I am running out of words
But this heart is still
as heavy as jackfruit
but with no sweetness
as you can see in my smile.
i smile now like a cactus in desert
waiting for nothing but a hot breeze
I sleep like an aged man
with his dreams in his lip
I eat like a soldier
who is heading for a battle
I walk like a homeless man
who knows no wife no siblings
no daughter is waiting for him
I cry without tears
like a crow learning to smile.
I fought with every vein inside me
when i had friends to clean me up
Now i fight like an earthworm
Oh My heart is so heavy now
like a jackfruit
For Brezhnev
Dont take this land in your heart
Dont cry for the things that we see
Just drink upto ur throat
And curse what you see
And forget it the next morning
'cos we will see another dead son
we will hear another sad song.
These are all a planned game
You and I should not bother
And i am learning it
like those many educated people
Dont cry for the things that we see
Just drink upto ur throat
And curse what you see
And forget it the next morning
'cos we will see another dead son
we will hear another sad song.
These are all a planned game
You and I should not bother
And i am learning it
like those many educated people
An Answer
And We are never Late for the occasion
as you know we are not talking of cultivation
which you claimed as your childhood profession
And Words are not enough as you know
for the sleepy eyes
We must make them open
or we must make them go Blind.
And your Voluminous Poems will do it
but not by keeping it for me or you to read out
when we are dosed with Whiskey
but to recite it at Oinam Bazar
To recite it at Kangla GAte
To read out at Ema Keithel
to Recite it at Shiroi Hills
to Cry it out loud at Loktak.
For the Other patriots
Who celebrate counting widows
I just see them peeping into my windows
to hear my father counting his hard earned Money,
They are not patriots
they are parrots
of the cheapest kind
which utter what ever they have seen
which mimic badly their fathers
We must not die cheaply in their bullets
as you know we are not talking of cultivation
which you claimed as your childhood profession
And Words are not enough as you know
for the sleepy eyes
We must make them open
or we must make them go Blind.
And your Voluminous Poems will do it
but not by keeping it for me or you to read out
when we are dosed with Whiskey
but to recite it at Oinam Bazar
To recite it at Kangla GAte
To read out at Ema Keithel
to Recite it at Shiroi Hills
to Cry it out loud at Loktak.
For the Other patriots
Who celebrate counting widows
I just see them peeping into my windows
to hear my father counting his hard earned Money,
They are not patriots
they are parrots
of the cheapest kind
which utter what ever they have seen
which mimic badly their fathers
We must not die cheaply in their bullets
Yes, I am the patriot
Someday out of my funeral too
They will fill their pockets.
the roads will be blocked for one day
for all the songs i sing.
And if you say this is how they disregard
a patriot in this land of patriots,
Yes, I am a patriot too.
But don't splatter flowers on my coffin
dont write those same quotes
dont hurt the watchers with your cries
Just walk bold whether you wear black or white
Just tell them he was just a patriot
A patriot who pretended to be farmer
A patriot who cried in his songs
A patriot who wrote poem inside the burning house
A patriot who died for no cause as you will
A patriot who drowned in the dream of his generation.
They will fill their pockets.
the roads will be blocked for one day
for all the songs i sing.
And if you say this is how they disregard
a patriot in this land of patriots,
Yes, I am a patriot too.
But don't splatter flowers on my coffin
dont write those same quotes
dont hurt the watchers with your cries
Just walk bold whether you wear black or white
Just tell them he was just a patriot
A patriot who pretended to be farmer
A patriot who cried in his songs
A patriot who wrote poem inside the burning house
A patriot who died for no cause as you will
A patriot who drowned in the dream of his generation.
Black n White
If the Chief Minister is Black
then we are white
If he is White
Then we are Black.
But i see no confrontation
within these colors.
And when Day confronts Night
We can see The red sky
then we are white
If he is White
Then we are Black.
But i see no confrontation
within these colors.
And when Day confronts Night
We can see The red sky
Honor to Meet You
The drums started rolling
The light flashed into our exploited yellow skin
Our t-shirts with his face
Were not noticed anymore as expected
I saw the MP posing, sitting in his Nehru collar shirt
Guarding his daughters as if we were rapists like Indian Army
Who he feeds, who he let us raped
Who he is so scared about for the all mustache.
He didn’t let the daughters read what I have in my hands
And I know politicians like him has got the worst descendant
Despite all the money he saves in his fucking pocket.
He held my arms and said I was cool
For not getting angry with his words
But I surely got angry and I knew
How would I react to his shallow thoughts
And to an old shallow chauvinist like him.
I screamed back in the empty air
“How in world you belong to Manipur,
How in world you ask me about my career
When you allow to have Army Camp
Inside our only university
How in world your little shitty speech gonna bring change”
We all know once you start wearing that Khadi Kurta
Go back and run from Ukhrul to Churchandpur
You will know how you have been representing our lives
Or sit next to the Poet.
And stop contributing 5000 bucks for five years
In which you will lavishly admire
the peaceful sites of Parliament street
Stop contributing 5000 bucks for every event the student organize
One thousand for each year for you to sit calm and preach absurdity.
The light flashed into our exploited yellow skin
Our t-shirts with his face
Were not noticed anymore as expected
I saw the MP posing, sitting in his Nehru collar shirt
Guarding his daughters as if we were rapists like Indian Army
Who he feeds, who he let us raped
Who he is so scared about for the all mustache.
He didn’t let the daughters read what I have in my hands
And I know politicians like him has got the worst descendant
Despite all the money he saves in his fucking pocket.
He held my arms and said I was cool
For not getting angry with his words
But I surely got angry and I knew
How would I react to his shallow thoughts
And to an old shallow chauvinist like him.
I screamed back in the empty air
“How in world you belong to Manipur,
How in world you ask me about my career
When you allow to have Army Camp
Inside our only university
How in world your little shitty speech gonna bring change”
We all know once you start wearing that Khadi Kurta
Go back and run from Ukhrul to Churchandpur
You will know how you have been representing our lives
Or sit next to the Poet.
And stop contributing 5000 bucks for five years
In which you will lavishly admire
the peaceful sites of Parliament street
Stop contributing 5000 bucks for every event the student organize
One thousand for each year for you to sit calm and preach absurdity.
meitei ngamu
You name everything
In the way you want
If it looks or tastes good
Whether it is fish or chilly.
When there were bamboo polls
In every gate,
And when the drains were wide
Your fish housed inside hollow bamboos
No one bothered it.
Never had it noticed the torn fishing net.
Never had it protested for being caught
And kept inside the poor lady’s ngabongkhao
Now it has come out of the muddy drain
And learn to talk loud and dig the earth.
For Maharaj Gambhir,
A flyover has been paved
Like a red carpet
Towards Kangla Gate,
By the great politicians of our time,
So that the Maharaj doesn’t find
The poor mothers
And their unsold vegetables and fishes.
The politicians house your fish
Inside their pockets and socks.
And now they look down from the flyover
To find the crest and trough
Of our economy
To pour fuel and burn it
To start all over again a new wave
To amplify further
Their lives and wives
With golds and our death.
Now your fish has been fed so much
That it grows its teeth so sharply
Its tail can wipe away the statue of Maharaj
And it did sometime back in Moirang
Now the poets have not heard
The chirping of the skylark
Since your fish turned into a Shark
And the politicians recite our history
Of the poor mothers
Who fought days and nights
Saving the lives of so many sons
While the shark get lost
In the middle of the redness
That the blood colored
Dont look at the east
Don't look at the east
all you can see is red
all you can see is the sun sinking.
there is no morning
there is no haunting...
because no dead man walks
but you can hear the sweetest songs
echoing from tea garden of Assam
to Loktak lake of Manipur
from the cloudy sky of Shillong
to snow covered mountain of Tawang.
Don't look east,
Don't study their history
Don't let people pass through its mountain
Don't write their books
The east is cursed
cursed for the different face
cursed for what we stand for
cursed for loving freedom
cursed for all the resources
all you can see is red
all you can see is the sun sinking.
there is no morning
there is no haunting...
because no dead man walks
but you can hear the sweetest songs
echoing from tea garden of Assam
to Loktak lake of Manipur
from the cloudy sky of Shillong
to snow covered mountain of Tawang.
Don't look east,
Don't study their history
Don't let people pass through its mountain
Don't write their books
The east is cursed
cursed for the different face
cursed for what we stand for
cursed for loving freedom
cursed for all the resources
story of a sheriff
when his eyes were innocent
he saw the innocent death.
he burnt the flag
standing upon the mountain
till the ashes flickered all over the land
till his eyes got blurred with tears
but when he died with the bullets
his body was wrapped by the same flag
and it remains as a story of a traitor
and i dont know how to sing this song
he saw the innocent death.
he burnt the flag
standing upon the mountain
till the ashes flickered all over the land
till his eyes got blurred with tears
but when he died with the bullets
his body was wrapped by the same flag
and it remains as a story of a traitor
and i dont know how to sing this song
Anarchy is the government
the eighteen year old boy came with a 303 rifle
and said, "i am the ma-fkin government"
the poor husband and his wife waited for the rich
on the highway and they spat on their boots
and screamed, "i am your government"
every gang from every fucking corner
came out on the streets and shouted;
i am your fucking government..
So they rap anarchy
So they rap anarchy
So they sing chaos
so they sing chaos
and said, "i am the ma-fkin government"
the poor husband and his wife waited for the rich
on the highway and they spat on their boots
and screamed, "i am your government"
every gang from every fucking corner
came out on the streets and shouted;
i am your fucking government..
So they rap anarchy
So they rap anarchy
So they sing chaos
so they sing chaos
Da Kishan (part 2)
With arms wide open
you welcomed the dirt
from earth to sun
with your heart
under their hammers
with their stones
pounding your shoulder,
with their spades
cutting your face,
Home is where we are not scared of
and you proved that
shedding your blood
in the great hills of Ema Manipur.
We believe we will not be scared
to walk the roads
as your blood colors the milestones
Now we will feel home, we will feel you
whatsoever be their weapon
whatsoever be the colors of their flag
you welcomed the dirt
from earth to sun
with your heart
under their hammers
with their stones
pounding your shoulder,
with their spades
cutting your face,
Home is where we are not scared of
and you proved that
shedding your blood
in the great hills of Ema Manipur.
We believe we will not be scared
to walk the roads
as your blood colors the milestones
Now we will feel home, we will feel you
whatsoever be their weapon
whatsoever be the colors of their flag
the banners
Fire your tear-gas shells
Fear us with your blank-fires
make our banner lower
or make them cloudy with your smoke
wipe the words with our blood
suffocate our mouth
with your hand grenades
sow our seeds in your gun powder
torture us, strangle us
you value your rubber-bullets
more than our souls
like the media believes we are ants
under the bulldozer
But we will rise
Fear us with your blank-fires
make our banner lower
or make them cloudy with your smoke
wipe the words with our blood
suffocate our mouth
with your hand grenades
sow our seeds in your gun powder
torture us, strangle us
you value your rubber-bullets
more than our souls
like the media believes we are ants
under the bulldozer
But we will rise
Da Kishan
It was sometime after spring
you and me were mourning
with smile, you and me were crying
remembering
how we would miss the burning flame
that ceased by the rain of bullets
We knew such heroism lasts only in literature
it will last only in hearts
the hearts of the weakest of the weak
And now today they have taken you in my heart,
the weak heart of mine.
i value you, my brother
you deserve more than this poetry
and the condolences
you and me were mourning
with smile, you and me were crying
remembering
how we would miss the burning flame
that ceased by the rain of bullets
We knew such heroism lasts only in literature
it will last only in hearts
the hearts of the weakest of the weak
And now today they have taken you in my heart,
the weak heart of mine.
i value you, my brother
you deserve more than this poetry
and the condolences
Red Me
red me
if you cant read me
as we go along
the tangent of time
Mother Earth will turn red.
Red at home is Black
Nobody sees them in daylight
except their laughter and barrels
they sound like dogs
inside the long black cars
they love to teach us
they love to take away
my hard earned money
Red Me Red Me
if you cant read me
if you cant read me
as we go along
the tangent of time
Mother Earth will turn red.
Red at home is Black
Nobody sees them in daylight
except their laughter and barrels
they sound like dogs
inside the long black cars
they love to teach us
they love to take away
my hard earned money
Red Me Red Me
if you cant read me
Ode to Oldness
Old monk never honks
Old tooth brush never fell out of hand
Old shoes make you embarrass
Old man goes senile
Old wines get better
Old dreams fade away
Old tooth brush never fell out of hand
Old shoes make you embarrass
Old man goes senile
Old wines get better
Old dreams fade away
Letter to the editor (Inspired by real life incident )
Dear Editor,
I am a 27 years old young man.
Every morning I pick up your newspaper
And go through every page looking for news
For a right job for my M.Sc. degree.
I am superstitious enough now
To find any reason for not getting a job
And my recent reason for not getting a job
Is the dead men’s pictures on your front page
I hate to see dead man everyday on your front page.
Sometimes the dead faces of Bihari Workers
Somedays the gunned down Kids.
Their faces were crooked
Like a rat under the truck’s wheel
On some highway.
And the color quality of your Newspaper
Make them even worst
Some days back I could recognize a face
He was too like me, jobless
In this land of heartless princes
Many a time I found him
Standing in queue filling forms
We spoke nothing to each other
But we knew we were the victims
Between Academics and Politics.
We knew we know no way to get out of it
We were the sinking suns in their little oysters.
We knew our certificates were all wet by our sweat.
We met even at cobbler’s stall
With our torn naughty boy shoes
We wished we could mend ourselves
With a job confidently
Like the cobbler’s needle
Piercing our seasoned leather boots
Which have survived many shivering summer
And sweating winter.
We were surprised to see the cobbler
Handling his job with his eyes looking, talking at us
Like his hands are scratching his scrotum.
The cobbler was so good at his work
and mended our shoes in two minutes
That we were hesitating to pay him the money he asked
We bargained not to pay him full.
We believed we will handle a job
Someday like the cobbler
With a new pair of leather boots.
But what all I remember of him now
Is only his dead face with the swelling forehead
With one eye out of its place.
That scares me to go around
Looking for job,
That really made me wonder
What had he done to learn the trick
Of the cobbler’s needle
So please find another page to put the dead ones
I hate to see my kind of face as dead ones,
Let me not get weakened by your front page
Even if my breakfast is left-over rice and Black Tea
Thanking you,
Yours faithfully
Akhu Chingangbam.Road to Battle
There is always a road to win the battle.
Call the Blacksmiths
they got the best hammer in town
they know where to hit the things
when things get really hot
Call the Farmers
they got the sharpest blades.
sometimes you dont want
the sound of firing bullets.
Call the Blacksmiths
they got the best hammer in town
they know where to hit the things
when things get really hot
Call the Farmers
they got the sharpest blades.
sometimes you dont want
the sound of firing bullets.
India
India! Have u ever crawled down enough to smell the soil of Kashmir?
India! Have u ever heard of a lady named Sharmila from Manipur?
Can you explain to me what is the charge against Dr. Binayak Sen
Can you tell me what had happened to the land of Gandhi, Gujarat?
Is there a dream that we share from north to south?
Is there a song that echoes from east to west?
India! Have u ever heard of a lady named Sharmila from Manipur?
Can you explain to me what is the charge against Dr. Binayak Sen
Can you tell me what had happened to the land of Gandhi, Gujarat?
Is there a dream that we share from north to south?
Is there a song that echoes from east to west?
Our Private Literature
My friend Thoiba visits me every evening.
We recite poems inside this hut
To each other like we were at Shamu Makhong
With hundreds of listeners.
We recite all kinds of poems; sonnets, haikus and ballads.
We write them, we memorize them, we sleep with them
Our themes are about deaths, evils, bats and sex.
We recite them with mouths packed with Raja Khaini
Thoiba addresses me as Comrade Akhu
But I don’t know why?
We haven’t even seen the Communist Manifesto
All we have read is Animal Farm
We have also witnessed Nandigram
But remembering my late grandfather,
He died of lung cancer,
Who recited the Communist Manifesto on his death bed
Makes me think I could have been a Marxist in my previous birth
Thoiba and I suffer, yes you too suffer
We often forget that you suffer too like in Africa
Our suffering makes me think
That I could have been a Bureaucrat too
In my previous birth who wore the widest neck tie
If I have to believe the old man’s saying,
“If you are unkind, dishonest and corrupt,
You will suffer in your next birth”
So in my previous birth was I Marxist Bureaucrat?
Or was I born in Cuba with the sickle printed cap?
Sometimes Thoiba asks me:
How would our Poems make them Sleepless?
I replied, “We are not Tagore
We are not Nazrul Islam
We are not even Dalits
Who are placed at the center of the Map
They symbolize the downtrodden
So the universities study their literature
We are not even women
Who paint with their vaginal blood.
You and I are just ‘private literature’
So they will sleep the best sleep of their lives
While you and I fight the nights
While we crawl under our bed
To stay away from the firing bullets.
Our poems are not meant to be published
But to be carved on our tomb stones.
That is again impossible
We are not Christian
We don’t erect tomb stone on our grave.
So let us forget about the poems
But let us not stop reciting and writing
Even if we are so hungry
Yes, we are indeed very hungry
Hungry for peace
Hungry for rice
Hungry for everything under the sun.
To satiate my hunger
I can even chew their bullets
They’ll be as good as Iron vitamins
To men like us, for sure.
Every night inside this hut
I scold them so badly, so abusively
That my tongue bleeds.
But I am scared to scold them in public
Outside this hut
Lives are very cheap as you know.
People get killed for articles they write in the newspapers
You may get killed too for the little Gandhian five rupees note
You own in your pocket or wallet.
Even the ‘Kargil War’ hero, Retired Gen. Ngamba
Died because of a fly buzzing in his ears.
Our lives are the cheapest thing on earth
It costs only a Rs. 35 bullet.
Our valley is no more like our old poems
Where the poets wrote
‘We are guarded by nine ranges of mountains.’
But now any chopper or plane
Can land on our shoulders
And snatch our own balls away from our bodies
They did exactly this somewhere
And sowed the balls in their fields
And a very good Indian history grew out of the balls
And today the students have to study it in school
The kids even mug it up
And eventually they will wear the neck tie
Sitting on the leather chair
And will command someday to hang us for our poems
But we can’t afford to lose our lives so fast
We have to continue writing poems
Till the last drop of our blood and breathe
Someday, I believe, we will be read.”
We recite poems inside this hut
To each other like we were at Shamu Makhong
With hundreds of listeners.
We recite all kinds of poems; sonnets, haikus and ballads.
We write them, we memorize them, we sleep with them
Our themes are about deaths, evils, bats and sex.
We recite them with mouths packed with Raja Khaini
Thoiba addresses me as Comrade Akhu
But I don’t know why?
We haven’t even seen the Communist Manifesto
All we have read is Animal Farm
We have also witnessed Nandigram
But remembering my late grandfather,
He died of lung cancer,
Who recited the Communist Manifesto on his death bed
Makes me think I could have been a Marxist in my previous birth
Thoiba and I suffer, yes you too suffer
We often forget that you suffer too like in Africa
Our suffering makes me think
That I could have been a Bureaucrat too
In my previous birth who wore the widest neck tie
If I have to believe the old man’s saying,
“If you are unkind, dishonest and corrupt,
You will suffer in your next birth”
So in my previous birth was I Marxist Bureaucrat?
Or was I born in Cuba with the sickle printed cap?
Sometimes Thoiba asks me:
How would our Poems make them Sleepless?
I replied, “We are not Tagore
We are not Nazrul Islam
We are not even Dalits
Who are placed at the center of the Map
They symbolize the downtrodden
So the universities study their literature
We are not even women
Who paint with their vaginal blood.
You and I are just ‘private literature’
So they will sleep the best sleep of their lives
While you and I fight the nights
While we crawl under our bed
To stay away from the firing bullets.
Our poems are not meant to be published
But to be carved on our tomb stones.
That is again impossible
We are not Christian
We don’t erect tomb stone on our grave.
So let us forget about the poems
But let us not stop reciting and writing
Even if we are so hungry
Yes, we are indeed very hungry
Hungry for peace
Hungry for rice
Hungry for everything under the sun.
To satiate my hunger
I can even chew their bullets
They’ll be as good as Iron vitamins
To men like us, for sure.
Every night inside this hut
I scold them so badly, so abusively
That my tongue bleeds.
But I am scared to scold them in public
Outside this hut
Lives are very cheap as you know.
People get killed for articles they write in the newspapers
You may get killed too for the little Gandhian five rupees note
You own in your pocket or wallet.
Even the ‘Kargil War’ hero, Retired Gen. Ngamba
Died because of a fly buzzing in his ears.
Our lives are the cheapest thing on earth
It costs only a Rs. 35 bullet.
Our valley is no more like our old poems
Where the poets wrote
‘We are guarded by nine ranges of mountains.’
But now any chopper or plane
Can land on our shoulders
And snatch our own balls away from our bodies
They did exactly this somewhere
And sowed the balls in their fields
And a very good Indian history grew out of the balls
And today the students have to study it in school
The kids even mug it up
And eventually they will wear the neck tie
Sitting on the leather chair
And will command someday to hang us for our poems
But we can’t afford to lose our lives so fast
We have to continue writing poems
Till the last drop of our blood and breathe
Someday, I believe, we will be read.”
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