However this does not mean we have to work to live our life.





TOO MUCH LOVE WILL KILL YOU

Basically, I'm worried about too less of work as much as I'm about too much of it. It sounds good that the best way is to make the right balance between work and leisure, though it is easier said than done. In any case, we cannot love too much work or too much free time. Otherwise Brian May may entangle us i…

Fuck You, Bangalore

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First there is the exodus, then the accusations and the blame-game; the script of a 21st-century Secular, Democratic and Republic India cannot be written any better. The recent crisis in the metros — especially in Bangalore, Pune, Mumbai and Hyderabad from where thousands of Northeast people fled in the wake of sporadic attacks and persistent rumours — started a week before the Independence Day and reached its climax a day after the celebration of the Indian freedom.

Blame the rumour-mongers who have been apprehended in Bangalore and elsewhere for manufacturing a crisis; blame Pakistan (the safety valve of India), for the Muslims, sorry to say but they are also related in the case; blame the Bangladeshi migrants, who the electoral representatives care about so much; blame the economy that gives rise to social unrest; blame on the ethnic problems; blame everything, blame yourself, blame me. For the record, however, this is not a stand-alone issue we are facing over the last few decade…

On August 15

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I The streets are deserted, nay even the dogs would come sniffing
on this August afternoon, though these are the days for their mating;
More cunning than us, maybe, for the lustful night they are waiting.
Do they know today is the Independence Day or don't they simply care?
The dogs should loiter-linger in the streets because today is a special day.
And us, radio and television bark at us to come
On this day for the festival at the special venues.
But why the streets are deserted, the dogs may know not.
The bomb blasts, the blood, the rush at the hospitals show it all.
India, do you know why the streets are deserted?

II
Sixty-five years
Of never-ending tragedies.
And you call it independence;
Don't you have any dignity?
Don't complain.
Don't ever complain.
Never complain when you are humiliated,
You know you will be humiliated.
But don't complain.
India, forgive me and my tribesmen
We have the heart of a whore
India, you also have the heart of a whore.

III
We are f…

On August 13

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Freedom should be drawn
In little things that we do,
Governments should die


August 13 is celebrated as the Patriots' Day in Manipur. It was on this day in 1891, a few Manipuri bravehearts were hanged to death and the erstwhile kingdom was annexed into the British India. More than a hundred years have passed, and their spirit has always been a guiding light. We are proud that our ancestors stood up, even if they know the might of the imperial power of those days. They taught us that it is better to live free for a day and die than to live as a slave for a lifetime. However I hang my head in shame, how they would have loathe to see we have reached here: this place where the gun rules and this time when money decides everything. In our story we have had four twists: the imposition of Hinduism, the Seven-year Devastation, the onset of imperialism and the Merger Agreement -- in these tales lie the narratives that have determined where and who we are now. We cannot unmake and undo the pas…

After MA

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A TRANSLATION OF THE POEM "MA PASS TOURAGA" BY LAISHRAM SAMARENDRA
From the book Mamang Leikai Thambal Satle (1974)

After MA
I'd be a college professor
I'd wear a black tie
I'd think of the high ideals
I'd be neat and live tidy.

After BA
I'd be the SDC
I'd marry the SDO's daughter
If she is ugly or has curly hairs
Nothing matters to me but love
Love comes in the morning, by nature,
after having cakes and biscuits
Everything becomes beautiful
when travelling in a car.

After matriculation
I'd be the UDC clerk, FK's clerk;
I'd handle the housing loan
I'd hand out the scooters
I'd discuss them with your SDC
Let me know the SDC
Who follows me not.

I'd rather pass not the matriculation
I'd rather not make haste for work in the morning
I'd rather do not do those occupations
Multiply your salary by ten
That I get it in one hour.

Your CD salutes me
I'm the contractor
I'm Meino, who every PTO licks and clings to
The …

The Poet and the Art of Poetry

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A TRANSLATION OF THE ESSAY ‘KABI AMASOONG KABYA’ BY KHWAIRAKPAM CHAOBA, FROM THE BOOK OF PROSE ‘WARENG AKHOMBA’, COMPILED AND PUBLISHED BY THE MANIPURI SAHITYA PARISHAD; FIRST EDITION 1965; SECOND EDITION 1973; PRICE: RS 3.75/- (LUPA AHOOM SOOPNA PEISA HOOMDHRAMANGA)


Whom do we call a poet? On a theme, from an emotional appeal of hope and happiness, we pick up our pen to express ourselves. Yet it is beyond our comprehension, from a poet’s perspective, to see how much we can write and how clearly we can put down the feelings and impressions in black and white. We always try to emphasise on the mellifluous sound and well-timed rhythm, by adding, subtracting and tweaking the pieces of our voice that should be easy on our and the readers’ ear — all’s well if we succeed in our penning endeavour. The ear is irrefutably the only tool, which measures the quality and the originality of the poet and the nicety of his/her art. The poet croons and creates the sound and rhythm, much to the deligh…

Bad Guests Come, Good Guests Leave

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Image courtesyArrival and Departure
Be our guest
So they come
One by one,

Bullets rush
They bang front
They race rear
No one stays

When drug comes
All is well
All shed tears
When it leaves

Unwanted
Some guests are
But it’s true
They do come

Peace comes quiet
Full flowers bloom
The room’s full
Good guests leave

Bad guests come
Silence, still
They know not
The reason

Money’s in
All turn green
So do we
So do they

No one’s sure
If it’s good
If it’s bad
The money

Ibobi
Go to shit
Let him wait,

Bad guests come
Good guests go
So be it.

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Breaking news
There is a new blog on the block. And it is special in more than one ways. One of the most remarkable features is that it is entirely written in Meiteilon/Manipuri, though using Roman alphabets. I’m planning, one day, to convert it into a full-fledged Meitei Mayek weblog, using some unicode fonts. No worries for n…

Ten Manipuri Things That Burn My Soul

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Woods, rivers, mountains
I said I love for love’s sake
Tarzan they called me


It is overwhelming at times how fortunate it is to belong to a place flooded with striking natural landscapes. This single factor offers so much solace but like an unexpected storm destroying the tranquility of a night, some of my tribe’s traits and social mores spoil my mood beyond control every time I come across any one of them. Or to put in another way, there are positive things in life, which accentuate its essence. There are also negative things that make the balance. But the good is grossly lacking as the bad rules the roost in my hometown. Some of the most irritating things in the world are seen in a Manipuri life, driving me on the verge of being a judgmental prick though I want to admit it. Anyway, here’s a list of randomly-ordered ten annoying things that burn my soul:

   1 See You Dance Like Everybody Is Watching      Respectable feminists might be mistaken at this gender reference, yet it is true…

Sweet Revenge

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You have the power to put me down  As much as you love me, make me;
I’m surprised you have belittled all but
To the bottomless pit of unconditional love,
You have pushed me down;
I’m vindictive of your unasked reciprocity now,
For putting me down is not solely pushing me down.
I will seize you unmercifully, will never let you go
And we will fall down together
And there will be words no more,
But only what you feel for me
Only what I feel for you
Only what exists between us
Only what exists for us.







The animated gifs are sourced from Animation Buddy


What

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What did you say you want to take  Money from a bankrupt man?
What did you say you want to see
The Koubru is the Kabaw valley?
What did you say you want to read
A poem that can write itself?
What did you say you want me to
You want me to
You want me to what—
You want me to kill the government?
I cannot see.
I cannot hear.
I cannot speak.
I cannot do.
I think I can do it.
I say I can do it.

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