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

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Now I own 215 unpublished poems, enough!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)

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.

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