Friday 1 November 2013

Semester 1.

     We are just one couple among many in our University. He wears blue checked shirts and I wear a blue hairband, sometimes blue skirts. We both love blue. The first guy who I dated also loves blue. But Tamo doesn't know that yet. He will, after reading this. Perhaps, he may get slightly sad to find out about this. Anyways, it is merely an insignificant affinity among us which I happen to remember. This first guy has a blog dedicated to me and writes about him and me in it. Talk about the incompatibility; we are the protagonist of two different stories which can never collide again. I am the lost character, the mysterious invisible girl in his stories. In my story, he is but a person who I first dated, who unsurprisingly changed me drastically, who I can never go back to, whose charming words I'd always avoid. He is a shadow of my past chasing me in vain.

     Everyday, we sit under the tree near the food court after lunch and talk. We talk about education, politics, society, condoms, my sisters and brother, his brothers, food etc. We also talk about Invictus, a movie we watched the night before. We secretly make fun of those random people who are unlucky enough to pass by us. They are a big time entertainment. We give them silly names and laugh casually. Sometimes it's the 'university studs', other times, it's the 'beauty queens', 'class toppers', 'meddlers' etc.

     Often the session gets interrupted in the sight of a certain professor with the phrase, 'There goes Mr. Philosopher' by either one of us, whoever sees him first. He walks briskly in the distance carrying a bag. He has sufficient white hair and a lean swift body. He is seldom accompanied by a woman of his age who has the same physique. Each time they seem to be indulging in a serious conversation as they both walk on the pavement in that same brisk pace. It looks a little fast for their age. His story goes a couple of weeks back.

Wednesday 9 October 2013

The baby anklets

My little niece's feet that used to jingle
for all the hours of the day,
now unclad
and naked,
those soft ankles
followed
by silent
footsteps.

Monday 7 October 2013

Commencement


In a foggy morning of January,
As she walks on the white snow, 
a trail of 
cold 
red 
beauty spots marks the path she took for the first time.
She knows not why her stomach hurts every full moon
Nor why she is frequently asked to halt at every station.
She
 is kept in isolation,


secluded from the rest of her family,
like in an island in ‘Cast Away’.
Her mind is clogged with doubts since the time she’s been barred from the courtyard.
But the little girl dare not sit still for a few seconds to wonder,
Not even once in a blue moon.
 

Eventuality



I was like a man split into half; a chopped onion, ready to be fried.
My head spun and my back ached while I lay in my bed all day.
Every morning, I was greeted by Miss Hope who got castrated recently.

Now the torment has been blown away by an erratic wind and 
I walk around wearing a pair of yellow and red slippers in the monsoon rain.







 

The man with the woman in a sari

We see a man 
waving at the couple who sits opposite to us,
as the train starts drifting from the platform.

The man’s hair has turned all white;
the woman still has some strands left.
She has a red round bindi stuck between her eyebrows,
a few red bangles stuck between two yellow bangles.
She rests her elbow on the window sill,
forgetting about her weakening body,
dreaming about meeting her daughter in the next 24 hours.

A few droplets streaming down the window glass, hang on the edge,
swinging and swaying with the rhythm of the train,
ready to fall any moment, bless the rain!

We sit silently,
Listening to Beady Eye’s ‘blue moon’, PJ’s ‘yellow ledbetter’, 
Radiohead’s ‘house of cards’, ‘no surprises’ one after another.
One after another, the songs creep into my left ear and his right ear,
while I muse, staring outside the window,
thinking about writing a new poem about this couple.
We shall reach their age years from now eventually.

The big rocks remain fixed beside the ponds outside.
The green and smoky weather feeds us all.
But the fresh foul smell of the city’s sewage still lingers inside the train.

Thursday 12 September 2013

Bee Dance

Being stirred inside out,
shattered in a blow,
my tiny brain floated among the thunderous dark clouds.


You zoomed in on the screen,
 in the mist of Shillong
and colored the studio green.

The iron pieces cling onto you;
every single piece that has sunk into the loo.
You attract me like a magnet,
a moth brimming with mirth. 


I am the bee
submerged and soaked in honey,
saturated with passion and romance.

You were waiting for me,
like a withered leaf,
holding the lantern
so that I can see you beam;
The beam that enchants me
in a loop.

Your scent dissolves in the air,
dispersed around me
like the hari champa in our backyard.

Along the ripples of that fragrance,

The sweet scent of the bosom

The tiny trivial tales
tinkle like gales
tangled with the myth.

                                        His voice cracks
in the other end of the cable.
and I could hear her
melodious silent words wandering in the background.

We giggled and chuckled
choked with charms
from the same plate.

                                    Chaoba dreams in her hostel in China.
Amo breathes nine ranges of hills away from home.
                                    Echal lies at the bosom decorated with lonesome.

I look to my right,
Turn to the left.
But I see them none.
Only books in tons.
                           

                                    

Thursday 15 August 2013

A haiku - 3 in 1

Tie me not autumn leaves,
The monsoon rain has washed me clean.
The seasons have lost their mind.

Inconsequential moments
Crafting significant reminiscences.
A snowy summer awaits.

The lines in my head
Escaped my hands,
Turning into concrete words.

A big fat ass lie.

I do not need remorse to write poetry
nor i need sorrow to make a story.
I only need tranquility.
So, please stop imagining 
that you are nourishing
me in becoming a great poet.

Tuesday 30 July 2013

Vicissitude

Arrival on the left,
departure on the right.
people waiting, people leaving.
nothing really happens.
No stagnation,
add, switch, transfer.
Small airports in small towns,
Huge airports in massive twinkling cities.
We keep moving, shifting our faith from one airport to another.
We, the hypocrites of the time. 

The train we were talking about.

Its a toy land down there,
where the train flows chugging between the buildings
full of yellow lights and street lamps.
Its a reflection from the glass window where i used to wonder
if i was ever going back.
its a river of memory in this minute,
only a reminiscence of the past.

Whipped?



An image of a whip on the page
Among all the images of the pages;
a black and white comic book.
That is what I saw when I heard his voice,
his silenced voice that hovers in my brain,
snapping here and there like a lightning bolt
that cuts my veins
creating a short circuit
in my /hollowed/ system/ filled/ with/ charms and chances.

Behold the prince charming of the fairyland
enchanted by my bewitched plans
bereft of evil intentions.

Sans mercy, sans mercy! Forgive me my darling.

Monday 29 July 2013

Deranged

Without you,
the guitar string bleeds,
sucky music passes by my window.
I being insane, lay on my bed quite, staring out at the floating clouds,
in the process of searching my mind and the distorted confidence.
Glaring and tripping on her poems,
must I follow Sylvia?

Thursday 30 May 2013

Inclusive/exclusive

Everyday.
Ecstasy.
Elusion,
delusion,
hallucination.
Irresponsibly irrational.
I. And the sole of the boot.

Sunday 19 May 2013

Joint Intoxication 6.

Surrounded by jungles,
on the machine.
The mesmerizing smell,
I cannot resist.

Joint Intoxication 5.

Trapped by the tentacles,
in pursuit of happiness.
Blood all sucked,
through the pores,
700 and more,
more and more.
My veins like a vineyard.

Joint Intoxication 4.

Minimal secrecy.
Maximize pleasing therapy.
Mundane musing memoirs created.

Joint Intoxication 3.

Highlighted with neon,
silver linings.
Lips and it's pulled factor,
planned arousal.
Pause, linger, wait.

Joint Intoxication 2.

Tic tac tic tac,
there is orange,
there is mint,
none matters.

Joint Intoxication 1.

One in green, one in blue.
Both with cigarettes,
through the liquidy glass.
Music aside.

Thursday 16 May 2013

Cyclone Mahasen, the approaching hope.

Mahasen, 
Oh Mahasen! 
Would you mind sweeping away the armies
who haunt in the night,
who brought the plight.

Hit them in the head
with your huge drops of water
when they take off their helmets,
those fucked up helmets they wore
to protect their tiny fucked up heads,
while tackling the summer heat,
while avoiding the uniform rules.

Or rather wash away the whole town,
this fucked up dark lonely town,
bereft of electricity, delicacy, accuracy,
adequacy, concurrency, coherency, democracy.....

Anyways, you cant make it worse.
                       


                                                   -a21yearoldfrustratedhuman.

Thursday 25 April 2013

Zombie Apocalypse Haiku

Zombies zombies all around.
Not a single human being can be found.
Apocalypse.






-Dedicated to the whole world, my place in particular, Manipur (the lost name: kangleipak)



Sunday 24 March 2013

Forget-me-not


I do not know,
I do not know,
While I perch on this branch,
Why do I gaze at the other branch
that protrudes out at the opposite side?
With this big fat vulture on my left,
yawning from time to time,
I am engulfed halfway through
Without ever its knowledge.

I do not know
I do not know
If the other side is bright and blue,
As I always imagined it’d be.
I am too exhausted to build the nest,
to search for the needed twigs.
To behold the invisible colorful metropolitan upper middle class bitch,
Running around the streets all day, barking at every passers-by,
with hardly any sound coming out,
frustrates me more and more.
Oozing out of my mouth,
is the mixture of ingredients,
purging out, pushing its way through.

I want to wake up at that other side
Where I don’t have to worry about the bullets
nor the nights, where I can frantically express myself,
puffing out several smoke rings, with lots of brownies and muffins
and thangjing, and ooti, and chagempomba.

Sunday 10 March 2013

One thursday in November 2000.


Arrival of AFSPA-
armies, guns, bullets, bombs, suspicions, killings, deaths, roar of cries, widows, orphans, widowers, rapes, molestations, bomb blasts, sound of gun shots, massacre etc. etc. etc.
 dreams, hope, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, homes, dignity, citizenship, rights, justice etc. etc. etc.
Day 1.  Hunger strike began (november 2, 2000)
Day 2. Still continuing.
Day 3. No, she hasn't eaten anything still.
Day 4. No, not even a single morsel.
Day 5. Counting
Day 6. Counting.
Day 7. Counting.
Day 8, day 9, day 10, 11, 12, 13………………………
Accused her of committing suicide. Threw her in the jail.
(yes, the armies have the right to kill her, but she doesn’t have the right to kill herself)
This is their story, this is their logic.
In the meantime,
if you remember she is still fasting, still starving.
The days are still counting……….365, 366, 367……………
700, 701, 702, 703……………………………………………………..
2000, 2001, 2002, 2003……………………………………………..
4000, 4001, 4002………………………………………………………
She is our inexorable eche sharmila.
She is a human being. She has a stomach, she gets thirsty, she gets hungry, she wants to live.

Friday 18 January 2013

I'm Coming Back In a Month.

Dried black nail polish from my fingers,

Scattered all over
the white paper.


Scarlet blood

gushing out of 'leihao'
torments the navel.