What have we not done?
we had switched off our phones
I had banged my head on walls
I had cut my hands
You had not returned home for days
You had relations with others
i had too with my heart flying across
south India to east India
What have we not done in love?
wearing shorts in winter night
we smoked cigarettes in terrace
we walked into the bars, already drunken,
they rejected me for dirty toes and slippers
so we walked into the pebble streets
I wrote poems after poems
breaking the boundaries
between the politics and you
What have we not done?
I have never bought you a bouquet
You have bought me 'life of pi'
i plucked flowers for you from western ghats
I sent you a black n white xerox picture of Woody Guthrie
with his guitar with his famous line
"this machine kills fascist".
Waiting for your calls
i wrote many poems for street sweepers
looking out of window
that face Khirkee railway station
What have we not done?
we have protested against the system
You have read your papers many times
across this nation talking about resistance
I have read mine too twice or thrice
acting like a physicist
who cares for the growth of science
when humanity is declining.
What have we not done?
Yes! i forget, we have to make babies
Yes! we have to humiliate ourselves
in the streets of imphal in the name of marriage.
that's another protest rally
but for them against our desire
and we will be the effigies in feijom and potloi
ahhh I wish we had not thought of it
on such a day
On such a day like 26th January
she carries the country in her basket
wrapped adoringly with the tricolor cloth
and walks in the deserted street
On such a holiday some organisations call bandh
this time it was 15 outfits
the vegetables lay silent
the trees are dead to bored
the rickshaws are recharging in winter sun
She stops in the middle of the road
and whisper "i am letting you free"
she sobs and says "i have nothing to feed you anymore
you were left at my courtyard when the India Armies
came to pick up my husband
as armies have a habit of leaving their foot marks
in the soil they have walked
and taking lives that belong to the soil.
So i named you India
and I need this basket now
to decorate flowers for my dead husband"
And Slowly the puppy, India, comes out of her basket
and runs free on the street with its sloppy ears
but don't know how long India will run
On such a day, On such holiday
On such bandh, folks love to eat meat
folks love to eat dog meat.
Run! India! Run!
she carries the country in her basket
wrapped adoringly with the tricolor cloth
and walks in the deserted street
On such a holiday some organisations call bandh
this time it was 15 outfits
the vegetables lay silent
the trees are dead to bored
the rickshaws are recharging in winter sun
She stops in the middle of the road
and whisper "i am letting you free"
she sobs and says "i have nothing to feed you anymore
you were left at my courtyard when the India Armies
came to pick up my husband
as armies have a habit of leaving their foot marks
in the soil they have walked
and taking lives that belong to the soil.
So i named you India
and I need this basket now
to decorate flowers for my dead husband"
And Slowly the puppy, India, comes out of her basket
and runs free on the street with its sloppy ears
but don't know how long India will run
On such a day, On such holiday
On such bandh, folks love to eat meat
folks love to eat dog meat.
Run! India! Run!
All India Radio: Jazz
Zzzzzzzz! Ssst! Zzzzzz!
1, 2 ,3, 4
This is all India Radio
Akhu Chingangbam here!
America is saving the world in Movies
while i love America only for the hippies
not for the atomic bombs
not for playboy magazine
not for Marilyn Monroe or James Dean
“I heard America singing”
but i heard America gang banging
It was the wail of Hendrix's guitar not Nixon's speech
“look at me this is my father's eyes
this is my mother's nose
this is the blood of my forefathers
that has spilled in every chapters of the books
my heart as red as tomato
has a place as vast as ocean for you,
my sweet love
let me love you like i love looking myself
in mirror”
my country my country
how long you gonna trade the bodies of your sons
for a piece of cloth
that can't save you from winter
that can't even be a diaper for the beggar's infant
mother! Is that me they are calling out?
The sirens are disturbing
I am not that deaf, i am not that dumb
"I sleep with Mother earth every night
Would you call me 'Oedipus'?"
I am homeless and i call myself
an internationalist,,
does it solve my problem?
Does it make me forget Manipur
can i now write a poem of Eiffel Tower
that i have never seen
other than shattering in movies America made?
They play B flat
in their nice flats
while i masturbate with poverty
And India fells on Safdar's Chair Chair Chair
from Himalaya
diverting from the route of holy Ganga
Yet Mandakini sang “Ram Teri Ganga Meli”
Nila said “We don't drink to become revolutionary”
we drink because such life is a good season to drink
we drink when we want to sing life with alcoholic tear
1, 2 ,3, 4
This is all India Radio
Akhu Chingangbam here!
America is saving the world in Movies
while i love America only for the hippies
not for the atomic bombs
not for playboy magazine
not for Marilyn Monroe or James Dean
“I heard America singing”
but i heard America gang banging
It was the wail of Hendrix's guitar not Nixon's speech
“look at me this is my father's eyes
this is my mother's nose
this is the blood of my forefathers
that has spilled in every chapters of the books
my heart as red as tomato
has a place as vast as ocean for you,
my sweet love
let me love you like i love looking myself
in mirror”
my country my country
how long you gonna trade the bodies of your sons
for a piece of cloth
that can't save you from winter
that can't even be a diaper for the beggar's infant
mother! Is that me they are calling out?
The sirens are disturbing
I am not that deaf, i am not that dumb
"I sleep with Mother earth every night
Would you call me 'Oedipus'?"
I am homeless and i call myself
an internationalist,,
does it solve my problem?
Does it make me forget Manipur
can i now write a poem of Eiffel Tower
that i have never seen
other than shattering in movies America made?
They play B flat
in their nice flats
while i masturbate with poverty
And India fells on Safdar's Chair Chair Chair
from Himalaya
diverting from the route of holy Ganga
Yet Mandakini sang “Ram Teri Ganga Meli”
Nila said “We don't drink to become revolutionary”
we drink because such life is a good season to drink
we drink when we want to sing life with alcoholic tear
A Song to the Goddess of Ngari
Tonite the goddess of ngari pay a visit to me
as i have been deprived of her.
i thought it was my love with her long black hair in winter air
with the fragrance of her pillow we shared
so i sing to her;
O Ngari!
i write to you these words like a drunken mate
i will die if you leave me in this strange city
O ngari
I will fight for you with everyone in the world
I won't let any poet rhyme you with saree
O ngari
I can smell you miles away
"Miles to go before i eat"
O ngari
you work fine at places
where this country is the origin of maximum poetry.
O ngari
they say your smell is like that of dead ones in morgue
is it true? tell me it is not
Or is that why my fellow poets talk only of death?
O ngari
despite of our daily meeting at day and night
i never wrote you a song
don't abandon me
My love, she get pissed
as i keep on talking about you
when nights crawl into my stomach
My mother is arranging you for me
and you will come to me by morning Indigo flight
hope this human technology don't scare you
they scare me too more than bullet does
O ngari
come! be my beloved to night
the season's first bunch of yongchak has arrived
but without you they are all waste
this country has fed me
injustice and racial discrimination.
Now let me eat what i want
O ngari
O goddess of Ngari come to me
i am very hungry
come to me with no wings
the birds with their wings they bring nothing to me
freedom is theirs in the sky
above the ground it is my land crying
and the sky rains tear
O ngari
Looking back at my origin
I found you in Ootong
Now i dont know where do you belong
I just know your taste and the feelings of home
and the comfort you gave to my silly stomach
I was about to ask you
who are all these fake patriots
and lovers of this shithole
now i doubt you are one of them.
why are you acting so pricey
is that the traders?
or is that the highway blockades?
you know
we have nothing left in this valley
our culture has been sold out in big stages
our ideologies has been leaked away through the barrels
our folk tales are not evolving anymore
tell me you are not one of them
tell me you bloom out of an ootong
from the bamboo groove in my backyard
don't lie to me
it is not a poetry
it is about all those years we have shared,
and the year you have shared with our forefathers.
Or are there any imprint left on you for the history you have witnessed
or you are like human who dies for no reason who left nothing on earth
except stories of genocide to make their descendant even worse
O Goddess of Ngari
I am singing you a song of our roots
not a song of a delicious cunt
as i have been deprived of her.
i thought it was my love with her long black hair in winter air
with the fragrance of her pillow we shared
so i sing to her;
O Ngari!
i write to you these words like a drunken mate
i will die if you leave me in this strange city
O ngari
I will fight for you with everyone in the world
I won't let any poet rhyme you with saree
O ngari
I can smell you miles away
"Miles to go before i eat"
O ngari
you work fine at places
where this country is the origin of maximum poetry.
O ngari
they say your smell is like that of dead ones in morgue
is it true? tell me it is not
Or is that why my fellow poets talk only of death?
O ngari
despite of our daily meeting at day and night
i never wrote you a song
don't abandon me
My love, she get pissed
as i keep on talking about you
when nights crawl into my stomach
My mother is arranging you for me
and you will come to me by morning Indigo flight
hope this human technology don't scare you
they scare me too more than bullet does
O ngari
come! be my beloved to night
the season's first bunch of yongchak has arrived
but without you they are all waste
this country has fed me
injustice and racial discrimination.
Now let me eat what i want
O ngari
O goddess of Ngari come to me
i am very hungry
come to me with no wings
the birds with their wings they bring nothing to me
freedom is theirs in the sky
above the ground it is my land crying
and the sky rains tear
O ngari
Looking back at my origin
I found you in Ootong
Now i dont know where do you belong
I just know your taste and the feelings of home
and the comfort you gave to my silly stomach
I was about to ask you
who are all these fake patriots
and lovers of this shithole
now i doubt you are one of them.
why are you acting so pricey
is that the traders?
or is that the highway blockades?
you know
we have nothing left in this valley
our culture has been sold out in big stages
our ideologies has been leaked away through the barrels
our folk tales are not evolving anymore
tell me you are not one of them
tell me you bloom out of an ootong
from the bamboo groove in my backyard
don't lie to me
it is not a poetry
it is about all those years we have shared,
and the year you have shared with our forefathers.
Or are there any imprint left on you for the history you have witnessed
or you are like human who dies for no reason who left nothing on earth
except stories of genocide to make their descendant even worse
O Goddess of Ngari
I am singing you a song of our roots
not a song of a delicious cunt
Miss Orange
here comes miss orange
she does not blame
the government
every one lives to kill
when they say heal the hills
she lives in hut
dies in hug
she never gets from the land of riot
there she walks
revealing the truth of hypocrites
defying the motherly tits
for the stitches she wants for her town
when boys sing western song "down town train"
when no train or drain
runs towards their land
"what changes you would make for a better world"
they asked in the finest suit
that they borrowed from priests in the church
she does not blame
the government
every one lives to kill
when they say heal the hills
she lives in hut
dies in hug
she never gets from the land of riot
there she walks
revealing the truth of hypocrites
defying the motherly tits
for the stitches she wants for her town
when boys sing western song "down town train"
when no train or drain
runs towards their land
"what changes you would make for a better world"
they asked in the finest suit
that they borrowed from priests in the church
Innocent Wail
That dawn
that wail of that bullock cart was different
but mother said
it was going to the field to harvest
As usual
In evening i waited for him
to have a ride on his cart
practising the peasants' slogan like yell "ar ti ti"
and remembering the lesson he taught me
"whip the left one if you want to turn left
whip the right one if you want to turn right"
but he never returned
some said the bulls got away from the hook
and he lost his way back home
but no one lost their way back in their own hometown
Some said he ran away with the feudal lord's daughter
All sort of stories cooked up
when his family could trace only the lantern
with its wick all burnt.
But one day after many months
I met him on Ukhrul Road
He hold my hand and said smilingly
"Ar Ti Ti ! Turn back
Go back home
I have few things to harvest
we are planning an Ambush"
and the next day
His body arrived in a truck
with hundreds of pamphlets
and in the evening
every thongal burnt a torch
and no one talked of him anymore
and never i heard the same wail from any bullock cart
it was the innocent wail of a soul
for wanting to die or live for something he valued
that wail of that bullock cart was different
but mother said
it was going to the field to harvest
As usual
In evening i waited for him
to have a ride on his cart
practising the peasants' slogan like yell "ar ti ti"
and remembering the lesson he taught me
"whip the left one if you want to turn left
whip the right one if you want to turn right"
but he never returned
some said the bulls got away from the hook
and he lost his way back home
but no one lost their way back in their own hometown
Some said he ran away with the feudal lord's daughter
All sort of stories cooked up
when his family could trace only the lantern
with its wick all burnt.
But one day after many months
I met him on Ukhrul Road
He hold my hand and said smilingly
"Ar Ti Ti ! Turn back
Go back home
I have few things to harvest
we are planning an Ambush"
and the next day
His body arrived in a truck
with hundreds of pamphlets
and in the evening
every thongal burnt a torch
and no one talked of him anymore
and never i heard the same wail from any bullock cart
it was the innocent wail of a soul
for wanting to die or live for something he valued
Imphal
Imphal!
you flip each days lamenting
the hangovers of drunken politicians.
Imphal!
how is your womb tonite?
does the new year bring a sweet prick
inside you?
Imphal!
how is the sky above you with all the stars?
are the stars twinkling in such foggy nights?
Imphal!
Why are they combing you?
Are they looking for another Sanjit and Rabina?
Imphal!
Why are there no walls to keep you safe?
Why are there walls only for Armies and MLAs?
Imphal!
Still I am in love with you
Still I smell hope in your bloody streets
Still I feel the innocence of Imphal river
Still I don't sleep at nights thinking about you
you flip each days lamenting
the hangovers of drunken politicians.
Imphal!
how is your womb tonite?
does the new year bring a sweet prick
inside you?
Imphal!
how is the sky above you with all the stars?
are the stars twinkling in such foggy nights?
Imphal!
Why are they combing you?
Are they looking for another Sanjit and Rabina?
Imphal!
Why are there no walls to keep you safe?
Why are there walls only for Armies and MLAs?
Imphal!
Still I am in love with you
Still I smell hope in your bloody streets
Still I feel the innocence of Imphal river
Still I don't sleep at nights thinking about you
O Midnight Writer by the Lake Shore
O midnight writer by the lake shore
flicker your cigarette write me a poem
the lovers are gone running like rabbits
becoming old losing the stupidity of youthful days
here is my word "rejection"
it may be yours too
as i see you sitting by the lake shore
selling poems with tearful eyes
to the silent nights before sunrise
O midnight writer by the lake shore
how much you earn a night
how many cigarettes you smoke
before it lights the sky
how cold is the wind
that comes from the city you reject?
(PS: This poem is to the Character (the Poet) in the movie "Before Sunrise")
flicker your cigarette write me a poem
the lovers are gone running like rabbits
becoming old losing the stupidity of youthful days
here is my word "rejection"
it may be yours too
as i see you sitting by the lake shore
selling poems with tearful eyes
to the silent nights before sunrise
O midnight writer by the lake shore
how much you earn a night
how many cigarettes you smoke
before it lights the sky
how cold is the wind
that comes from the city you reject?
(PS: This poem is to the Character (the Poet) in the movie "Before Sunrise")
Lets Make a Film
Lets make a film
bring a tripod
and spread its legs
to make it as firm
as mountains
it is all dark, right?
So wide the aperture
you need more light
you need to roll the tape
hey you! be in shape!
And you get ready
the second shot is yours
Ok!
Action!
"Bang Bang Bang"
No one lives
they all die
Only a child left
crying by a bank of river
Cut! Cut!
You Fucking Cunt!
Do you know
how much i have wasted
I want the child to be shot
after the last drop of tear
from his eyes..
Ok you Pig head!
You got it right??
this must be the 2010th takes
Ok, Action!
"Bang bang Bang"
Yes! that's it
it is gonna be great movie
I need an editor now
bring a tripod
and spread its legs
to make it as firm
as mountains
it is all dark, right?
So wide the aperture
you need more light
you need to roll the tape
hey you! be in shape!
And you get ready
the second shot is yours
Ok!
Action!
"Bang Bang Bang"
No one lives
they all die
Only a child left
crying by a bank of river
Cut! Cut!
You Fucking Cunt!
Do you know
how much i have wasted
I want the child to be shot
after the last drop of tear
from his eyes..
Ok you Pig head!
You got it right??
this must be the 2010th takes
Ok, Action!
"Bang bang Bang"
Yes! that's it
it is gonna be great movie
I need an editor now
A dawn with Ibopishak
4am in the morning
He felt off from my dirty old book shelf
he stood up dusting off his bald head
and looked at me
like i was one of his half written poem
and said "don't follow me
searching for the silver oak tree
i have chopped it down
wearing my wife's gown
calling myself Shrimati Tomcha Babu
i hid myself from police babus
but never i could hide myself from poetry
the Chilean poet claimed poetry came after him
but i am poetry since 1969
soaking my legs in Kongba river
hanging under the bridge for my beloved
i was the one who plucked mangoes from a branch named "China"
and ate them at a branch named "Africa"
don't follow me
walk ahead
I have to meet George Bush at Lilong
don't even follow my poetry
they hardly reach Shillong
I ride a Humber Bicycle
but never learnt to slow down
to talk to the man in bullock cart
or never to talk to a peasant
when my wife demands me a new blouse
in my house of poetry
in the beginning of poetry full of month
and you know?
I stitch a blouse for her with my poetry
don't follow me
they have translated my poems already
but no one can translate me
who can translate me?
not you not any of you in this valley
how will you translate
the wail of a hungry market dog
how the fuck will you interpret
a dog urinating on my bald head
how? how on earth?
don't follow me my boy
I was the "hayingkhongyambi"
that questioned the beliefs of our drunken Vaishnavites
i was that mouthful of rice in Lukhak-Kom
that called himself a king of this land
i was the one who sold kids
in the carnival of death and corpses
with parrots eating the flesh of young boys
don't follow me
look at them learn to live a poetryless life
go find a good wife
poetry can't challenge your enemy
look at me dying here
look at my books lying there
but i have no fear for this land
but only the one with fear survives here
with their pockets full of lies
He felt off from my dirty old book shelf
he stood up dusting off his bald head
and looked at me
like i was one of his half written poem
and said "don't follow me
searching for the silver oak tree
i have chopped it down
wearing my wife's gown
calling myself Shrimati Tomcha Babu
i hid myself from police babus
but never i could hide myself from poetry
the Chilean poet claimed poetry came after him
but i am poetry since 1969
soaking my legs in Kongba river
hanging under the bridge for my beloved
i was the one who plucked mangoes from a branch named "China"
and ate them at a branch named "Africa"
don't follow me
walk ahead
I have to meet George Bush at Lilong
don't even follow my poetry
they hardly reach Shillong
I ride a Humber Bicycle
but never learnt to slow down
to talk to the man in bullock cart
or never to talk to a peasant
when my wife demands me a new blouse
in my house of poetry
in the beginning of poetry full of month
and you know?
I stitch a blouse for her with my poetry
don't follow me
they have translated my poems already
but no one can translate me
who can translate me?
not you not any of you in this valley
how will you translate
the wail of a hungry market dog
how the fuck will you interpret
a dog urinating on my bald head
how? how on earth?
don't follow me my boy
I was the "hayingkhongyambi"
that questioned the beliefs of our drunken Vaishnavites
i was that mouthful of rice in Lukhak-Kom
that called himself a king of this land
i was the one who sold kids
in the carnival of death and corpses
with parrots eating the flesh of young boys
don't follow me
look at them learn to live a poetryless life
go find a good wife
poetry can't challenge your enemy
look at me dying here
look at my books lying there
but i have no fear for this land
but only the one with fear survives here
with their pockets full of lies
lovers in winter
lovers in winter
like left over plate of rice
to a poor family
from a rich family
eating up the flesh
like a fresh rose
in the morning sun
frying themselves in bed
rolling and tossing
creating a moist universe
fills with cries in verse
lovers in winter
they dont feel cold
they don't hold to their age
they are newly born
stoned with lust
just as stupid as clown in circus
they whisper in silent night
they cry watching Popeye
they serve dinner with waist down naked
they just smile and say thousand words
Lovers in winter
they are the singers
they polish their fingers
for the dark night
their legs kick in air
they pant in stair
with silent giggles
in the rhythm Christmas jingles
like left over plate of rice
to a poor family
from a rich family
eating up the flesh
like a fresh rose
in the morning sun
frying themselves in bed
rolling and tossing
creating a moist universe
fills with cries in verse
lovers in winter
they dont feel cold
they don't hold to their age
they are newly born
stoned with lust
just as stupid as clown in circus
they whisper in silent night
they cry watching Popeye
they serve dinner with waist down naked
they just smile and say thousand words
Lovers in winter
they are the singers
they polish their fingers
for the dark night
their legs kick in air
they pant in stair
with silent giggles
in the rhythm Christmas jingles
Contessa
Driving the Contessa
i peeled the dusty road
with my sister tired and bored
looking for a peg of life
in the foreign evening
of Christmas stars
we thought it was a dry day
but with sweat and blood
the street was all wet
and a sad man
with blood dripping from his nose
looked away blindly
as Santa Claus got stuck
in traffic jam for the beggar boys
so the socks they filled with coins
with thumbs up
and they sang
"Such a life
of such day
how do you find my friend
how does it feel to be in the street?"
i peeled the dusty road
with my sister tired and bored
looking for a peg of life
in the foreign evening
of Christmas stars
we thought it was a dry day
but with sweat and blood
the street was all wet
and a sad man
with blood dripping from his nose
looked away blindly
as Santa Claus got stuck
in traffic jam for the beggar boys
so the socks they filled with coins
with thumbs up
and they sang
"Such a life
of such day
how do you find my friend
how does it feel to be in the street?"
stupidity
where is me
tell me
you want to play
hide and seek.
am i in your city
or in my valley
Reading Shelly
i give up poetry
Reading pound
i lose a pound
do i sound
like a stupid queen in crown
or a proud fowl
which escapes a soup of bowl
Oh i am stupid
as cupid
dont think it is a poem
i will hit your loin
tell me
you want to play
hide and seek.
am i in your city
or in my valley
Reading Shelly
i give up poetry
Reading pound
i lose a pound
do i sound
like a stupid queen in crown
or a proud fowl
which escapes a soup of bowl
Oh i am stupid
as cupid
dont think it is a poem
i will hit your loin
A post card to my father
I am your travelling-son, father,
Since you left me
In the crowded railway station of Guwahati
i started my journey by Brahmaputra Mail
with a physicist who loves Graham Greene
who taught me life is short to do everything
and i learnt the hardest part is to be a traveller like me
and the easiest thing is to write poetry
using names like Neruda, Guevara and Mayakovsky
Father, in my journey
I have missed home
but i believed there is so much in love
and the city i travelled
Now i wish to recycle this city in my desktop
as it threw me out on 15th December, 2009
leaving me stranded in a crossroad
with 1000kilograms of luggage
that i gathered in my ten years of travelling.
where shall i go now with all these
with no friends and notepads
where i can fit them as poetry
like stars studded in a pixel of sky
Must i end here?
Shall i burn myself out at home?
Don't tell me father "Go tell it on the mountain"?
I imagine you selling transistors to old men
It is Christmas time, you must be selling stereo tape too
to the brothers from hills who wear leather pants and hats
like some Texas cowboy in old Hollywood movies
But the smile was gone from your face
the grey beard replaced it
as you die fighting with them for every demand letter
they brought to your table.
I curse myself for loving home sometime
as i know they too prove that they love the land
with names like Kangleipak, Republic front and borrowing
all the good phrase of great history of revolutions.
I apologise father
I am your travelling son
who seeks nothing in life
other than living a day with a rucksak
filled few lousy algebraic calculations
and few poems
dying to be on some white page of a capitalist
Father,
I am sending you this post card
as Christmas arrives everywhere with snow,
i know you don't care of Christmas
but you will smell it in the rice and potatoes you eat
as it passed through highway 39
or you listen to the bell "Nagaland for christ"
Give my kisses to mother.
Since you left me
In the crowded railway station of Guwahati
i started my journey by Brahmaputra Mail
with a physicist who loves Graham Greene
who taught me life is short to do everything
and i learnt the hardest part is to be a traveller like me
and the easiest thing is to write poetry
using names like Neruda, Guevara and Mayakovsky
Father, in my journey
I have missed home
but i believed there is so much in love
and the city i travelled
Now i wish to recycle this city in my desktop
as it threw me out on 15th December, 2009
leaving me stranded in a crossroad
with 1000kilograms of luggage
that i gathered in my ten years of travelling.
where shall i go now with all these
with no friends and notepads
where i can fit them as poetry
like stars studded in a pixel of sky
Must i end here?
Shall i burn myself out at home?
Don't tell me father "Go tell it on the mountain"?
I imagine you selling transistors to old men
It is Christmas time, you must be selling stereo tape too
to the brothers from hills who wear leather pants and hats
like some Texas cowboy in old Hollywood movies
But the smile was gone from your face
the grey beard replaced it
as you die fighting with them for every demand letter
they brought to your table.
I curse myself for loving home sometime
as i know they too prove that they love the land
with names like Kangleipak, Republic front and borrowing
all the good phrase of great history of revolutions.
I apologise father
I am your travelling son
who seeks nothing in life
other than living a day with a rucksak
filled few lousy algebraic calculations
and few poems
dying to be on some white page of a capitalist
Father,
I am sending you this post card
as Christmas arrives everywhere with snow,
i know you don't care of Christmas
but you will smell it in the rice and potatoes you eat
as it passed through highway 39
or you listen to the bell "Nagaland for christ"
Give my kisses to mother.
Hip Hop Poem
i was inside the store
listening to a black song
about the world going wrong
smoking pot through a bong
they call it submarine
it reached my spleen
I break danced with my head in spin
while the radio sang I am the king
yet in this world where do i fit in
I dont know i don' know
Mama cries watching soap opera
the poets die for words of Neruda
Flamboyant chick, she wants America
The newspapers, all for Telangana
while the radio sang I am the king
yet in this world where do i fit in
I dont know i don' know
If you were born Indian
drowning in Sambar or frying with benggan
Ten days of fast fucked the nation
But nine years of fast in the hill
dies away like effect of a crocine pill
so I say fuck the nation
they have no solution
while the radio sang I am the king
yet in this world where do i fit in
I dont know i don' know
listening to a black song
about the world going wrong
smoking pot through a bong
they call it submarine
it reached my spleen
I break danced with my head in spin
while the radio sang I am the king
yet in this world where do i fit in
I dont know i don' know
Mama cries watching soap opera
the poets die for words of Neruda
Flamboyant chick, she wants America
The newspapers, all for Telangana
while the radio sang I am the king
yet in this world where do i fit in
I dont know i don' know
If you were born Indian
drowning in Sambar or frying with benggan
Ten days of fast fucked the nation
But nine years of fast in the hill
dies away like effect of a crocine pill
so I say fuck the nation
they have no solution
while the radio sang I am the king
yet in this world where do i fit in
I dont know i don' know
To Peace
Peace blooms good in books
Peace looks good when it means White dove
But I have also seen a friend (Kanano Khangbro)
who flushed it down in some western commode
may be too impatient
like the toothbrush which couldn't wait
to see the teeth shining for a cheap ad
and the toothbrush too was with peace.
Yoko and Lennon left the bed
leaving peace as wrinkles on the bedsheet
with pillow stained with lennon's imagination
O Peace!
Stop teasing me
i don't long for you
Peace looks good when it means White dove
But I have also seen a friend (Kanano Khangbro)
who flushed it down in some western commode
may be too impatient
like the toothbrush which couldn't wait
to see the teeth shining for a cheap ad
and the toothbrush too was with peace.
Yoko and Lennon left the bed
leaving peace as wrinkles on the bedsheet
with pillow stained with lennon's imagination
O Peace!
Stop teasing me
i don't long for you
Call me a Hero
If i die while writing a poem
dont call me a poetry maniac
call me a Hero :)
as i search for home in words
like bomb and tomb
dont call me a poetry maniac
call me a Hero :)
as i search for home in words
like bomb and tomb
Mangjijao Hoten-2
Lately Ta Mangijao discovered that his only son
Danny Jao is also very good in organising events
He organised a birthday event at Kilokri Subji Mandi
in which the birthday boy cut a cabbage as the night was dark
and lost the cake in midnight traffic jam of delhi
he can't bear any kind of viruses
he exterminate viruses and name them after people he know
like "Ringo, Raju, Sumitra"
Proud Ta Mangijao posted his sons pictures on the walls of his hoten
in different pose including Krishna Pose
which often looks like something heavy is inside him.
After a heavy meal of Hangam chamthong and hawaijar metpa
Ringo day dreamt, sitting at the bench of Hoten
smoking a Mantu Bidi with a tooth peak in his mouth
he finds his love in Loktak, clad in phanek with a long in her hand
and singing Pamuba laone, Software na kanaroi
lamdamse hardware olle India gi
her visits to Mangjjao hoten made Sumitra quite an Intellect
so she teaches "Romeo's recipe of Oak Chagempomba"
instead of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet
And the young radical Muslim students are liking it
as she never used word "Swor"
Wondering the "non linear dynamics" of Ta Mangijao hoten
Umeshkanta came like winter crab near Imphal Turel
with his crazy leg he learnt from John Travolta of Pulp Fiction
with Uma Thurman who was a wfie of a Black Gangster
who got sodomised by a Gay Police.
And While the hoten was enjoying the news of Ringo jao being eloped
leaving his Yamaha peirced an old Banyan Tree
Sonyboy complained of the stinking toilet as he followed Romeo Jao
after they had "Wathi Chagempomba"
with the good old club secretary who wished Ene Purnimashi while she was sitting
near a khongban :)
So tamo Basanta Jao left a western commode for Sonyboy
saying
"My boy! Dont make yourself heavy
But make mother earth heavy
there are aliens around to take off mother earth like a space ship"
da Balan jao came late at night
with a Mayep on his shoulder playing a song called "Fireflies"
to forget the blues of his eloped daughters
Ta Vimol came like gansgter of 80's bollywood with bald head
asking Da Balan Jao "who took away the girl?"
They belived Akhu took the girl away..but no
the truth is Akhu came his pant rolled down and shirt rolled up
looking for a dog to lick away his yongchak flavour ass
as Tamo Basanta Jao advised in his uchina like ears
And Da ringo Jao came "Bingo" again
and screened his movie "Into the wild"
like the filmaker in Mr. Bean's Holiday
all the critics agreed the movie was good
but the film lacked romance,love and tender
and too much of Bidi and drinks
Ta Basanta Jao distributed Sand clock to Pakhang macha
reminding them that they belong to Kangleipak to
marry young, who knows a bullet is on your way?
But the mesage leaked way
thru zipped Pakora in Gmail
and reached ta Duran Jao
So suddenly he dressed up himself as Groom
and posed in mirror and the mirror shattered into pieces
and the whole mumbai woke up thinking of another 26/11
but he said to the world
"Now i am going to be married soon
Dwipen! come! Hold the Chaisen!
Ringojao, Kadai eigi Satin!
Ta Balan Jao! Spare me from E-RANG
Now i myself need some e-rang"
While TaDuran Jao was playing drum in his own Marriage
Supriya popped up here and there like a feet in the rhythm of thabal drum
sometime in Dubai during Ramdan
sometime in Banglore wearing the biggest chapal on earth
sometime in delhi to sing "Let it be"
while Umeshkanta Jao is trying to snatch away the MIC for his Lan Pamde
When Ringo ended being a tired Motor Cycle Dairy Hero
DA KK jao came with a yellow Lambetta
and they both rode off for the BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN
and single Dwipen jao started looking around for his right mate
but he found no one except the same old Chafu of Uti of Ta Mangijoao
And suddenly everyone in Mangijao Hoten heard the news
"Someone eloped, someone eloped, Nupi chelle Nupi cHelle"
Ta Mangijao spread his mat(fak)
and everyone sits with a glass of black tea in their hands
and start the usual the discussion on everything under the sun
But Ta Duran Jao is missing ....
and suddenly TaMangijao's radio bursts:
"Leikai gi echal apamba yam yaowee
Mityeng nayeng yamna chumdaba yaowee"
Danny Jao is also very good in organising events
He organised a birthday event at Kilokri Subji Mandi
in which the birthday boy cut a cabbage as the night was dark
and lost the cake in midnight traffic jam of delhi
he can't bear any kind of viruses
he exterminate viruses and name them after people he know
like "Ringo, Raju, Sumitra"
Proud Ta Mangijao posted his sons pictures on the walls of his hoten
in different pose including Krishna Pose
which often looks like something heavy is inside him.
After a heavy meal of Hangam chamthong and hawaijar metpa
Ringo day dreamt, sitting at the bench of Hoten
smoking a Mantu Bidi with a tooth peak in his mouth
he finds his love in Loktak, clad in phanek with a long in her hand
and singing Pamuba laone, Software na kanaroi
lamdamse hardware olle India gi
her visits to Mangjjao hoten made Sumitra quite an Intellect
so she teaches "Romeo's recipe of Oak Chagempomba"
instead of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet
And the young radical Muslim students are liking it
as she never used word "Swor"
Wondering the "non linear dynamics" of Ta Mangijao hoten
Umeshkanta came like winter crab near Imphal Turel
with his crazy leg he learnt from John Travolta of Pulp Fiction
with Uma Thurman who was a wfie of a Black Gangster
who got sodomised by a Gay Police.
And While the hoten was enjoying the news of Ringo jao being eloped
leaving his Yamaha peirced an old Banyan Tree
Sonyboy complained of the stinking toilet as he followed Romeo Jao
after they had "Wathi Chagempomba"
with the good old club secretary who wished Ene Purnimashi while she was sitting
near a khongban :)
So tamo Basanta Jao left a western commode for Sonyboy
saying
"My boy! Dont make yourself heavy
But make mother earth heavy
there are aliens around to take off mother earth like a space ship"
da Balan jao came late at night
with a Mayep on his shoulder playing a song called "Fireflies"
to forget the blues of his eloped daughters
Ta Vimol came like gansgter of 80's bollywood with bald head
asking Da Balan Jao "who took away the girl?"
They belived Akhu took the girl away..but no
the truth is Akhu came his pant rolled down and shirt rolled up
looking for a dog to lick away his yongchak flavour ass
as Tamo Basanta Jao advised in his uchina like ears
And Da ringo Jao came "Bingo" again
and screened his movie "Into the wild"
like the filmaker in Mr. Bean's Holiday
all the critics agreed the movie was good
but the film lacked romance,love and tender
and too much of Bidi and drinks
Ta Basanta Jao distributed Sand clock to Pakhang macha
reminding them that they belong to Kangleipak to
marry young, who knows a bullet is on your way?
But the mesage leaked way
thru zipped Pakora in Gmail
and reached ta Duran Jao
So suddenly he dressed up himself as Groom
and posed in mirror and the mirror shattered into pieces
and the whole mumbai woke up thinking of another 26/11
but he said to the world
"Now i am going to be married soon
Dwipen! come! Hold the Chaisen!
Ringojao, Kadai eigi Satin!
Ta Balan Jao! Spare me from E-RANG
Now i myself need some e-rang"
While TaDuran Jao was playing drum in his own Marriage
Supriya popped up here and there like a feet in the rhythm of thabal drum
sometime in Dubai during Ramdan
sometime in Banglore wearing the biggest chapal on earth
sometime in delhi to sing "Let it be"
while Umeshkanta Jao is trying to snatch away the MIC for his Lan Pamde
When Ringo ended being a tired Motor Cycle Dairy Hero
DA KK jao came with a yellow Lambetta
and they both rode off for the BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN
and single Dwipen jao started looking around for his right mate
but he found no one except the same old Chafu of Uti of Ta Mangijoao
And suddenly everyone in Mangijao Hoten heard the news
"Someone eloped, someone eloped, Nupi chelle Nupi cHelle"
Ta Mangijao spread his mat(fak)
and everyone sits with a glass of black tea in their hands
and start the usual the discussion on everything under the sun
But Ta Duran Jao is missing ....
and suddenly TaMangijao's radio bursts:
"Leikai gi echal apamba yam yaowee
Mityeng nayeng yamna chumdaba yaowee"
Maisnam Mangijao Hoten
there was a confusion between Maisnam and Denzongpa
untill Da Danny opened Mangijao Hoten
standing inside the lee shoes of his daddy Mangijao
And so a Broken hearted Da Ringo came down
from the hills of Ukhrul with a cigerrete in his hand
like a hungry useless meitei lion singing Zionism by his black shirt
Tamo Basanta brought Morning to Mangijoa hoten
with his nursery rhyme "Taibi Taibi Yes Praja"
while the hills were singing "Hallelujah"
Sometimes he came with Toningkok
wearing neck tie and sold it to Tamo Vimol and Ta Duran
Ta Duran arrived in evening sitting on a banana leaf
like he was having a magic carpet ride with his eyes
gazing at Ta Mangijao's Bora thru his thick glasses
he pleased the girls in the hoten singing "Love me two times baby"
And Da KK popped out of an old Krishna calender of Hero Cycle
which was posted since class of 1999 next to Ta Mangijao's Funga
when the torn krishna smelled the chicken iromba of Romeo, the moreh hero
Romeo not only was a great cook
he even sold away pumpkins from thong nambonbi
saying they are all from Moreh
He wears a garland of sunflowers and serve KFC to Mangijao hoten
And Raju the overdosed poet with haiku
sits next to Mangijao's Meiphu
smoking bidi, blowing meikhu
waiting for the freid Waikhu
And earlier the girls were too shy to smoke
eventually they became Nisha Bandh
with their mouth stink with Vodka and Rum
while supriya sold away Hawaijar in dates
while Babina became a poet who lost her gender
between Jao and Thourani
And Dwipen left everyone for his spiritual life
that he longs for since he became single
and breakfasted with Old Monk in Pune
But he came home wearing Da Ringo's face "Yumai"
Yes his face has become spiritual
and as soon as he came back he jumped into a chafu of TaMangijao's Uti
he wishes to grow his tummy like Himalaya
"it is eternity"
untill Da Danny opened Mangijao Hoten
standing inside the lee shoes of his daddy Mangijao
And so a Broken hearted Da Ringo came down
from the hills of Ukhrul with a cigerrete in his hand
like a hungry useless meitei lion singing Zionism by his black shirt
Tamo Basanta brought Morning to Mangijoa hoten
with his nursery rhyme "Taibi Taibi Yes Praja"
while the hills were singing "Hallelujah"
Sometimes he came with Toningkok
wearing neck tie and sold it to Tamo Vimol and Ta Duran
Ta Duran arrived in evening sitting on a banana leaf
like he was having a magic carpet ride with his eyes
gazing at Ta Mangijao's Bora thru his thick glasses
he pleased the girls in the hoten singing "Love me two times baby"
And Da KK popped out of an old Krishna calender of Hero Cycle
which was posted since class of 1999 next to Ta Mangijao's Funga
when the torn krishna smelled the chicken iromba of Romeo, the moreh hero
Romeo not only was a great cook
he even sold away pumpkins from thong nambonbi
saying they are all from Moreh
He wears a garland of sunflowers and serve KFC to Mangijao hoten
And Raju the overdosed poet with haiku
sits next to Mangijao's Meiphu
smoking bidi, blowing meikhu
waiting for the freid Waikhu
And earlier the girls were too shy to smoke
eventually they became Nisha Bandh
with their mouth stink with Vodka and Rum
while supriya sold away Hawaijar in dates
while Babina became a poet who lost her gender
between Jao and Thourani
And Dwipen left everyone for his spiritual life
that he longs for since he became single
and breakfasted with Old Monk in Pune
But he came home wearing Da Ringo's face "Yumai"
Yes his face has become spiritual
and as soon as he came back he jumped into a chafu of TaMangijao's Uti
he wishes to grow his tummy like Himalaya
"it is eternity"
Winter Time
it is winter time
with market full of peas
it is winter time
with days full of sleep
give me peace
no the scars from drunken night
November left me
with my forehead swollen
December arrived
with my weak punch bleeding
i am living
with my hair falling like autumn leaves
Mama it is winter time
dont call me from home
i dont want to hear the news
dont wake me up mama
i only want to wake up clean
leaving my scars on my Moreh blanket
it is winter time
and i dont want to hear a chime
of the church bell
that rob the sincerity of many lives in hills
it is winter time
i dont want to write a poem of hate
it is winter time
love falls from the sky
i pick it
and get lost in translation
and i say "Sarang Ngiyo"
as she asks me to pay back
the six years of love and fight
with my stupidity,
the six years in which
she adoringly said
quoting Ondatjee
"Seeing you
i want no other life"
when it is winter and we die
ourselves for pork with bamboo shoot
it is winter time
again a weekend arrives
flavoured with smoke and scent of rum
and we burn out like fireflies in dawn
with market full of peas
it is winter time
with days full of sleep
give me peace
no the scars from drunken night
November left me
with my forehead swollen
December arrived
with my weak punch bleeding
i am living
with my hair falling like autumn leaves
Mama it is winter time
dont call me from home
i dont want to hear the news
dont wake me up mama
i only want to wake up clean
leaving my scars on my Moreh blanket
it is winter time
and i dont want to hear a chime
of the church bell
that rob the sincerity of many lives in hills
it is winter time
i dont want to write a poem of hate
it is winter time
love falls from the sky
i pick it
and get lost in translation
and i say "Sarang Ngiyo"
as she asks me to pay back
the six years of love and fight
with my stupidity,
the six years in which
she adoringly said
quoting Ondatjee
"Seeing you
i want no other life"
when it is winter and we die
ourselves for pork with bamboo shoot
it is winter time
again a weekend arrives
flavoured with smoke and scent of rum
and we burn out like fireflies in dawn
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