Haiku Beneath the Leibāklei

Some of the haiku which were published in the Leibāklei edition

In the autumn field
The children they play housing
so they are pregnant
Akhu Chingangbam

A dog has a tail
In the rain, it soaked the tail
And you wept mercy!
Jayanta Oinam 

Say the sky is red
Say even the fields are red.
It’s your blood stained eyes.
Korou Khundrakpam 

With them screaming hymns;
In this neighborhood, I am
Almost an atheist.
Kundo Yumnam 

Damn! A wound in head.
Do you remember your name?
There's peace after death.
Raju Athokpam 

Flow of consciousness
play of the thought and feelings
wears ironic mask
Usham Rojio 

Full moon of my home
brighter by far I tell them
load shedding they mocked
Soibam Haripriya 

Senses

by Victor Thoudam 

With a bow in my hand I
shot an arrow
That travels against the air
To its destination
Leaving me in a state of conflict
Unanswering
Was it the muscle of my hand?
That shot the arrow
Or was it my consciousness?
That shot the arrow
Did I know that the darts hurts?
If strike into the flesh.

Is it the memory of war
Which my will erupts,
For the destruction of human kind
With only surviving the power
Or it is the time that destructs
For a new construction.
Again pushes me to the whereabouts
Of the sensual arrow
Would I find the arrow again?
Unhurt to anyone
Or would I find it to someone’s hand
Who can shoot the arrow again

Is it just the money
That hides behind the gun
Then what is it that hides Behind money
Is it the most powerful man?
Who is behind money?
But then also the prostitute of B.O.C
Breathe behind money
Would you tell me somehow?
Why do people call the prostitute ‘kasubi’?
And the most powerful man Chief-Minister?

Why don’t you cuff my hand,
And bring me to the gallows
Because I have seen the photograph of ‘Kangjabi shooting’ I
 feel the tears of their dear ones
Why don’t you chop my heart into pieces
And teach me 1984 of George Orwell
But you will ever remain the chief of uniforms
No one dare to shake off your feet

I have been loyal to my will
Which cannot be exist in a vacuum
If my hand moves with my will
I feel the senses throughout my body
But senselessness is imposing us
Locking us up inside a cage
But senses make the opaque porous
Even a death man provokes our senses.

In a Moment of Nirvana

by Victor Thoudam 

My eyes opened to the fields wide open
Standing in the midst of eastward breeze I see the birds
Dancing
In the rays of the sun
Jumping, its tiny legs
On the branches of the bamboos, and
The enchanting song of ‘Heirangkhoinida’
Sweep across my ears
Which was exiled from my heart
To the quagmire of skeletons,
Touches me deeply, holds me firmly
In the transcendental Nirvana
But a moment later
Like ashes of  a broken angel
I fell down, tossed by the wind
With the soil I sleep together
Kissing the night in the tunnel of fog.
Waking up with the meaningless sunrise
I journey along the river current
Like momentary froth
That vanishes without telling anyone
But you never wanted to talk to me
So maybe I vanish for
In the atmosphere of absurdity

How would I not mourn to the shrill
When the harmony is disturbed
How would I not echo my pangs
When the tune is distorted
How would I speak to Sanamacha’s mother
Waiting for her beloved son
To return, for ages,
Wearing a tattered Lanjam Phanek?

Oh! Monsoon rain the harbinger of hope
With your shower ripens the mango
With your shower the farmer quenches his thirst
Would you please shower us the nectar
That turns guns into ashes
That carves the crafts of ‘Heirangkhoinida’
Into every heart
Would it not be a pleasure
To see the Nong-Yen catching
The dazzling rain drops
With the innocent children
Singing the song of ‘Hanuba-Hanubi Taotharo’

But I am just a traveler
Who appear in a blink
and disappears in the next
And also just a creature
Who is easily carried
By a whispers of current
My dream is just a mere dream
Of being lost in a transcendental Nirvana
Who visions in some false images
In the atmosphere of absurdity
And I will ever remain like the  froth
Who hasn’t learnt
How to ask the waiting mother
How are you?

Courtesy: Anonymous ART of Revolution

A Confidential Letter to Burning Voices

by Akhu Chingangbam

We have had many discussions
some said yours is a revolution
some said you all are spoilt brats
some said you all are the "heavenly poets" of Neruda
some made calls to kill you all.

But we have come to the conclusion
that your voluminous poems will be counted
as literature,
they will be taught in school
but as poetry has a habit of reflecting
its surrounding,
yours too is filled with so many
unwanted things.

we, the official of Govt of Manipur, request
you all that from now on
be optimistic about what you write
and write good things about our land
dont scold the officials, politicians
dont remind us about any history that you witnessed
dont talk of effigies, you can write about mountains
but dont write about the conditions of roads in Hills

You all will be paid
if you write one poem a week.
you will not be paid
if you write more than one poem a week
or you take more than one week to complete a poem

So from now on
you all have become 21st century
Manipuri literature

Congratulation!

At your service,
Manipur Government
25/06/09

RIGHT to EDUCATION

by Usham Rojio

I’m the jailbird of my body,
the term of sentence is indefinite
Exclamation is the boat of my life
No way to escape, I must howl
To die, to sleep is atone
But my ‘right to life’ is out of tune.
Rightly remarked, I read somewhere,
"The only good Indian is a dead Indian"
Search for such life, we’ll prove fine,
Dreams wrapped with grief and disgruntled
Silently standing under the fall, such is our kind.
Thanks to the black suit lawyers,
whose hearts are full of black markers,
They make laws for Lawmakers;
See, how merciful they are;
They send us a package of declaration,
A package of RIGHT to EDUCATION,
With their gun pointing on our brains.
Nor the beginning, nor the end drains.

His and Hers

by Soibam Haripriya 

A bigger face
a bigger strap
a smaller face
a smaller strap
for thick muscular hands for thin slender arms
They said its
God-given
big things for man
small things for woman
Titan had wrapped them up
with velvety cloth
perfect wedding gifts
His and Hers

A bigger hand
A harder slap
leaving bluish purple marks
you get accustomed to

Slender hands
to be wrung about helplessly to
welcome
a burn here, a cut there as
one her kind
should get accustomed to.

And all these came
packed in a golden box with velvet inside
the sturdy-ness of his, the softness of hers
God-given
wrapped in skin and bones Perfect gifts
for Hu-man-kind

Three Questions

by Soibam Haripriya

Why did you give me
this irreparable world to inherit
Tainted with stains of history
the world is lost to my kind
Your gallant invoking of mere two battles
fought by women
amuses me to no end
for you know not
I live and die fighting
innumerable ones everyday

Why did you give me
your cemented dogma
where subdued
tender shoots
of green struggle beneath
I am older than the seasons
I am the aged clump of grass
taking root
unrelentingly cracking
the cemented courtyard
I die and sprout again
Why did you give me this soft tissue
deftly at my throbbing
core to break and bleed
at first contact
You judge me by this myth
I am younger than your myths
I will melt and mould
Genesis and revelation
to a lump of nothingness
and mock the demise of creation

The Other Revolutionary

by Shreema Ningombam

She took up Irabot’s sickle
To chop off the overgrown beard
On her mother’s chin
She too is a revolutionary
The wicked wind licks lecherously
Her thighs along which the phanek slithers
Yielding to the wanton wind
The phanek prostrate on the wayside cried
‘Hey lady! you have dropped me’
She knowingly did not look back
She too is a revolutionary

The evening prayer to Sanamahi was offered
Forgetting her crimson lunar cycle
Only to remember when her man tucked her phanek
From her waist in that drunken night
As the faint scent of haeme whiffs along
She too is a revolutionary

She rode away in the air
Screamed with the muffled mouth
Forgot when ought to remember
Swam in the cloud
She too thinks a thought
She too is a revolutionary
That night in that bloody war
A seed of revolution was sown In her ravaged womb
Against law against time; against all dimensions of life
A revolution grows in her belly
She is a revolutionary through the ages

The Poet and the Art of Poetry

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

by Kapil Arambam

Whom do we call a poet? On a theme, from an emotional appeal of hope and happiness, we pick up our pen to express ourselves. Yet it is beyond our comprehension, from a poet’s perspective, to see how much we can write and how clearly we can put down the feelings and impressions in black and white. We always try to emphasise on the mellifluous sound and well-timed rhythm, by adding, subtracting and tweaking the pieces of our voice that should be easy on our and the readers’ ear — all’s well if we succeed in our penning endeavour. The ear is irrefutably the only tool, which measures the quality and the originality of the poet and the nicety of his/her art. The poet croons and creates the sound and rhythm, much to the delight of the body and the soul of the readers, who jumps with joy, whose emotion dances to the tune of the delightful words. It is apparent from one of our experiences, when a melody enters the gate of our heart the first impression mostly finds it hard to please our soul. Can you reach the heaven; howsoever when you are pleased, when you hear about the wonders of heaven? The beauty of poetry lies in the art of the possible, if not in reaching the heaven. A scentless flower cannot capture our attention for a long time. That’s why people who appreciate the art of poetry have to stand on a raised platform to relish the delicacy of this art form. Attention to detail is the hallmark of the connoisseurs, who read the nuances of carefully chosen words — whether the words can penetrate the several folds of heart and produce an entirely new sensation, if the words can recreate a fresh image of beauty in the heart; and if not, the work cannot be accepted as an art of poetry if the strings of the heart produce merely a tuneless sound but not a new melody.

In Defiance

by Shreema Ningombam

Let me cast aside these jewels
The adornments in my ears; the necklace in my neck
Who am I waiting for to be watched wistfully.
For whom am I waiting with such burden?

Let me cast aside the inner layers beneath my phanek
Let my blood flow along the smooth of my thighs
With a freedom
that it has never known
Beyond all shame let it be seen by you all.

Why my breasts are being bound so with such tightness
Is it the crime of shedding the divine milk?
They say it’s a pair of divine beauty.
Divinity! Oh you always comes with chains

Who has thrown me a piece of veil?
Veil be cast aside,
It is your gaze, it’s your sense
What have I and my veil got to do with it?

Your feet I touched that day in the public
Now in this silent night you kiss my feet
Tell me whose feet are pure and who’s impure.
Oh! What is this purity somebody tell me?

A dip in the Ganges of ‘sin’
A silent confession in front of a sinner
A nikah that can end with three ‘talaqs’
A marriage solemnized by an illiterate priest
Purity made of all impurities.

We Are What We Bring

Courtesy: Anonymous ART of Revolution

Rooting for Neruda's Images

A brief review of Robin Ngangom’s “The Desire of Roots” 
Chandrabhaga Publications, Cuttack, 2006

by Soibam Haripriya 

There are many ways of exploring belongingness. Some do it by seeking the desire of roots.  Others do it by identifying the 'otherness' in the desire. Robin Ngangom's The Desire of Roots still remains just a desire, a longing for the labyrinth terrain of the 'known' by the same roots. This desire of roots does not find the roots but creates new ones. Like the auxiliary roots descending from a canopy of branches belonging to an aged banyan tree. The roots in the air seek to unite with the mother roots beneath the earth, their home. These auxiliary roots become trunks which will again sprout roots from above. Reading Ngangom's collection of 48 poems, I am left thinking about these auxiliary roots and how they have been nurtured and fostered. In these poems, I find the familiarity of an aura and the scent I experienced when I first read Neruda in college.

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood— 
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent 

One Last Time

by Shreema Ningombam

One last time
Let me be disgraced in front of those million eyes
One last time
Let me ruin myself from where there is no salvage
One last time
Let me be immoral that shames the immorality itself
One last time
Let me go wild into the wilderness in search for an aphrodisiac
One last time
Let me taste the most hated of loves
One last time
Let me exile myself from where there is no return.
One last time
Let me kill with my own hands
One last time
Let my body be tattooed with all taboos
One last time
Let me enjoy the most wanton of all dreams
One last time
Let me show my nakedness to the man of my choice
One last time
Let me be a mother without ever knowing the key to wedlock
One last time
Let me drink the poison of life and die just to live again
One last time
Let me be sinfully free… One last time
One last time…

I Am a Death Statue!!!

by R.K. Brojen Singh 

Hey! white pigeon!!
Where are you flying?
Your wings are all burned
By the violet flames from my home
How long can you fly?
In this land of chaotic violence I know you are an angel
Shouting in a series of nightmares here
Standing on the death skeletons.
Look pigeon! Once I thought
When I see I in myself here
Who was killed thousand times by myself
The person who suicide is not a damn coward anymore
But still I am trying to be brave
When the contenders defy their originalities
When the commander do not listen to his troopers
When the leaders forget their promises
When the life has been bargained with gun
When I see the mothers stripe their body naked
For their death children
When I see the red streets, the red people, the red events
Still I am trying to be brave
But I will not suicide today.
Pigeon, I am here in the protest rally!!!!
Pigeon! You have seen

When Bankimchandra portrayed saints
Singing  Vande mataram against the Gora
Bhikaji painted it on Indian National Flag in Stuttgart
Bhagat broke up the colonial walls in Irwin’s heart in Lahore jail;
Few decades back you watched
Cam, Dat, Quan and Dan in Vietnam prison
Breaking the imprisoned life’s lock
With their bombs of poems;
You still see Wai
Who has been writing his poems
On the dictating walls of Burmese jail;
One went off
For some defined uncontrolled pains of human torture;
One comes back
For another undefined and unacceptable rules and law
Defined in different time and place;
Human gives birth evils in their heart
And born another to rescue from it.
So you came here for some reason;
Look, you can’t fly any longer
With your burned wings
Your eternity of roaming this part of the globe
Becomes nightmare;
You are too tired!!!!

No pigeon, no!!!
Don’t get tired to fly across the globe
There are many things you have to understand my home.
In this small pretty heaven
Peasants are starving in the days of harvest
Workers become slaves with their empty hands
Street protests become meaningless to the protestors and violent
Academicians become tired to teach in human rights schools
Freedom of guns and bullets threaten daily peace
The benefactors become blood suckers
The politicians become businessman
The people become commodities;
So the cows, horses, elephants become carnivorous
The dogs are barking in days and nights
The wise cats are roaming in and out
The poisonous snakes are coming out from the bushes
Mother pebets, mother rate go mad in their bid to save their offspring;
Therefore
Red water flows in the rivers
The flowers in the garden have forgotten the meaning of Spring
The trees in the forest are not free from darkness
The mountains and valleys are dumb spectators
The colour of the sky turned to black or brown or red
The black smoke and red blood are painting
My home’s picture in local newspapers
The innocent statues are coming out from the painted house
And die on the crowded streets, markets,
Community centers, hospitals;
They don’t have historical monuments
I could not find their heavenly stories In this small heaven.
No pigeon, no!!!
Don’t fly across the globe to tell this I am ashamed
These tears and anger are for my home And for me
Let it dry here.

.......................................................................................................................
References:

1. Bankim Chandra Chatterjee: Anandmath (Novel) 
2. Bhikaiji Cama (1861-1936), She painted Vande Mataram in three coloured Indian national flag in International Socialist Conference in Stuttgart in 1907, Germany. (Everybody knows Bhagat Singh, Rajguru, Shukhdev in Indian freedom struggle) 
3. Hoang Cam, Le Dat, Phung Quan and Tran Dan were part of a movement which criticised life under communism but which was crushed in the late 1950s. The four, two of whom are now dead, published their work (poems) in two magazines. Vietnamese government has announced that it is to award a prestigious prize to four poets - 50 years after they were imprisoned and their works banned. 
4. Burmese Poet Gets Two Years in Prison for Eight-Line Poem by Staff Daily News, Online Only, posted 11.12.08: The Burmese poet Saw Wai was sentenced on Monday to two years in prison for writing a love poem that contains a hidden criticism of the Burmese dictator General Than Shwe. The eight-line poem, “14th February,” was published in a weekly magazine in January. When read vertically, the first word of each line forms a description of General Than Shwe as crazy with power. Saw Wai was consequently charged with “harming public tranquility,” according to the Times in London. 

.......................................................................................................................

who are you?

by Raju Athokpam, with inputs from Ringo Pebam

you are proud to be in general quota
whilst your brothers and sisters get big shots in the name of caste
you think you are trendy, sanskritizing and hinduising
just to end up having ethnic clashes with yourself
you ignored the fights of minor groups
who were indeed protecting you
and now you don’t have any answer
to those Kuki’s questions

still you are damn chauvinist and you soliloquize
“Whatever man, i am still the one. numero uno, you know”.

when you meet a new you, you don’t ask what he does
you only ask for a lunch someday, namesake
because he and you are spoil brats, who do nothing in life.

but you are a real genius; you act like a millionaire with only a penny in your pocket
you can punish your ma with your domestic demands for clothes and bikes
you go to capital for graduation; a five year long study

you like losing control and you keep dying by guns
is it that you are patriot,
broken hearted for your motherland?
or are you a businessman with a gun?

* (Input from Ringo Pebam)
so proud you are, of the shiroi lilies
so you write of them, the beautiful lines

it's the hill men who  protect the lilies and the hills
as you sit and talk at the leipungs about state integrity

your ego still tells you are a genius and they are fools
because you are from the beautiful tampak with the general-quota?"

You Thief

by Laishram Ratan 

You thief
You amaze us
You frighten us
We abhor you.

Today
We heard your name
We know your nature
Your allies are numerous
Impossible to take you to justice.

But
Heh! You thief
Never be conceived in another womb
Begone beyond the human sphere
Cannot hear the mournful lamentations any more.

Translated from Manipuri by Homen Thangjam 

Landscape

by Jayanta Oinam 

For an old miser like me,
Who frets over the qualms of life,
Dying silently in the obscurity, and
Waiting for one last journey, is
Like a futile adventure against the destiny.

Talking about Destiny
Reminds me of certain trail,
of a Poet, a barking poet
Who barks at everything
For the black holes of undying chasm
For the graves that embrace unknown souls;
And with every pause, he says:
‘Graves and black holes
They are the landscapes with new meaning
No pretention, no fluttery, but
The landscape of a new civilization’.

Then, I kneeled
And watched the space between my legs
Upside down, it looked a morbid architecture
Left unwanted for the future
With few urinated walls of ruins
And there, I saw my body
In resurrection, like a landscape drawn poorly
For a makeshift barrage
From the lame shin who can’t follow a girl
To the mouth of sinking lips, cursed with kisses;
Little far away
Through the space between my legs
The black holes, they swerved through the nadir
And raised as graves, there
Souls hovered wearing familiar masks
And again
I am frightened for the life.
My legs,
They dropped with an awful thump
There the poet stood tall
With his half grinned humanity
And I was left for the body.
For him
My body was one of those black holes, and
For me
My body was the grave!

Dablo Returns Home

by Homen Thangjam 

Dablo is an Officer.
We read about his kidnapping.
Learnt he fed his pigeons before he left.

Dablo returned home last night.
We inquired of his health to his son, replied,
“Pabung released all the pigeons last night.”

Won’t You Agree

by Homen Thangjam 

Won’t you agree,
If I
Say we’re living in hard times
Sorrow as the centre, just like the
Sun in the centre, with the
Planets as cognates of eternal time
Just like living beings, in a
Never stopping revolution
Like the cycle of life.
Won’t you agree,

If I
Say binary opposition is the truth
Life begets death, what else you can think of
In happiness lies sorrow, although
Trinity rules the universe
Creation, preservation and destruction
Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
Seeking to harness harmony in turmoil.
Won’t you agree,

If I
Speak of the trinity of time, too
The three faces - yesterday, today and tomorrow
Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery
But today is a gift and thus, a present
Alas! We learn not from past, ever lost in
Search for a perfect future, let drift by the present, while
Caught in mundane yet oddities of life.
Won’t you agree,

If I
Say yesterday is filled with
Tales we dearly hold and read of
War, gory and misery, great epics
Beowulf, Mahabharata, Ramayana
Iliad & Odyssey, Nibelungenlied, Aeneid
And Divine Comedy, of few I know, then
Tales of kindness, compassion and brotherhood.
Won’t you agree,

If I
Say today is filled with
Imageries we passionately watch
Babies suckling on bone-dried breasts in Africa
Limbless starving children in Afghanistan, Iraq, Jaffna
Museum of human skulls in Cambodia, shrines of nuclear bomb
Victims in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, baby in an earthen pot
Beside the funeral pyre of her mother in Manipur,
of few I know.
Won’t you agree,

If I
Say today like yesterday we lust after
Smog and acid rain, even when there’re mountain ranges
Covered with white snow, and camouflaged military fatigues
Amidst emerald forest foliages, love to deafen chirping songs of crickets
Gleeful laughter of children, confused giggles of brides with
Landmines, TNT, IED and nuclear bombs
Hope, trust and fraternity we blow up to ashes.
Won’t you agree,

If I
Say today we wage war in the name of “people”
And humanity, for oil, gas, mineral and wealth
Deprive the poor from food and fatten the rich with fat
Stock the arsenals with nuclear weapons
Equip state forces with WMDs, and talk of equality
Justice, solidarity and world peace, award
Peace prize to genocidal kings just as we worship,
Shiva the Destroyer.
Won’t you agree, and I know you won’t,

If I
Say we live in hard times; join me in a revolution
Let’s end the misery, arise, awake and sleep not
Break free from the chains of mirage, I know your answer:
“We’re busy making strategy for change, for a better tomorrow
Computing the cost analysis of the change, for peace and prosperity
In the name of Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
Satyam Sivam Sundaram, Satyameva Jayate!”

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Notes 
1. “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery But today is a gift and thus, a present”, adapted from Kungfu Panda directed by John Stevenson and Mark Osborne, Dream Works Animation,
2008.
2.    TNT Trinitrotoluene, used as dynamite explosive
IED: Improvised explosive device
WMDs: Weapons of mass destruction

"Arise, awake and sleep not":
From Vivekananda's Chicago speech Satyam Sivam Sundaram: "Truth is God and God is beautiful"

Satyameva Jayate: "Truth Alone Triumphs"

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On Freedom

“The only way to deal with an unfree 

world is to become so absolutely 

free that your very existence 

is an act of rebellion.”

 Albert Camus

Images from the Anonymous ART of Revolution

Such Happiness

Originally a screen-printed poster, this artwork draws its inspiration from the phrase in a Manipuri  ritual song: ‘Sibu thoina harāobabu leibarā?’ meaning ‘is there a happiness greater than this?’, which I kept hearing at night during my stay at home last summer. The absurdity of this phrase juxtaposed to the prevalent political predicament of the state made an interesting statement which evoked me. - Kourou Khundrakpam

Between Two Flags

by Chaoba Phuritshabam 

One, three headed
One, a charming chakra Scramble for me
I, bewildered,
baffled.
Beloved, both
Belonged to both One, borne
One, nurtured

Frequent, my minds' eye
the flag embellished
with sakok
My thought feebled
at the flags' awaiting
Frequent, my thoughts
the flag embellished
with chakra
My thought feebled at the flag
I didn't belong to

Mislaid at the warfield
between two flags
I asked all
Who do I belong to
Frequent, my thought
Can I belong to both?

One, borne
One, nurtured

I feared
life's lofty forts
I feared
I couldn't traverse
these chained heights
I feared
the sakok embellished flag chasing me
with a sword
stating a stranger, I am

Between two flags
Scrambling for me
She is mine
She is mine
they said
Sliced me
Some pieces for one
Some pieces for another
Why the scramble?
Who do I belong to?

Pacified
I, adrift
between two flags
between these two flags

(translated by Soibam Haripriya)

Moirang Khamba Meets Krishna!!!

by Chaoba Phuritshabam 

He must be shouting for his root,
He must be craving for his tribe,
He must be asking machem Khamnu,
Where he was born?
Where he belonged?
Mathura or Moirang?
I dream of pure love,
like that of Khamba-Thoibi,
the eternal sacrifice of two lovers,
I listen to Moirang-Parva,
To get a glimpse of their love story,
I cry for Khamnu
how she suffered
how she brought up Khamba,
I crave for the courage of Thoibi,
Who defied convention
and married Khamba,
The woman who defeated the villain Nongban,
For her true love,
But it was a famous poet,
who got me into trouble,
Who made me lost again,
In another myth,
Quite far away from what I heard,
I remember my grandma telling me,
the story of Khamba-Thoibi,
I still think she was right,
I still am mesmerised
with the beauty of Thoibi,
But he the famous poet,
who wrote that myth,
Taught me lately,
How Khamba met Krishna,
How they play the Ras Lila,
The reincarnation of Krishna as Khamba,
Krishna came to Moirang,
Then I lost my way, I see Radha
Playing Holi with Khamba
And Khamba flirting with Gopis,
I run after that myth,
connected to my root,
I question that history,
written as history only,
Still it can't answer,
Where Khamba belonged?
Where he met Krishna,
How he played the Ras Lila,
In front of Thanjing Mandap,
You have to come back
and answer me,
You have to re-write your book,
You have to re-sing the Moirang-Parva,
I'm still waiting,
How you would explain,
Khamba playing holi with Radha,
and flirting with Gopis,
You have to reason,
Why Khamba was crying,
For the made-to-believe myths!

Manipur! Stop Spanking Me

by Akhu Chingangbam

Manipur, stop telling me your history,
Histories are written for books.
Stop it!
Khongnagthaba has rested
forever under the Khongnang Pambi
Smoking bidi and chewing kong kwa.
Manipur, stop showing me the 12 naked mothers
The Kangla Gate has been re-opened
Your kingdom is in your hand
don't tell me what I can do
don't disturb my way of life,
I am just a loser.

Manipur, Stop spanking me,
My buttocks are as red
as the cheeks of a Japanese infant
your spanking is not the spank of parents
it will make me bleed - my life - to death.
Manipur, stop offering me poetry.
Now I own 215 unpublished poems, enough! it is enough.
the newspaper boy delivers poetry, wrapped with the news,
every morning.
All I do is to unfold them.
the mothers in ema-keithel sell poetry
like oranges, apples and bananas,
all I need is to peel them off
Manipur, stop singing your lullaby
I have no intention to sleep on your lap
You have been decorated by death
like the marble slabs
in Ministers' toilets.
I don't want to surrender to be your son.
I believe "death is the end"

Manipur, it is raining human heads
and chopped hands, the sky above you is crying.
it has been raped by your growing mountains
what have you whispered to them?
Manipur, I don't need you to spend a sleepless night
I don't need you for my poems.
Manipur, Stop loving me when you are dying
You may find me Herculean
but don't drag me down, I don't own you.

Manipur, stop looking for your tail
when you don't have a head.
Don't spank me for my ponytail
Don't hit me for my good digestion.

Manipur, you have hills like Kashmir
why don't you cry on Kashmir's shoulder?
Some people there too have slanted eyes like you
why don’t you share the tears with their eyes?
but don’t bring suicide bombers
here it has already been bombed enough.
Manipur, don't you wear undergarments?
why do you get raped so easily?
Manipur, why do you always want to play Holi?
you don’t know when is autumn
and when is spring.
My colour-blindness doesn't matter at all I could smell your colours.
Manipur, stop reminding me the value of such a life.
I have seen my kind of lives in the gutters, in the sun;
in the name of peasants, in the name of police
in the name of death, in the name of revolutionaries.

Manipur, are you testing
our human kinds can be a sample or not?
Are you asking for an exodus?
are you asking for a movement, a mass movement?
or are you crucifying yourself ?

Manipur, why are your poets obsessed with Africa?
why did they bull-doze the landscape of Chaoba Kamal?
Manipur, don't spank me any more
I disown you, you disown me.

A Letter to Lord Krishna from Brindavan

by Akhu Chingangbam

My Dear Son, Kanhai
You have lived long enough for centuries
In the calendars, in the forms of stones and statues,
And among the Gopis with your bamboo flute
And you must have stopped worrying about death
But I can’t stop worrying about you
As I gave birth to you inside the prison
And I remember the day still
You, my own lump of blood, I still see you
As that little boy who steals curd and butter
What makes me worry about you
Is due to the crime rate in the place where you are living
I hardly get news of you and that land
These television networks
And newspapers hardly cover about the place
Is the name of the place “Imphal” or “Nepal” I don’t know?
I forget fast as I am getting senile.
Is the place part of our Bharat?
I have never heard people talking about it
Forgive this silly mother for such silly questions

I recently heard that there they even kill fetus
How barbaric is that?
I have always told you not to go to places
where they speak tribal languages.
So the moment you get this letter
Pack your back, stop playing your flute
It might be attractive to those barbaric ears.
And here Radha has been fasting for years
For her deprived past life
The Prime Minister too visited her twice
And Many Human Rights Activists had come.
Many feminist NGOs too are not happy with you
They even harassed me asking such question;
How did I raise you?
They call you a MCP, what does that mean?
And the Gopis are being deported.
Brindavan needs you
Ganga is also running dry with the ashes from the land
We can’t milk the cows without the sound of your flute
So come back, leave that land behind
I was even told about a poem written by a young poet sometime in 1969
It was called Hayingkhongyambi* or something (have you ever heard of the poem?)
I talked about the poem to VHP leaders few years back
Before the demolition of Babri Masjid
They believed you must come back soon
Or fight back with your “Chakra”

Forever your mother
Yasoda
Brindavan
Dated 1/06/2009

(* Hayingkhongyambi is a poem by Thangjam Ibopishak)

Source: buamai.com via Hidetomo on Pinterest

Which Side Are You On?

By Kapil Arambam

Our Private Literature - Leibaklei

Leibāklei, n ('leɪ.baːk.leɪ)*
*[Manipuri, leibak - of or relating to the earth + lei - flower]

Our Private Literature is a periodical from the Burning Voices with independent theme(s) on each issue, whether it - be a being or not-being… for be a being may be easier, so to say, with the acceptance of being a being no matter in whichever form it exists, but being a not-being has never been easier! And our themes, call it being or not-being; they may manifest the very angst of this confusion, but as always, they propose thoughts on certain why’s, like a flower or a poem or a short discourse or even a canvas seeking an independent bloom, a free expression yet waiting for its season of interpretations, the  appreciation  or  the  acceptance;  very  much  like  our  own existence.

In this issue we intend to use a theme contradictory enough to both the traditional and contemporary ideals on being or not-being, which are often seen as archetypical values. It will not be entirely wrong to say  that  we  tend  to  follow  the “Deconstruction”  as  a  new proliferation.  But  it  will  again  be  wrong  to  say  we  employ  it throughout  this  issue  as “the  prerogative being  against  the deconstruction of the word”. Thus, the Leibāklei came into being, as the representation of this theme on being or not-being against the backdrop of accepted notions on sexuality, morality, practices, myths and at the same time questioning our lives and times through the ideas of freedom, revolution and the search for an identity.

Leibāklei is not merely a flower that sprouts directly from theground during the cruelest time of the season, in the process; it also brings forth the different aspects of life, in opposites and even as analogues.  It comes as a lonely way-farer in the ruins yet leaves with the fragrance of livelihood. It is our thematic metaphor for this issue. In a more subtle and immediate expression, the poems in the collection deal with issues ranging from the cemented dogma, the qualms of living and pleasure in dying silently in obscurity, of using the sickle for chopping the overgrown beard and newspaper boy delivering the poetry, right in our doorsteps, wrapped in the news to being a dead Indian. What else could we say! Let the 'Leibāklei' crack upon the hard dry bark of the earth with its tender shoots.

Contents
CHECK THE POEMS, PROSE AND ARTWORKS OF LEIBAKLEI HERE

A Letter to Lord Krishna from Brindavan
Manipur Stop Spanking Me
Moirang Khamba Meets Krishna!
Between Two Flags
Wont You Agree
Dablo Returns Home
Landscape
You Thief
Because I am Your best enemy
who are you
I am a death statue!!!
One Last Time
In Defiance
The Other Revolutionary
Three Questions
His and Hers
Right to Education
Dying Night
In a Moment of Nirvana
Senses
Haiku
Rooting for Neruda’s Images (Review)
Such Happiness (Visual)

Ideas are Bulletproof

Courtesy: Anonymous ART of Revolution

Our Private Literature - Road - Volume II, Issue II

For roads, it’s to connect. Connect man to man, culturally through exchange or even through assimilation; commercially, through occupation of viable means like ‘give and take’ or even through exploration, as new vistas; and sometimes through individual locus. But there are some roads that never connect. In fact, these roads do not exist to connect. Such roads create divisions by promoting a marked geographical entity rather than creating a homogenizing parley of different communities.

So at times, we need to deglamorise these connecting Roads and delimit its extent as mere link between two destinations. There is no denying the fact that the roads indeed help foster relationship, connectivity, trade and commerce amongst different groups of people. But with the growing insecurity to the existence of nation-states, the very purpose of road has also been altered dramatically. The main reason for laying a new road to a distant corner of the country is more of a strategic deployment in the name of security, rather than reaching out. And in the process, the demographic structure of the area is altered conveniently to meet the desire result of building a nation. Further, it invariably translates the exchange of cultures and ideas into a chaotic rhythm without appreciation. Tussles over the safeguarding of cultural identity lead to the malaise of resentment over liberal compromise. Societies/groups that are at the receiving end of this expanse will slowly but surely go out of existence.

We tried not to use the word “Road” as a theme. But sometimes, it’s not possible not to give names to certain things! We opted for it, because of the veracity it carries for a word. We are also aware of the politics it carries within it. In this edition, we try to understand the very concept of road through all sorts of medium.

The poems in the current theme are in one way or the other ‘connected’ to the theme of ‘Road’. Some also talk about the suffering of people when the ‘connection’ is brutally cut off as was seen during the Economic Blockade. The article “Reflecting about roads and not so much about the Chicken: Making sense of roads in India’s North East” by Ram Wangkheirakpam gives us an in depth analysis of different kinds of roads and problematizes its implication in the NE (North East) region of India in general and Manipur in particular. Haiku, which is one of our most popular sections, comprise a plethora of themes inspired from our daily life.

Roads now are as much about inaccessibility, about profound lost as much as it is about communication and accessibility. They have seen a play out of struggles of various kinds. Each crater marked road whose tar fades away somewhere has seen the markings of pain, starvation and somewhere a dead end. We look forward to suggestions and inputs from you all.

Contents
CHECK THE POEMS AND ARTWORKS OF ROAD HERE

Synergy
Highway heroes
A Home on the Road
In the land of Worshippers
Walk our Walk
Nothing
Operation summer storm!!
Monsoon Blues
Curfew
Broken
Roadwidener
Haiku
Reflecting about roads and not
so much about the Chicken (article)
END (visual)
Freedom Street (visual)
Modern Parasite’s Artery (visual)

Help The Stranded

A flyer which was published in the Road, in the wake of all-reason-defying economic blockade sometime around 2010

Designed by Korou Khundrakpam

On 17 May 2010 Burning Voices initiated a fund drive to help the victims of artificial famine caused by the Economic Blockade imposed on the National Highways connecting Manipur to the rest of India. We managed to raise Rs. 110,000 which was spent on procuring medicines from New Delhi and sending them to Manipur through air cargo. Our members based in Manipur distributed these medicines to the remote areas of Tengnoupal, Chandel and Tamenglong with the help of various civil organisations in the region. Furthermore, medicines were handed over to Kanglatombi Children Home and Conflict Widows’ Forum .

We would like to thank all the generous contributors who supported us in this endeavour.

Haiku on the Road

Some of the haiku which were published in the Road edition

The rain still cannot
drench the blood stained shadows by
our neighborhood tree.
Leika Yumnam

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

Not a Peace Protest
Why Economic Blockade?
This is Civil War!
Raju Athokpam

Grass grew everywhere.
Until one day, someone came
And walked a new path.
Kundo Yumnam

Long it has been since
I saw smiling Sunflowers
Have I missed a lot?
Billie

Modern Parasite's Artery

By Rakesh Khundongbam

Roadwidener

by Korou Khundrakpam

A Roadwidener does just that. It widens roads. I was only six when I first saw a Roadwidener myself. I was walking along the east-dyke when I saw it lazing around sprawled on top of a mound of earth. It was lying perfectly still. I would have thought it was dead if not for its tongue slipping out from its closed mouth occasionally to lick the damp earth beneath. A single lap every five six minutes. I stood there slouched against the earthen wall for about an hour observing it, so I know. In those days they were few in number and very hard to find. So it was natural for a six years old child to be intrigued by the beast. Far from the uninspired picture of the Roadwidener in my school textbook, seeing this huge beast in real was very overwhelming, what with the rows of booted legs and the perpetual grin on its face. And it was not that it was grinning at me. It didn’t even notice my presence. They are extremely shortsighted creatures, a thing I learnt later on, and its other organs of perception are equally blunt. The grin was a permanent attribute of its face, it remained so whether it was grazing or walking or drowsing off. And it had these long rows of horns sticking out along both sides of its belly. Like the kind of huge boats you see in movies with oars sticking out from both sides of its hull. They looked dirty and worn out, with mud still dripping off from it. It is just back from work perhaps. After quietly observing it for some time I thought I would let it let it rest in peace. And I had to reach home before it grew dark too.

Broken

by Shreema Ningombam

I am home and they are still here
These streets still scarred
These hills still in reverie
Which one is more sore?
The broken strings of your guitar
Or the broken notes of their Pena

This is hour for wounds and maiming
There will be a time for mending and healing
There will be hours for mantra and magic
Of course I wait for the Maibi
Who feels the meagre pulse on my wrist
And tells the fortune of this land
She tells over my body
The fever of this land
My pulse, the broken throb of our antique drum
My bosom, the angst of a missed progeny
My forehead, the warmth of the fresh pyre
The malady of this land is mine

This home gave us everything
A corner to live and die
A corner to croon and sigh
Though it could never give a tiny corner
To rest at long last
Broken bones of our hearts

Curfew

by Akhu Chingangbam

I

Starving fathers and mothers
spitting saliva
defying hunger
sitting at their courtyard
sipping black tea
talking insanity of Mr. Ibobi
while their children walk out on the roads
giggling wiping their watery nose.
with white chalks
writing on the deserted road
whatever they have learnt in schools
whatever they have heard in songs
"Unity in Diversity"
"Thanaleipak Money-pur"

II

Dangling phaneks and bras
Blood stained petticoats and panties
singing freedom in the wind of wild east
from the top of their lungs.
wind kissing the fallen leaves
burning tyres spinning towards the military trucks
broken mirrors singing "Cut me if you can"
and the last cry, cupped by
silence, looking again for its way
to find its destiny in history,
in books, in speeches.

Monsoon Blues

by Homen Thangjam

A traveler I met in a dhaba, pathetic
Wore around his neck a rainbow, illusory
By the side of a ghost highway, forbidden
From an ancient land, raped

Of its tea, oil and timber, dwindling
On a quest to steal, peculate
Thunder from the mountains, burning
Lightning from the skies, churning
And heal the land, dripping.

Billowed smokes in gasps
Downed his drinks in gulps
Stroked his beard in grabs
Spoke he in grunts
Bloodshot eyes twinkling

Of the strange time he lives in, wherein
Frogs are afraid of the rain
Dark clouds are the devil’s incarnates
And he sleeps with his plants.
He’s a traveler, ghostlike
Heavy body on feet, fleet
Has seen or so told me, by God

The Mandap of the Govindaji Temple, towering
The walls of CM Bungalow, intense
In Kangleipak a land, bleeding
Replicated the two in exactness, indeed
Around his paddy field, green
A dome and a levee against the rain, flooding.
At the stroke of midnight
Alert he left the dhaba, saying
River, land and mankind are in tears, wet
Mountains and the skies, cannot
Hold the thunder and lightning, long
Hummed a ballad as he walked by, fading
Of orgies with his plants, wild
A love song, ethereal
To comfort cries of misery, pathetic.

* Dedicated to the stranger in the dhaba on NH 39 from the Brahmaputra Valley who wore a rainbow around his neck, which brightened the dark monsoon night.

Freedom Street

Image by Kundo Yumnam

This could have been a better image. But the screenshots from a PDF-turned-Word file and further sticking them together have made it as if these have been ripped off from two separate files. But why worry, all we need is a little appreciation of this artwork.

Nothing

by Soibam Haripriya

No pain
of loss
No angst
or pathos
The footsteps
gradually
die

The breeze
flies carrying
a scent Memories 
—some
faded
some
discarded
Nothing
was
left

not even
a tattered
shred
Not even the scab
of an old wound

Operation Summer Storm!!!

by Chaoba Phuritshabam

On the day of Cheiraoba*,
My eyes were eagerly looking
at those empty vessels in my kitchen.
My son was crying and shouting
so that I feed his empty stomach.
I was looking at the dark empty road,

Just like a miracle would come across in my way.
I don’t know why I’m living on this earth?
While I was lost in my own thoughts
the cry of my child wake me up again,

My child is crying again to feed his empty stomach.
The tired corpse like body of my husband
Lying on the cold muddy floor,
Just like a dead body,
So that he can hide his pain and anguish
Over nothingness,
Over his own faith,
His eyes were red and wild,

He stared at me and laughed loudly
Taunting my thoughts
He was laughing at me for the reason I was looking for,
Why I’m still living on this earth?
Silence was broken again with the cry of my child,
He was shouting again so that I can feed his empty stomach!!!


* Cheiraoba is Meitei New Year which usually falls in April. Apart from welcoming Spring season, it is a day of feasting and festivity in each an every household, rich or poor. A number of traditional delicacies are prepared in each household and shared with neighbors too. For many, not having anything to cook on Cheiraoba would imply that the family would go hungry the entire year.

Walk Our Walk

by Rojio Usham

A voice is headed
by the side of the road,
and up ahead of the hill,
wearing no artificial tone
of solemnity or sorrow,
but cried as we always
like chirping birds in circle flight.
I am the soft star
among the shining ones at night.
I am the soft wind
among the thunder winds.
Why cry for a soul set free,
who choose the right path,
not the two highways
that connect the vampire land.
Ships sail and I stand,
Price rose up and I still stand.
Standing for the moment,
when someone says
She is gone.
No I am not standing for that, Ima.
I am standing for those peasants,
who have never had two-course meals,
I am standing to find a road,
a road that smoothly leads to
the green paddy field. All that bombing
must have given you
the passion and compassion.
At night when all silent brakes,
and sleep abandon others eyes,
we will hear only boots rumbling on the road.
Will rainbows and radiances

Be seen on your trek 

Or will smokes reign

And sweet memories wreck. 

We all can talk,

walk our walk, 

Let us see the light,

Direct us through the night. 

See good reasons why

To make another road try, 

Don’t give up the fight. 

Let’s save us from ourself.

In the Land of the Worshippers

by Laishram Ratan Singh

Prays to God
Every community
Worships God
Every family
Chants His name
Every person.
Chanting God’s name
Worshipping God
Praying to God
Ceases to lower
Prices of the goods
Continues to increase

Number of the thieves.
Screams to one other
“I’m not responsible”
Heaps blame over others
“They’re responsible”
Pot-belly officials
Seven-abs liberators
Who can’t walk

But use wheels to roll over
The half-dead people.
Gods took to wings
One monsoon night deserting
The believers- cum-worshippers
Not to the hills, surely not
But far away
To the land of the Atheists
One told me before
His flight “At least they’re true
They don’t acknowledge my existence.”

(Translated from Manipuri by Homen Thangjam)

Sale! 99% Off!

Courtesy::: Anonymous ART of Revolution

 Drones from America, camouflaged 
men from Bihar and Uttar Pradesh.


THE TRUTH ABOUT DEMOCRACY 

A Home on the Road

by Kundo Yumnam

Is it not trivial,
To seek the shape of the 3 p.m.
sunlight cast on the northwest wall
Of the space that I often call home?

This skewed patch of punctual light
That clings on the off-white,
Comforts me over a cup of tea.
It’s a mundanity in my life.

I am curious,
What about the homeless ones on the
road; Driven away from space to space?
Without a consistent sunlight shadow,
What comforts them in the afternoons?

Can a home be not guarded
On all four sides by walls, windows and doors;
And move without restraints
Like a wheel on the road?

I would have to be a nomad, living on the road,
To see the 3 p.m. sunlight falling
Sometimes on a sunflower leaf,
Sometimes on a smooth black pebble,
And perhaps, sometimes, maybe on a stream.

Today, I will pack my things,
To chase the afternoon light
Falling on twigs, turtles, sand and temples.
And make my home on the road.

Highway Heroes

by R.K. Brojen

When I open my eyes
with the morning newspaper headlines
blockades cutting the national highways.
For every blockade shouts
in the name of democratic voice and non-violence
the common man in valleys and hills starve.
The Government agents of essential commodities
enjoy their democratic rights and freedom
in fixing the new prices of the commodities and
the common man become victims of everything.

For every blockade on NH-39 Ministers remember NH-53
They investigate the highway conditions
in assembly debates
and have been repairing it
since for a long time on Assembly tables
and in local newspapers.

Tomba, my friend from Mayang Imphal
the truck driver in the national highways does not believe in
the modified fortune forecast made by our local astrologer
after getting money
from his parents.
But he is real devotee of God
for unknown unforeseeable events he could encounter
on his highway journeys.
He is very simple
but clever enough to face undirected tax bullets
and is well experienced in bargaining
at each named and unnamed check posts. However,
the whistle of the tax takers are not meeting at a point
with the horns of the paying drivers.

He never afraid of gambling his life with the landslides
which does not have a fixed time and place stamped on them.
and take all liberty whenever they fall.
He has detailed accounts of damages
of the road where his life is at risk.
He has all the names of hotels and vendors
on both sides of the way ahead.
He knows where to stay where to hide
and where to run.

The missing stones on the roads
don’t have names or numbers on them
But can be found on the walls
of the leaders’ homes or in their bank accounts
in different places of the world.
But my friend volunteers and donates
money to repair the missing stones
on the roads.

On the way
the heat of the mid-day sun reminds him
of the fire that broke out in the forests
along the boundary of hills and valleys
that seems separating the two
but connected forever. But who lit the fire
that’s the only question which matters.
He saw and felt the raining clouds never have the bias
to all thirsty dry seeds waiting to sprout and
to the burning fires. But
Where is the wind blowing from
That’s the only t question that matters.
So he used to sing
in the dark side of every nights lighting
the dark ways of long highway with his truck's head lights.
But his songs are not loud enough
to break the silence of hills and valleys

it does not have the taste of ethnic civilization
the tune is not connected to the blockade cries
words free from all narrow minded hearts.
His songs are very popular in hotels
and vendors pan and grocery shops
among the common people
irrespective of hills or valleys.
But when his journey stops
the artificial starvation prevails the common man starves.

The truck drivers are real life heroes
On the national highways.

Synergy

by Raju Athokpam

We don't need the name
We don't need to draw the line
We don't need arms or riots
We don't need Manipur or Nagaland

We have different ethnicity
We eat different food, speak different languages
But too narrow to differentiate
As we evolved from one root, back in time

The dark past has embed our fragmented history
Personal to political violations
We sufficiently have learnt from the past
Let us keep aside win-lose and play win- win

You and I are neighbors
And always will be until the world ends
You and I are the used one
Be it in economy, politics or religion
Let us unite and be who we are
And a synergy will prevail everywhere
We are just one
We are brothers and sisters in arms

Pari Imom Samu Pangalbasa

PARI IMOM SAMU PANGALBASA NAPAM LAMDAM KHAMBI MEI-HOURE

CHAKLAKLE MEIRI-SE LAONA

KHONGNA KHOMLEN

MIKAP THOKLO NE

KHAMBI MEIKAL

HOURO-NE

The Face of Our Generation

The aftermath of the BT Road fake encounter incident on 23 July 2009 had seen the valley of Manipur burst into flames.

This movie is an attempt to bring out a narrative of the everyday mundane act of living under the oppressive circumstances of having to negotiate between life and death in Manipur. A political shit-hole for those who are eager to learn about conflict resolution.

The story is about Naorem Prakash, who in living the act of violence himself has become a witness. The witness(es)'s lives are fraught with uncertainty. Silence usually becomes recourse for the witness. However the fact of being geographically removed from the situation facilitated Prakash the "survivor witness" and his aunt to narrate their story. Part of his memory lapsed into silence as an impact of the physical trauma, his aunt's memory also has gaps due to being removed from the incident of violence being inflicted on Prakash. These narratives -- part memory, part silence is an attempt to construct a testimony of the everyday.

Burning Voices made this film with an old handy-cam and a simple microphone costing around Rs 30. The editing, including the background narration, was done in the small rented room in Delhi (where they also cook, sleep and play music), using basic softwares.

DISCLAIMER: The makers of the film are a bunch of amateurs with no professional training, equipments or modern studio. All they have is passion to expose the truth.

Guilty

by Victor Thoudam

In a winter night dream,
Many frozen pieces of ice was
Muffled under my blanket
My scorch was aching,
I was awoken from the surreal.

And a naked of pauses psyched in my head.
Unbelievably believed in the horror of the decapitated body
That was Corpse beside my bed
The banner on the chest was written…
"FOR NO REASON, FOR HE WANTS TO SPEAK THE TRUTH"

My hands were intimidated to
Lift the smashed head
To know whose mutilated body it was
And felt a bloody wretch in my stomach
From the bloody smell of blood
Then I grasp the head and put it up on the light
I have never seen him or known him before…
Why didn’t I see him or know him before?
I asked myself.
And I never felt guilty about it.
And I never felt guilty about it
And I felt guilty for not being a millionaire

My bullet desire never ceased
It never eclipsed and it always grew mightier
than the bullet, than the roars of thunder

Daily Insanity

by Soibam Haripriya

Morning began
with the anticipated
surprise of daily deaths
Afternoon's a stroll
to an ocean without a
shore where broken
boats of hope row away
in little ripples
With dusk
the drunken poets came
Afflicted by a strange epidemic of optimism
brought forth by bouts of nostalgia
When the insipid evening
arrived like a hermit with vows
of poverty I find insomniac soul
gazing wistfully at the end
of a graceful coil of a rope

A Death of My Own

by Soibam Haripriya

Of all the things
I wish to own
I wish my death
To be my own
A quiet dignity Of privacy
Not a grainy picture in a newspaper
Not a being
ripped from a warm cocoon
Not a mere body trespassed in life
trespassed beyond life
I wish not for the raging flames
to engulf me into ashes

I wish
a piece of earth
to provide me solace in its honeyed chest
To undo the poison
This life has fed
For a flower of red
To bloom
From my navel
And a drop of dew
To adorn its petals

For the wind to play
amongst my branches
And carry in its trail
Tales of my brimming passion
For a lover to pluck my flowers
And embellish the beloved
With my petals
With my scent
With this
You will infuse my death
with life again

To My Comrades

by Shreema Ningombam

The world would not stop being beautiful
After you and I are long gone
Isn’t it lovely?
The scorching taunting sun
The soothing platonic moon And Ah! This land
Yours and mine
Where we all belong
You and I
I know why you smile
I know why you cry
I know why you scream
Even when no word comes from your lips
My heart talks to yours
You and I carry different flags
But we know
Our mom had made them for us
To wave in the wind
In the thunder
In the dual roots of the rainbow
Comrades! I take this path And you the other
Hand in hand
Or Sword to sword at this day
But I promise I will meet you there
And I will be with you that day!

Ema (Mother)

by Shreema Ningombam

You were everywhere,
Yet I searched for you.
In the places of Carnivals,
In the deepest of woods,
In between the locked horns of the wilds,
Among the cries of the flags,
Among the phantoms of the nights.

I came home. I found you.
In the nearest corner of my heart,
Peeping behind the curtain of my mind,
Playing with the music of my soul,
Beating the drum of my pulse,

Dyeing the crimson of my blood,
Swimming in the breath of my life.
Some says you are a witch.
Some says you are an angel.
They say you are damned.
They say you are divine.
I came home,
To salvage your grave,
Where I found,
The skull of my ancestor,

The naophum of my ancestral kin,
A torn phanek stained with her primeval blood,
An old chest that opens,
With the faint smell of ancient breathes.
Tonight I light the light of my heart.
Prostrate in this vast graveyard,
With pride or with guilt I do not know,

Should I carry another mortal being in my womb,
I a nameless mother wait and wait,
To mourn the death of my yet unborn.

Burma, Embrace Me Please

by Akhu Chingangbam

Burma, if you have a heart
Embrace me please
I have stopped looking at my own shoes
Now I look beyond these lofty mountains
I see nothing in them except a handful of useless dust
I stop looking towards west
To me it is all just a waste
I stop leaning on India
Delhi crushed me among its sky scrapers and dtc buses
Mumbai left me stranded in the railway tracks
Bangalore didn't let me smoke at my own will
Kolkata has too much of mouth revolution.
Tamilnadu is still mourning for Prabhakaran
Madhy Pradesh is still a nightmare after bhopal gas tragedy
Gujarat is for Modi and his fundamentalism
Pune is for Marathis
And we have been the n%ggers of India;
Read Pacha

Burma if you need a lover
That's me
Embrace me
kiss me please
Let me spread my wings in your poppy field
Let me sail in your smallest river with all my songs
Let me cry out all the tear that I save in this punctured heart
Let me sh%t out what I have eaten
I have eaten what have not grown in my land
I ate hilsha from Barak River
I ate wheat that grows in Uttarpradesh
I slept on the mattress that was made in Delhi
I sang Guthrie and Pete Seeger
I wear VIPs
I drank 8pm of Haryana at 8am in morning
I danced in the song of Indian Ocean
I climbed the Western Ghats with Iranians
I smoked the dry leaves of Manali
I watched both Hollywood and Bollywood movies
And still I was my own man standing alone
Singing "Ema Nangumbi Leite"
Now, I can't praise my land with my poverty
Now I need a new land
That can erase my appetite and memories
And Burma that's you
You are the closest.

Burma, let me see your prison
And makes me feel I suffer less
Less than your outlaws and criminals
I was told you dump your criminals in a Polang
Like chickens in Chingmeirong Bazaar
Burma, embrace me
Let me wear that bamboo hat
Like famers that farm everything
You will not regret to be my lover
No great poets write a line for your Tamu
And cheap sex inside your wooden cabin.
But I do, if you don't believe me
Look at e-pao.net
You will find me whistling singing
Like my favorite gay poet;
"Go f%ck yourself with your AFSPA"
Along the Indo-Myanmar border.

Burma, Just give me a shelter
You are the closest to me.
Let me measure the angles of Golden Triangle
Let me smack cocaine, let me smell you
Let me bleed out all this blood
That this heart churns breathing oxygen
That comes out from death and all these fake revolution.

I will pretend I love no monks
And their recent movement
Except the seven year old monk
And its bitterness
I even joke "monks evolve from monkeys
So they have the same color
Like gods evolve from dogs
So they are omnipresent"
I even hate U2's song on Aung Sang Su kyi
I don't know what the freedom fighters do in your Jungles
I haven't heard about a hero of guerrilla warfare
Who emerges from your jungle.
But I know what I can do with myself
If you provide me a shelter and a guitar
A blank page and a poppy flower
Burma, just embrace me
You will find me very fine

On the Fire

by Rojio Usham

On the fire, I walk.
Beneath the rain, I cry.
Under the hailstones, I survive.
In the thunder, I howl.
Throughout the storm, I fly.
Below the star, we hide.
In the dark, I search my way.
All through the frozen winter, I swim.
Encircled by testosterone soldiers,
We encircle thabal chongba.
Under the moon, they rape.
Under the sun, they kill.

Dreamland

by R.K. Brojen

In the land of dreamers
death men and women are walking
counting the days of the wars
to find their new days of a new
world. They have straight faces
and walk straight finding their own ways.
They look at each other straight.
They think straight.
They speak straight.
But they are death statues
walking on the ways of complicated darkness.
Within the colourless rays of the selfish
Sun they don’t know their own colour.

If somebody stabs them they don’t feel the pain
because it has been habituated to them. They don’t even know
the colour of their own blood. (Don’t say they are dead, they will get angry. )
They don’t realize the difference between life and death.
The sky covering them is meaningless.
Beneath them they lost their own footprints on their ways
could not be seen and followed them by the others.
For every new battles
the wombs of the experienced mothers
are the training centres of the unborn soldiers.
But the wombs usually burst into pieces
by the kicks of the babies inside.
So, the soldiers die unborn
in the Gynae wards of the hospitals.
The death bodies of the soldiers
will be found scattered and un-cremated
in the morgues of the hospitals
or fields or bushes or mountains.
The mothers die on the beds
or roads or markets
before they see their babies born.
The death mothers wake up
it the middle of the darkened night
and running all the ways possible
holding the burning bamboo lamp
following the falling stars from the sky.
Looking at the death faces of the stars
she is asking about her lost babies
that she has never seen.
Then they stitch their own wombs to give birth
those soldiers again. In the land of dreamers
life and death have the same meaning and same story.

Euthanasia

by Raju Athokpam

your firm hand and fierce eye
and I see the black hole where the gun
barks on my dusty-sweat-coated forehead
this tear-stained eye
longs for yet another moment with
you in this hell

your hygienic hand and your motherly look
with that tranquilizer on that syringe
on my veins, to relax me
down this exhausted soul
wants to cuddle you for the
warmth in this heaven

right or wrong
for good or for bad
you are the one who kill
suffering is my other name
that you have made me
then again you pity my miserable life
and you mercy kill me
amongst you even fought who to mercy kill me

with your gun’s little hole
you advice the trigger
and you become my birth-master
your gun is all-in-one tool for you
you use it everywhere
even to gain a grain of rice your gun is your
strongest drug makes you forget everything
even the consciousness of being alive
well, enough of euphemism
I said euthanasia means ‘shoot yourself’.

Half Human*

by Laishram  Ratan

No horns on the head
No furs on the body
No tooth to bite
No claws to cut
Nonetheless
They’re the ones
Who snatched away from the bosom
Child of the innocent mother
Who robbed away
Honour of the pure virgin.
Yes
There’s an animal
Sure, it has a name
The name is half human.

(* Translated from Manipuri by Homen Thangjam, published in Sangai Express, August 30, 2009)

Drought!

by Jayanta Oinam

Something didn’t quite die
It continues to live, day after day
Asking questions and raising million mutinies;
Perhaps, I was still there
At her doorsteps, waiting for an answer
Or may be,
I am unto myself, alone in the grave, waiting
For a resurrection!

That day,
She returned home late, and
Brought home a fiend mask, and
Said, somebody plant her a bastard for the occasion
So that, she be accepted a ceremonial bride for the occupation

That day,
She returned home, and
The lore continues and my morning toil ceased;
They said its drought!
That day stood evident for her lost fertility
From that day, my grave was my home And everyday,
I stood at her doorstep asking for the answer!

I Didn't Grow Up Properly

by Jayanta Oinam

I didn’t grow up properly
I had numerous infatuations, and they slapped me
For every slogan I shouted
They said, I disturbed their agenda, and they slapped me
For who I was?

The first age, I was obsessed with guns
The tender age of seven eight nine, I didn’t know
How they all went, smoked, with billows from the barrels
And somebody hid his second hand gun beneath my pillow
And I thought I deserve a try, whichever direction it fires
The sound was bustling and the next morning
I had my first slap in the face.

Mama wanted me to behave and grow tall
The gunshot was forgotten and I became a darling
And my grandpa called me Gandhi, he said
I obey and can write difficult names for invitation
For marriage and obituaries,
Spellings of names I couldn’t pronounce, and
Nonnative spellings of words from occupation

Then, my first long pant came uninvited
Something tickled me, I was a lousy connoisseur
Wanted to taste the bud, flowers and nectar
Bees and buzzes, thus I got my second slap

I didn’t know the reason.
And I know, I didn’t grow up properly
But happy was me, with all the slaps
They said, I deserve them, for the following
To be a good man, one day, to live a good man!

Anyway, I was growing that very way, for that way
But a single slap, I couldn’t agree with, and
The chilled morning, the chilled bone
The expensive fare, the back bench
The tuition, the examination
The dream, my parents
And the slap
This is loose
But the slap was the humiliation
It mortified my being and the dreams gone sour
But I still don’t understand why he slapped me
Early in the morning,

To a boy who was going for few lessons
On Physics and Chemistry;
I still don’t know who was he and he was waiting for me
Early in the morning
I still don’t know had he got any kid of my age
Going to school and waking up early for an extra class
I still don’t know, how many he would have slapped
I still don’t know, had they all went kept quiet
Like me for all these years

I still don’t know, how many kids deserve the slap
Yes, I didn't grow up properly
In the land of million mutinies,
My land, my land
Spare those kids
They are innocent
They are dreams, and
Someday, they will sing songs for you and your valour
But, for every single slap, my land
You lose a son, you wreak a dream
With every slap, you destroy a family
With every slap, you create an outlaw
So, spare those kids
They are innocent.

Yes, I didn’t grow up properly
In my land, and today
I am in exile, weaving a dream for a land
Earning a few pennies, to grow a farm
Full of innocent dreams and
Create a my own land

Where kids can wake up early and go to school
Without any fear of slaps and checking drills
Where kids can learn lessons on best of sciences and poems
Without worrying about strikes and bandhs!