Our Private Literature by korou kh

Our Private Literature is a collection of fifteen poems by a group of poets who are collectively known as Howling Poets. They are a section of an art-activism collective called the Burning Voices. An initiative by a group of young individuals from Manipur, Burning Voices' primary objective is to bridge the gap between creative instincts and the contemporary lived experience. In the same breath, this initiative also tries to reflect the quintessential spirit of the individual as the creator of arts deeply rooted in the given socio-political realities. In short, Burning Voices mirrors the knotted angst of a generation and their appetite for a change, often trampled upon and silenced by spiraling political turmoil. Most of the poems here were written post 23rd July 2009 fake encounter at BT Road in Imphal.

Our Private Literature by Howling Poets Copyright ÂŠ www.burningvoices.com 2009 Published by: Burning Voices www.burningvoices.com First published: 15th November 2009 Second Edition: 10th December 2009 Suggestive contributive price: Rs. 30/Designed by Korou Khundrakpam & Kundo Yumnam Edited by S. Thoidingjam Printed and bound in New Delhi by Burning Voices

Untitled D.A. Sadokpam

Gazed into the cracked crystal ball That the occultist wanted to sell me, My singular image was not the only one. The dark and ugly side of all Within the frame of fractured pieces, I see honesty and dishonesty. Entwined like copulating serpents, Kindness and brutality Doing the tango in unison. Cheats and buffoons sealing A deal of connected solidarity, Making the real surreal. Decapitated past attempting To walk the knotted rope, Offered sweet talks as opium for pain. Incestuous cover-ups for cove-ups Making alliances unending, Making me a chain in the line. Jerking passion natural and innate Labelled as circular viciousness, That has outlived its worth. My shocked face was painted Red with cruel pleasures, Bright yellow in the foreground.

Victims strutting in circles Donning the victimisers' masks, Counting beads of forgetfulness. Rites of passage for the departed Whirling up like ritual smokes, Splitting the odourless earth. Hairy apes aping the apes Indulging in the dance of the dead, Waking up the awakened. Wisdom wags like the tail of a pig Only to regain its uneasy calm, While grunts filled the air. I see the multiple inflationary images Potent like the supernova, So luminous and vivid. I did not buy the cracked crystal ball, I stood firm and bargained Sold the occultist my soul instead.

A Star for Breakfast Homen Thangjam

In a land not so far away… Err, well, in my land of birth Where nine hills forms a levee around a valley Every morning rulers have Human beings for breakfast Wear around their necks skulls To ward off evil spirits as necklaces Absurdity is the reigning reason Weeping wails are laughter Death shadows are dances Laments are hymns Elegies are lullabies Prisoners are freemen Peasants till the land with bare hands Blood waters the crops And we harvest sorrow in the month of ‘Poinu’. I met my old friend last night Dirty old friend – In a house of the prostitutes, while Bargaining over a nipple ring And a pair of size - 48 brassiere We drank to our health, talked about Epidemics, earthquake, flood, drought and The breakfast rulers have, nearly choked On our drinks as we recalled how The Southern Chief nearly choked on toes of The fetus in the womb as he gorged the mother, promised Not to be miss the live telecast of the next breakfast Sing standing up staccato in amusement, as usual

Notes of national anthem as they eat, ruefully I expressed how much I envied their meals My friend lowered his voice, lest The walls heard his newfound secret, said He picked up a star the previous night, from The barren street of desire Kept it under his pillow and slept, had the star for breakfast in the morning.

I didn't grow up properly 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 ages 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 Non-native spellings of words from occupation Then, my first long pants 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 I, 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 backbench 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 quite 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 didnâ€™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!

Drought! Jayanta Oinam

Something didnâ€™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!

Half Human Laishram Ratan

No horns on the head No fur on the body No teeth to bite No claws to cut Nonetheless Theyâ€™re the ones Who snatched away from the bosom Child of the innocent mother Who robbed Honour of the pure virgin. Yes Thereâ€™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)

Euthanasia 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 gunâ€™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 â€˜shoot yourselfâ€™.

Dreamland 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 dead 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 lose their own footprints on their ways could not be seen and followed 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.

On the fire 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.

Embrace Me, Burma Ronid 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 didnâ€™t let me smoke at my own will Kolkata has too much of mouth revolution. Tamilnadu is still mourning for Prabhakaran Madhya Pradesh is still a nightmare after the Bhopal gas tragedy Gujarat is for Modi and his fundamentalism Pune is for Marathis And we are niggers of India; Read Pacha Burma if you need a lover Thatâ€™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 tears that I have saved in this punctured heart Let me throw up what I have eaten I have eaten what is 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 the morning I danced to 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 make me feel I suffer less Less than your outlaws and criminals I was told you dump your criminals in baskets Like chickens in Chingmeirong Bazaar Burma, embrace me Let me wear that bamboo hat Like farmers that farm everything You will not regret, being 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 favourite gay poet; Go fuck 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 evolved from monkeys So they have the same color Like gods evolve from dogs So they are omnipresent" I even hate U2â€™s song on Aung Sang Su Kyi I donâ€™t know what the freedom fighters do in your Jungles I havenâ€™t heard about a hero of guerrilla warfare Who emerges from your jungles. 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.

Ema (Mother) 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.

To My Comrades Shreema Ningombam

The world would not stop being beautiful After you and I are long gone Isnâ€™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!

A death of my own 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

Daily insanity 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 my insomniac soul gazing wistfully at the end of a graceful coil of a twisted rope

Guilty 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 pause 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 The bullet kills, the bullet bullets the thunders But my desire never cease. And please don’t ask me…. Why people are killed? Please don’t ask me … Why the truth is buried inside the dead? Because I have a bullet desire, A desire to be a millionaire

Gazed through the chink of my window As my eyes slit through it I saw the fresh air Dancing in the murky twilight It summons me and gives me a river of hysteria But the hysteria was never invigorating To this dumb body of the numb room And the gone away wind that I saw through the chink touches the petals and the flowers Leaving the fragrance of love and peace But I remained a dumb man in the four wall of the numb room. Still, I was never mystified by the dead man Nor by the wind And still don’t feel guilty And why didn’t I feel guilty? I don’t know why And I don’t care who dies and for what Please imagine me, who I am… And let me come to your dream as a millionaire if not in your eyes.

Some Haiku: In one cold winter We, equipped with catapults Scared the dogs in streets. ~ Akhu They erect statues In the likeness of their foes; To bury their guilt. ~Kundo Yumnam yesterday it was they said paradise on earth now crimson it is ~Soibam Haripriya closed door policy came long before open door coke is just a case ~Raju Athokpam

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Burning Voices is releasing its first book, Phanekki Phijidagee, a collection of poems in Meiteilon in January 2010.