Children of Kangleipak

Welcome Jack
Welcome Allen
welcome to our valley
we are the children of kangleipak
we rule the valley day and night in our poetry
Please forget your old Whitman
here you wont hear America singing.
All we have here is Thangjam Ibopishak
who wants to die with an Indian bullet
and some odd poets
who believe Loktak is an ultimate poem

We got hundred scrolls of poems
which were never read by any one
Lets recite it in the army camp
lets play Jazz in their jukebox
lets drive my father's new car
on the highway #53
along the highway #39
from Ukhrul to Moreh
from Imphal to Tamenglong
from CCpur to Nambol
from Sekmai to Mao
This is how we dream to celebrate Manipur

Lets smoke all the marijuana plants
growing on the bank of Kongba river
Lets wear the tricolor flag
around our waist with no underwear
underneath it
Lets have sex with the mountains
Lets kiss the sky and cry with laughter
Lets see how the soldiers masturbate
with the ak47 slinging on their shoulder
lets write a story
that runs faster than 1400 miles per hour
and lets carve it on the mountains

we have got a friend too
who is wilder crazier than your buddy Neal
his name is George
he had sex with all the girls
while the soldiers are busy with guns
he is unmarried unlike your three time married buddy
he celebrated Imphal
walking every streets
against those sulky dull bored faces
he is a patient now
he is now in rehab

Lets start to recite
Mine is here: " Wake up children ...."

drunken poem

the sky is fucking blue, so i cry
the beggar is stinking, so i sit next to him
the valley is not so happy, so i drink
the mountain is not so high, so i am higher
the prostitute is not so vulgar, so she is hungry
my wife hates me so i love her
my children scold me, so i watch them after they sleep
my roof is torn, so i keep awake all night
my days are gone, so i remember them
my mother used to love me, so i get her picture on my wall
my father bought me drinks, so i still remember him
my guitar used to be a machine, so my hands were chopped
my voice were "sweet like crow", so they threw out
my poems were rubbish, so they burnt it
my hands were like hammer, so they nailed it
my friend was killed, so they whispered in my ears
the river was blood, so i bled to see anything left in me
the man was armed, so i had to bite him
the birds were spies, so i were the gown
the priest was judas, so i crucified him under my bed
the politician was obsessed with sex, so i chopped his thing
his wife was in love with me, so i used my spear
the police was aggressive, so i snatched his bullets not gun
my soldier was dead, so i cried with my swelling eyes
i was shot , so i am limping
i was drunk, so i am now

my fucking sweetest crow

your comrades are dozing right at your face
my search for the "sweetest crow" has ended now
inside this air conditioned, carpeted sound proof hall.
where have i not wandered in search of the crow?
the lampposts, the gardens, the garbage, the beggars
i have even tried to be a poet

looking at you i find a long poem
written in the air, on the wall
your hands waving in the air
like you are talking of the most poetic dream
your sweater is as flamboyant as your accent
as your english like your walk on the stage.

And the most dumb girl in the pink is so lost in your words
she fixes her eyes in the air and not breathing at all.
the old handsome ex-half russian sitting
his leg crossed, worrying about his ironed shirt
not to mark a wrinkle, not singing a love song
despite of his old senile romantic heart

the german who thinks everything in india
is interesting is sleeping too.
the chinese, admiring his bottle of mineral water
for protecting him from indian germs,
keeps combing his hair with his kung-fu hands
the director seems to be trapped in a brane world
with his head sticking out
like a Pharaoh's head out of a huge pyramid
the string theorist keeps interfering
and i keep thinking "i dont fucking belong here"
with my mind listening to radiohead

black day

i didn't know why they called it a black day
there was nothing so black about the day
blood, gunpowder were all that i smelt
all i could hear was mothers and daughters
since the day
before the great red sun sets
the roads have become deserted
and a long silent black night walks the roads
while the unknown soldiers are loading their guns
till the innocent hungry children wake up their mothers
till the rickshaw pullers exchange their sweats with the rising sun
till the dawn overpowers thousands of dreams of freedom

now my days will be black
as the red hot bullets in my chest complete me
as i was born armed with my anger
in "the land of the half-humans."
all i sense now is the light flashing in my eyes
with the strangers' hand
giving me my last warm comfort
all i hear now is the lonely vehicle
howling in this silent black night
Oh! this black night is swallowing me


Haiku is a form of Japanese Poetry which is made out of three lines. Haiku has a unique structure; the first and third line contains five syllables and the second one is made up of seven syllables. Haiku mostly depicts or sketches a particular scene of a season or Nature. It is the form of poetry which is closest to Nature. Like any other poetry form ,A haiku also gives a reader several meanings. But when people write haiku is English, they break the structure for example Allen Ginsberg, the Beat poet's Haiku :

Drinking my tea
Without sugar-
No difference.

it doesn't obey any of haiku rules and don't talk about Nature too.

Richard Wright (1908-1960), who was the author "Native Son" and Black Boy," wrote haiku during the last eighteen month of his life. He wrote around 4000 haiku. He followed the traditional rules of haiku. His Haiku are apolitical and talk about nature unlike his stories which speak about black Americans.
Some of his haiku are:

All right, You Sparrows;
The sun has set and you can now
Stop your chattering!

I am nobody:
A red sinking autumn sun
Took my name away.

With a twitching nose
A dog reads a telegram
On a wet tree trunk.

Lets come to mine :)
I am here trying to follow the rules of haiku which is formed by 5,7,5 syllables. In my haiku s i am trying to sketch old childhood days which i spent running into fields , playing around the band of Imphal river or simply watching Mutinao and Urit (a small bird of yellow and green color) hovering around bamboos in my backyard. And many dawn in which the Tillers headed for the field with their bullock cart commanding "Ar Ti Ti" to their bulls and bufalloes.

I am here trying NOT to be political unlike my other poems.

Summer Pray

The old man smoking
Under the old banyan tree
Praying to the rain

fruitful day

It was before dawn
I heard the buffaloes’ bell;
Season to harvest

Glittering Sand

The warmth of the sand,
As we crossed Imphal River,
We could sense in nude.

ride by the mountains

Sometimes in autumn
We rode our bicycle down
To highway for rose

December Morning

Bamboos are blooming
Birds are hovering around
Can it bring menace?

Across the field

In one cold winter
We, equipped with catapults
Scared the crows in field

leave the blues

We danced in moonlight
Forgetting the hardship days
With spring guarding us


After its daydream
The frog jumps out of the well
And it sees a hell


The lovers elope
Astrologers suggest spring
But she is with child

A fight

One whole April night
My starvation wrote haiku
While they were eating

Haiku is Nature

Nature is haiku
And has become a danger
Why not write of it?

dream about highway #39

On highway #39
I met Mr. Hemingway
he just got down from the Great hills of Africa
and he was tired and wanted a ride in my car
so we gunned the car through the darkness
he lit a cigarette and and pulled out a bottle of whiskey
like a cowboy in those western movies
we had shots, he kept talking 'bout Africa
and I asked about his poem on America
he asked me "Hey! what's happening now in America?
who is that Obama?
In Africa they played Caribbean music
and danced all night in front of his huge pictures
Is he an African god of poverty or blackness?
my nights were disturbed
by the sounds of bongos they played.
I woke up one night and climbed their mountains
and waited for the sun to rise.
I know only one afro-American
have you heard of James Baldwin?"

I told him it doesn't matter
whether i know Baldwin or Obama.
I asked him how come he popped up
on this highway of Ghost
i warned him about the things that may lay ahead of us
he said it doesn't matter too
he said, "if they have gun i have a soul to die facing their bullet
if they have a question i have experience of a life time to answer it
and yes i am here for the booze that i heard my grave diggers talking about."

bobby the farmer

bobby was a poet
bobby was a writer
bobby was a man
who could sing whole night
sitting by my side
talking farmer blues

one day i lost him
while i was imitating
and singing his songs
never i had heard of him again
never again from his love
so i forgot him

we had dreams for the farmer
we had dreams to plough the land
but in the same land
i found the body of bobby
shattered and pierced
by bullets

the ballad of Machang Lalung

after fifty-four years in Prison
with one Indian rupee as token bond
he left the prison
for his village
to find no one
to recognize him..
They look at him
and just pass away
leaving him suffocated
to breath ..
he remembers not a face
he remembers not a place
he walks back to the city jail
and talks to the Jailer
he says "Keep me back,
keep me back
in the Prison
lock me up
lock me up
in the jail
i got no one to cry
when i die
i got no place
in that village
i know a thing or two only
i just can talk to the walls of your prison
dont take me away from walls
i feel safer
I am not used to of this empty spaces
i love darkness
i have learnt to love the dirty smells."

This piece is inspired by life of Machang Lalung from Assam. Lalung had been arrested at his home village of Silsang in 1951 under section 326 of the Indian Penal Code for “causing grievous harm.” He was released in 2005.

Just hang aroound on some streets corner

Just hang around on some streets corner
wearing your daddy's old slipper
hanging bag around your shoulder
if you have beard, it would be greater
talk little of Revolution
sing a song of Bob Dylan
Then you are an intellect
a communist intellect
in kolkotta
but dont talk of Nandigram
dont talk of the Animal Farm