via Anonymous ART of Revolution

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