Burning Voices

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Sun, 09 Sep 2012 16:17:00 +0000

via Anonymous ART of Revolution

Haiku Beneath the Leibāklei

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 05:48:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 05:41:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 05:38:00 +0000

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?

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 05:29:00 +0000

Courtesy: Anonymous ART of Revolution

A Confidential Letter to Burning Voices

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 05:25:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 05:14:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 05:08:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 05:04:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 05:01:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 04:58:00 +0000

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.

We don’t know till now, the meaning of a poet. The poet is, some people say, someone who is trying to make our universe beautiful, someone who sees the universe beautiful and someone who makes the universe beautiful. If that is so, Kalidasa is a great poet. What is the difference between Kalidasa and other poets? We would say when he was creating his works of beauty, he saw the world beautiful and made us see the world beautiful. He gathered all the beauty of the universe which the Universal Creator has made, and presented before us such boundless beauty inherent in our world. However, we have to note that our sense of beauty depends on our desire. Our universe is essentially a colourless mirror, though a China rose makes it red and a butterfly pea makes it blue. Our universe, in fact, has no colour, no identity, no ugliness, and no beauty. A person colours it, beautifies it and uglifies it according to his/her likes and dislikes. These likes and dislikes vary from one person to another. There is also a variation even if there is a similar taste. But is there anyone without his/her likes? We hear about people without desires, only in the stories of seers, mystics and prophets; but their stories are different from us, the normal human beings. We observe the vast world through the eyeglasses of different colours, which accordingly shapes our views and perceptions. As mentioned earlier too, the beauty and ugliness of the universe depend on a person’s views and perceptions. So I believe the bees suck the nectar out of the several flowers while you believe the bees are dispersing the sweet liquid to the flowers. In this way, those people — with desires and who are like the bees — are making the universe beautiful. Kalidasa is like the bee that can be analysed subjectively, yet with our mortal failing we cannot search where other such people like him could be.

Like Kalidasa we have been observing the world day in and day out, but where? We see no beauty. We see an object like him — but where do we see the beauty which he does so clearly and describes it so intricately? He saw the endless beads of beauty in the ugliest necklace that we would discard without even thinking twice. To be frank, people who can produce and spread beauty are rare. Through an eyeglass that Kalidasa created from his views and perceptions, he shows us what beauty means to him and what beauty is in essence. People crave for this eyeglass and needless to say, with this object for observation, the universe becomes beautiful on its own. In this regard, Kalidasa is different. The difference is in him; it is not in us. He is superior to us and we cannot deny it. Consequently we don’t want to say that every form of writing is an art of poetry and that every writer is a poet. Now the problem is to identify the true poet and the genuine art of poetry. Nowadays in the market we can find a copy or a duplicate for anything. The same case is with the poet, for we cannot rule out the emergence of ‘duplicate’ poets. Because if you desires, you can please the people with your pen — there is the full moon in the autumn season, and with other heavenly bodies it adorns the fascinating sky; the swift currents of the river make the dancing and bouncing waves; the soft breeze has carried the sweet scents of countless flowers with it and has calmed down the blazing heart; and so on. These kinds of poetry can be written even by those who study them, literally by anyone. In a sense, writing is easy — the full moon is smiling in the sky, however it is hard, how many hearts can laugh heartily on seeing the beauty of the full moon and the wonder of the nature when these are put together. The waves dance in the river; it is true but how many hearts have the waves of the river dance onto? It is our belief: it does not depend merely on our desire to become a poet and polish the art of poetry. Our desire might guide us, it might encourage us, but it cannot be equated with intelligence and natural ability.

It is only in our difference on the perception of beauty; the fact is all of us can feel it. We love beauty. Our heart, without any prompting, lusts for beauty. Kalidasa staggered and proceeded, with the tears of love, towards the direction of beauty and he saw it. An ignorant mortal, without the knowledge of real beauty, I’m excited about beauty unknowingly. If not for the whole, I have been able to see a part of beauty. Through the eyeglasses that we are fitted with, some of us see it big, some see it small, some see it white, some see it green — all of us want beauty, want to see it. Yet again, there is a difference in our views and perceptions. The degree of beauty varies from the lowest superlatives to the highest. We are drowned in the ocean of beauty; when the sun sets in the striking spring sky; when the mountains slowly swallow the sun in the west; when we see the brownish heaven in the eventide light and the vast verdant paddy fields that are spread far and wide; and when the breeze from the south sweeps across the landscape and drags us across the boundless spheres of inexplicable beauty. As a captive, as seized by the gods, our eyes freeze at the moment or else, we get out of control and sing out loud about love in the loveliest voice and about beauty with a beautiful melody. In that instant, are we not a poet, our song the art of poetry? The answer is in affirmative. S/he is a poet, who has seen in our world its raw nature and refines it; who lose herself/himself in the nuances of all the tiny things that form this world; and who can laugh and cry with every living and non-living things. It is such a wonder! Whenever the nature manifests itself in its artlessness, there is an urge to bury ourselves in that moment while leaving all the other things on their own devices as we turn into a statue, the world silences as quiet as the still of the night. It is again in this moment we become a poet for a while and our thoughts the stream of poetry. Unfortunately, there are no words or languages that are fully developed in this world. If there were adequate words and the great works of the poets thereof, the world would have been a living paradise. This is the age of science and technology; and we are living in a progressive era. However, if there were cameras that can develop the ideas of a poet like it does for an image, this world would have been a peaceful and advanced planet. Most of the time, the joys and sorrows are tangled in a mare’s nest, alas all the beauty becomes the first casualty. This is why we have been what we are and the world is what it has been.

Realists would refute this statement. Their idea is to paint the world as it is. The realistic poet wants no magnification and holds that our poetic imagination should not deceive us. Yet if we have to see the world as it is, then we have different views and perceptions, which will imply the impossibility of knowing the true nature of the world. So there is no other way for the poet than to use his/her imagination to recreate the true nature of the world in its most basic state. S/he has to show and express what s/he sees in his/her image of the universe. The advantage is that we can see through his/her eyes the images that we might not see ourselves. Precisely the poet presents the pictures, clears the clutters, and helps us to broaden our perspectives. This deliberation throws some light on the identity of a poet and his/her art, though it is still open to question the role of words in dealing with our world. Our impression is of the appreciation of those gifted and talented poets and their inimitable works of art. Our words depend on our thought. People who follow Sanskrit poetry would rebut this idea; yet we feel the poet is freer than those hornbills that soar above the clouds; s/he never confines himself/herself by the chains of grammar. We would make the rules and restrictions of using the language; however, this might not appeal to the emotion of the readers. The true poet is someone who is related to no one, is someone who has travelled to another universe. Simply put, a poet can never be bound by the rules of grammar. The poet comes first, then follow the rules that form the art of poetry. A true poet, in fact, frames the rules. Though it will be wrong to state that the person who writes is a poet and what he writes creates the art of poetry. Again, intelligence is independent of mere desires. There are no enough words for those who have mastered this art. Happiness is a universal desire. For a poet the imagination offers this happiness and s/he expresses it succinctly. The expression of such imagination, to a realist, reduces the power of poetry.

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End note

I appreciate Khwairakpam Chaoba for only one thing: his idea that he had to kick in for the Manipuri literature that was almost non-existent, except for the Sanskrit translations and literary works in other languages like Bengali, during his time. He was a torchbearer along with a few littérateurs such as Hijam Anganghal and Dr Lamabam Kamal, who resurrected our literature from its deathbed. It calls for further reading into the mindset that writing in Manipuri was also considered a low-quality art for more than two centuries after the imposition of Hinduism as a state religion and the mandatory practise of using only Bengali scripts. This is quite hideous for an indigenous race with a population of less than two millions.

However, I have a different taste when it comes to the form of art. Khwairakpam Chaoba, as is evident in this essay, is a die-hard romantic poet. I don’t blame him for stressing on romantic ideologies, for it is his personal choice and he was following only what was in trend during his lifetime. Please refer to the last paragraph of the above translation. He spoke out that only romanticism holds the key to know the essence of our universe. But first, our universe is subjective and is guided by different ideas and thoughts, well, it will be another story if we know the origin of the universe and the purpose of our existence. Secondly, realists do use creative imagination and poets like Laishram Samarendra and Thangjam Ibopishak have proved it in the most elegant and convincing ways. In times of conflict and tragedy, like in our present state, the romantic muse is too light and contrasts the general mindset. SNAFU! For an instance, velvet and flowers will never correspond to the barrage of grenades and Kalashnikovs that are synonymous with our life today.

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In Defiance

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 20:54:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 20:08:00 +0000

Courtesy: Anonymous ART of Revolution

Rooting for Neruda's Images

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 18:06:00 +0000

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

The poems in The Desire of Roots have uncanny affiliation to roots, both in terms of “the form and the essence”. More specifically with the Chilean poet's Sonnet VI: Lost in the forest, of Pablo Neruda's (1) 'One Hundred Love Sonnets' or perhaps even the section from his collection 'Memorials of Isla Negra' (Memorial De Isla Negra), entitled, 'The Hunter after Roots'. One could perhaps see in Neruda and his poems a situation of being in touch with blood, in touch with the despair experienced by his country. It might not be preposterous to see if Ngangom sees in Neruda a mentor, both being in turbulent times of history of their respective places.

“The desire of roots” as the name suggest indeed tries to seek the roots, whether in remembering Pacha (2) and his lonely end or evoking the imageries of places like Tura (Garo Hills), Laitumkhrah (Shillong) in Meghalaya. The collection of poetry under two headings: ‘The book of lusts’ and ‘Subjects and objects’ is based on an imagery of friends, revolutions and “goodbyes” as distinct from farewells. A poem in the first section immediately reminded me of Neruda’s La Poesía (Poetry, translated by Alastair Reid) not only because both share the same title but also because of a continuity in the ideas expressed in both. In Neruda’s ‘La Poesía’ poetry comes searching for the poet “And it was that age …poetry arrived/in search of me” whereas in Ngangom’s ‘Poetry’ the character in the poem stands out like a protagonist in a play. As poetry resides within, he/she wishes to express and let the ‘gnarled men and wrinkled women...” know “...what matters if I can’t explain to them’. Other titles also could be seen as belonging to a spectrum of ideas that can be seen as either “continuity or an inspiration”. Neruda’s ‘I explain a few things’ from his Residence on earth, (Residencia en la tierra, 1925-1945) can be interestingly juxtaposed with ‘I am unable to explain’. In the former, Neruda explains or seeks to do so the reasons his poetry talks neither of lilacs nor of dreams but rather of bonfires devouring humans and the latter where Ngangom tries to explain to his daughter about ‘war of freedom or liberation’. One cannot help but also compare Ngangom with Neruda, wherein both not only gives a slice of pastoral life but also refer to the cyclical chronology of events; of history. Neruda talks about history that “passes in its carriage, collecting its shrouds and medals, and passes” and Ngangom’s “ossuaries of natives and masters as the old herald a new history/ not knowing why they merely repeat themselves”. One may also find resonances of themes and ideas as in Neruda's, “I explain a few things”, where the lines…

“You will ask why doesn’t his poetry
Speak to us of dreams, of leaves
Of the great volcanoes of his native land

Come and see the blood in the streets
Come and see the blood in the streets”

The last poem in the Ngangom’s collection ‘Last words’ where lines that seem to emanate the same idea appears as...

“They whispered among themselves
How come his poetry is riddled with bullets then? So I said:
I wanted my poem to exude a heady odour
But only the sweet taint of blood or burning flesh emanates from my poem.”

It is not surprising then that the second and last section of the collection -‘subject and objects’ quotes from Neruda ‘When the rice withdraws from the earth/the grains of its flour/ when the wheat hardens its little hip joints and lift its face/ of a thousand hands/I make my way to the grove where the woman and the man embrace…’ Akin to Neruda who sought inspiration from the everyday things like artichoke and his green heart, it is heartening to read Ngangom drawing another tangent from oils and lentils evoking the political situation in the uncertainty of its availability in the stores which he effortlessly does so in a poem in this section, “The strange affair of Robin S Ngangom”. He did have his last words in the last poem of the book, “Last words”, when he wanted his poem “to fall like pebbles into a pool” but ended up breaking his “words on hostile surfaces”. However his last words too seem to be heavily influenced by poet/s from whom he sought his inspiration like Neruda who wishes for the rain to repeatedly splatter its words and hence his last words end not as his own but the words of many others who had wrote of their times and turmoil.

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References:

1 Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) born Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoaltoi, is considered to be the greatest poet of the 20th century. His funeral in 1973, three years after receiving the Nobel Prize for literature, is remembered for being the one major instance of Chileans' resistance. The funeral was transformed into a public protest against the coup hatched by Chile's military establishment.

2 Pacha was one of the most celebrated writers in recent times. He is known for his monumental work Imphal Amasung Magi Esing Nungsitki Phibham (1972) for which he received the Sahitya Akademi award in 1973.

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One Last Time

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 17:42:00 +0000

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!!!

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 17:38:00 +0000

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:

Bankim Chandra Chatterjee: Anandmath (Novel)
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)
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.
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?

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 17:26:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 17:15:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 17:09:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 17:03:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 17:02:00 +0000

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!”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Freedom

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 16:49:00 +0000

“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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 09:01:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 08:56:00 +0000

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!!!

noreply@blogger.com (All Kaps) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 08:48:00 +0000

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!