Palestine the ancient olive tree.

 Palestine, an Olive tree, too ancient to uprooted by dementia of ideals, or by any political reinventions of promises, of some promised land.

No book, however sacred, is toxic to life itself, when it lays on its stacked pages, a genocide. 

No paradise can be built of the blood of babies and innocent children, pregnant mothers,  

No voices could be received as prayers in the ears of any god on Shabaths, 

because as you break your Challah, each morsel has the cries of famished children, men and women, their parched throats, dry like the desert, eating sand to stiffle the pangs and pain, each tick of the clock in these frail cachexic bodies is long as Death.

We all might somehow fold our Humanity, into smaller and smaller folds to arrange and fit it in our conscience,  sufficiently enough for us to sleep through each night, only to awake again to the unethical reality, perpetuating each day.

We know, we should raise our cries louder and louder , 

cries, that will cut through endless debates over real decisions,  

cries and protest loud enough to defend against the storms of indescriptable brutality against a people, a culture, a right , 

fair enough to stand as equals, to stand where it is just - where Justice is Justice.

No matter who turns their back, no matter how they disguise their disgusting motives.

We all know in the heart of our heart, that, if we turn our backs,  its the Democracy of Life that's  sacrificed. 

Today them,  tomorrow us.

It will all come in different forms, arguments, set of neo regulations to rob and deprive us of who we are. 

Breaching the very fundamentals of our rights in front of our eyes. 

Robbing our thoughts, 

preventing our thinking , firmly tightening the rings in the chains, asphyxing our Freedom. 

A Freedom precious as our lives.

The water we drink, will be what they'll authorize. 

And what we'll drink wont be to quench our thirst, but, to shrivel us to our bones, 

and each one of us will watch each other die, eyes wide, open mouth, wordless, to be broken like twigs and warm the furnaces of a few greedy men. 

Their greed greater than the devil's, Hilter is only a choirboy when compared to them.

All , only to rewrite the same History of Brutality, the Brutality over power, control through hatred - ridiculous enough, to think of them as immortals.

Luckily, Death, has its own rules, even for them.

For what they bury now under the tons of bombs, wont and cannot kill the immortality It will resurge, even from the oppressing arms of the darkest Angel,

And once again Olives trees will sprout in Palestine from the very burnt ground of this injured planet.

Written on 12 july 2016, modified today

 All i have is this body

Within which i run, i hop, i struggle,  i hide, i play, i stay quiet,  i wait. 

Inside,  so many things roll, turn, twist

Inside so many things happens, some in mysterious way. The ways the woods are engorged in the silence of the faint early morning light.

As, moments pure as a prayer, connects to the wholeness to Life. To existence,  to the emanating beauty,  to memories of having glimpsed into some kind of heaven.

Witnessing, witnessing as learning, witnessing something coil metaphysically out of me, out of the body, and goes quietly through the stillness of things, to watch and greet other kind of silences, silences of the flowers,  of the leaves and creepers, of the clouds, of the water in the pond, carefully,  not to disturb the dragonflies,  the ants, the frogs, the fields.

Then,  it returns and settles inside my body again, feeling the freshness of all it has visited.

It trickles into the blood in my veins givingan understanding,  of how, for a moment Whatever surrounded me was also me.this body, so inseparable to something so larger, so large tgat the universe could only be so small, so large, i cannot see its end.

 Life is raw, dont tame it.

 For Sruthi.....

Mysteries  and darkness 

Twinned together 

'I know i m beautiful ' you said.

Silences sensually erotic,

You turned on the switch , you knew how to use it

and use it well 

With precision in your looks , you fixed it, pinned my attention.

A while later 

The monsoons burst out from the clouds 

Partially spilt from your eyes. 

And, in that downpour 

I saw a little girl

Aloof, in her loneliness

Arguing with the gods, telling them they did'nt exist 

That the pain was as stupid as they were 

They could swallow their lies...

And, it was so easy for her to die.

There....silence again 

Whatever trembled on her lips 

Was no longer a secret 

Whatever made her cry

Made her a Phénix

For Sruthi.

Mysteries  and darkness 

Twinned together 

'I know i m beautiful ' you said.

Silences sensually erotic,

You turned on the switch , you knew how to use it

and use it well 

With precision in your looks , you fixed it, pinned my attention.

A while later 

The monsoons burst out from the clouds 

Partially carried from your eyes. 

And, in that downpour 

I saw a little girl

Aloof, in her loneliness

Arguing with the gods, telling them they did'nt exist 

That the pain was as stupid as they were 

And, it was so easy for her to die.

There....silence again 

Whatever trembled on her lips 

Was no longer a secret 

Whatever made her cry

Made her a Phénix.

For Sruthi

Mysteries  and darkness 

Twinned together 

'I know i m beautiful ' you said

And, silences became sensually erotic 

You turned the on switch ,you knew to use it

 it worked so well 

With precision your web pinned my attention.

A while later 

The monsoons burst out from the clouds 

Partially carried in your eyes. 

In that downpour 

I saw a little girl

Aloof, in her loneliness

She argued with the Gods that did'nt exist 

saying it was so easy for her to die 

There....silence again 

Whatever trembled on her lips 

Was no longer a secret 

Whatever made her cry

Made her into a Phénix.

As the morning hangs raw from the shoulders of branches.

a quiet walk in the woods is a moment for Self discovery 

There precisely, you come in contact with something totally new.

The soul grasps that which silences the mind

The soul,  the mind, the body unites.

Many call this healing.

Others call it awakening,

Perhaps Being.

Make this quietness a part of your own

Hold the Sky tenderly while you soak in its light. 

Be in the brotherhood of this light 

As you witness its infinity you realise,  its your own.

 I move with my eyes,  my feet obeys.

The breath and the sky

The spring trickles ...as if they all had the responses to my well being. 

 Even in the deepest forest,  the steepiest Mountains the Leopards have the maps in their paws, they consult them in the very instantly connecting as they put their paws gently on the ground. 

 To live life i had to ho beyond that which Men had to teach me. And without the intimacy of Silence and the surrounding of Nature i wouldnt get anywhere near to where the voices of my heart luring me. 

En douceur le doux soleil de septembre . Tombant doucement sur ma peau brun foncé. Je le sens jouer partout. La même brise, très légère sur les feuilles, se déplace légèrement entre la nudité et mes vêtements orange. Je suis agréablement témoin de ce bien-être si gracieusement offert par la nature. Que je pouvais passer tout l'après-midi sous les branches apaisantes des pins. Et dans un parfait silence - le calme chuchote. Le langage et les sensations ne font qu'un.

Et - en soumettent mon esprit Tout ce qui est poétique filtre dans l’état de ma conscience. Et… je bougerais à peine d'ici, je continue à écouter les frappes, les poussées silencieuse de la vie.. presque sensuel dans son unité. Les reins de la terre et les miens ne font qu'un. Je ressens un sentiment d'éveil. Lorsque l'esprit et le corps s'imbriquent spontanément,la profondément, les courants de conscience vous transportent à la source même où la vie palpite.  Vous palpitez jusqu'au bout de l'univers et vous pouvez sentir les étoiles respirer sur votre visage. Le soleil et la lune s'enfoncent dans vos pupilles et y restent .... en regardant autour de toi, ce n'est pas toi qui regarde à travers la félicité de cette solitude, mais le soleil et la lune ... dans l'allumage, assez attentif pour illuminer indistinctement comme si les lampes de la méditation expulsent les bruits de pensées.

Famished teenage days

even more famished 

post teenage days.

Were days 

where i was Unable to tuck my brain anywhere.

The hunger and uncertainity meant the same thing

I nibbled on bits of Neitzsche, Spinoza Schopenhauer and others 

like small convenient sandwiches 

Parts of life, ditched, in each days ditches, boring , blank in unfocussed spaces

From which i didnt bother to struggle my  way out.

Though i was tempted,

only Neitzsche committed suicide 

I prefer to say that Spinoza,  Schopenhauer  and the others, they all did,  in some way sorted out their survival.

And today, i hardly remember  what they said, nothing more than just their names.

And, their real or faked suicides helped me to live my life.

Walt Whitman,  the happy vagabond, sang songs like noone else.

And his beard grew into long leaves of grass

He threw truth like thunderbolts 

The Clouds of his words downpoured heavily 

Transiting the 4 seasons of my life

His old chants, twilight songs,unheard sounds of winter, the icicles and lingering last drops,  the dazzle of the day, left me looking for my own words, 

and, i sat writing .

flew like a Raven out of Noah's arch

And returned from God's opaque storms and bleaking skies

Without finding any land.

But, Noah got shipwrecked on some mountain top ( not me...i was boat less)

he couldnt blame  God for it

So he blamed himself.

The fawn and birds jerked out of his groins as children 

(God bestowed him with mighty balls)

And Noah, 

stored in them , each little secret of the universe.

i left Noah's arch, just walked away

as if the flood was a fiction of my own challenging life.

Somedays in which i drowned. 

i walked away till i did'nt know who Noah was

And now as it rains

It rains 

Oh how sweetly it rains.

How the springtime smells beneath it.

And sometimes it takes only a rain

arch to become , an undrownable arch on some timeless ocean. 

16 bullets of shame

 

Dedicated to the lands and people who have suffered tortures and death, delivered by the hands of extra judiciary troops in the name of peace..

Ima, Ima, Khamu.....

-MANORAMA DEVI THANGJAM, 11 july 2004.

The silences of this forest can never be mine.

In springtime

flowers bloom everywhere In Kangleipak

If The earth and the sky bends in grief,

Listen: why

11 july 2004: your despairing cries still haunts a Mother's heart.

That day, every Mother became your Mother. 

 The ' Meira Paibais '....Imas,

14 fearless Imas, naked to this very day die slowly waiting for Justice.

Protesting for each violated daughter and son. 

Randomly Murdered by uniformed men hiding behind a flag.

To maintain law, peace and order. 

Whose Peace, whose law and order.

Revolted, 

' the torch bearers' lamented.

Enraged, 

they flung away their clothes,

Reclaiming, 

" we wont sleep , we will burn

Each soul in this land will burn 

No. We wont sleep,  we will burn 

Till the myth of Truth will burn,

Contenance smeared with ashes 

Of our murdered children 

Now, 

immortal on our faces 

We will burn down your lies.

Naked we ll walk till we re heard.

Hear us India, Great  Mother, 

Of vedic puranas , eruditions , and Wisdom. 

Hear us Grand Father,  of Ramayana and Mahabharata 

Nights dont sleep 

Days dont wakeup 

in Kangleipak.

Our Land is injured 

Our voices -- the helpless screams 

Of our defenceless children 

Raped, shot, and abandonned. "

11 july 2004: 05h30 am.

They found You.

Lifeless, in the rice fields 

Thats where the Lawless Law left you.

Your community and family 

found you

with a bullet riddled vagina.

17 Assam rifles , a wretched name to be mentioned. 

" Forgiveness -- is'nt a word we ll remember,  each time we think of you , your brutality, acts and deeds .

Human rights violaters , may you be disgraced forever. "

Nightmare after midnight, the extra judiciary unit descended 

Guet à peun, At Bamon Kampu

Your executioner barged in

Pushing your Mother,  they grabbed you by your hair, muffled you like a criminal 

Forged memos, Determined to hurt, ' on suspicion ' they said 

Dragging to the courtyard 

They waterboarded you, 

Mercilessly, assaults followed assaults 

Dishonouring You in every possible ways. 

The saying goes,..." when you want to drown the dog, you accuse him of Rage. "

The set you up, slit your Phanek,  cut your thighs. 

Everything was wrong, everything being Wrong. 

You realise your tragedy,

Not every Draupadi has a standby Krishna 

No looming palms to miraculously drape

You.....a country that wont protect You.

They took turns the ghastly troop.

Helplessly your family witnessed and heard 

Your poignant cries and shreiks. 

Cries and shreiks 

Cries and shreiks .

Today, an old Woman bereives her daughter 

Enclosed in a fortress of pain, imprisonned till she dies. 

A broken Mother 

gathers, shattered pieces of her daughter. 

That night they took you places to places 

Pretending, evidences were somewhere. 

Then they faked what they could'nt find 

The mad psychopaths beat you.

Terrorised, you repeated 

" Ie Khangde,  Ie Khangde "

No, you didnot know 

They knew you didnot know. 

Unconceivable, to the cursed 17 Assam rifles, that ....for  a living

you sold the clothes you sew 

at the village market 

Unconceivable to 'them'

That 

you were only a bread winner. 

They ridiculiously forgot 

A bread earner has more responsabilites 

Than, to be a " terrorist ".

'A Soldier '-- represents 

Honour and Bravery .

A proud gardian to a Nation .

But, 

not these men,  no, not these men 

How much do they know of Honour 

How much they know what its to be brave. 

How alone You felt 

Alone, on that bench, on the verandah.

In an unamed Solitude.

While decisions were made at your back. 

Reminded me,  a similar despairing cry

From a bearded man put on a cross. 

Ima,  Ima....Khamu. 

Ima, Ima....Khamu....are spears that bled the heart of Kangleipak. 

"Here, grief is without ceasefires. "

A Mother  cries ...

Can i be proud of you, my country 

Can the silences of this forest be mine 

Where can i bury these children of Kangleipak. 

Tears are gems, 

Swelling painfully from these mourning eyes, 

for a necklace

That can never be worn .

Manorama Devi, in Kangleipak, your memory perpetuates  

on every Woman's faces 

Its Springtime again in my country 

Blossoms on branches are so beautiful 

And each tree bears your name. 

 The advaitha mantra never leaves  their delirious lips. 

We wash 

We drink

We purify 

We purify everything but our hearts. 

With all the gangas and yamunas

We wash and we wash.

Lifelong - we wash till we  wash our dead

Festively we float our lamps

Yet never freed from our darknesses 

Where s your gangotri oh Shiva.

14 years or 14000, Hey Ram

How long will be your exile

Have you enough arrows

These Ravana heads multiples 

More quickly than your shots.

Shravanabelagola,monk ,mystic

STANDING NAKED--II
The cosmos is a tantric canvas.
Emotions , like waterfalls, pouring harmoniously, becoming souvenirs....

 i realise that i have'nt put down my feelings, and everything about this little village.

Sravanabelagola --Lost between coconut trees, the ricefields, cattle, dust, and lotus filled ponds .

The evening breeze is a broom sweeping Bahubali's environnements into a very profound silence,
every changing movement soaks into a "quieter  aspect."

Sravanabelagola --- ever since i first set my foot up here i was overwhelm'd.

Here, i saw rocks in poetry and poetry in rocks .
Out of the rocks and sculptures ,an immortal spirit seems to soar constantly...like a long drifting aroma of" peaceful watchfulness".

Nikos kazantzakis says in his semi fictional biography " my life's benefactors have been journeys and dreams ... . . . ".

....this is exactly how i felt when i found myself in Sravanabelagola ;


The tulmultenous bus rides, the catnaps, the energy, the time short run,..... did'nt stop the adventure .
Something magical ,made all the rough side of travelling look almost sterile ; i pursued with enthousiasm my hasty visits, to these sacred sites.

At Sravanabelagola, on the Chandragiri hills , 14 jain temples invites you ; the uninterupted silence is punctuated by a few chiming temple bells, mantras and children.
You could read the traces of the morning rituals inscribed on the freshly washed temple floor, chalk inscriptions, rice grains and flowers....left over by the worshippers of peace !!

Even if you 're in a hurry ,the majestic" tirtankas", carved in meditation are anything but vulgar rocks !!.

However ,if you watch them, you can witness their deeply absorbed selves shining through the dawnlit appertures of each temple.

For a moment you wonder who is" the rock" !!


On the other hill ,the Vindhyagiri ;
Stands , the most impressive structure i've ever seen ,the naked Bahubali...with his feet on earth, his head holds the heavens ,
or rather the heavens unfolds in his head.

Eyes gently closed, "doing nothing else" but watching!!
Eyes closed watching "the invisible" ;

this made me realise that ,to watch" the invisible "one must close the eyes and open the eyes of your heart,
And, besides the watching of "inner dawn" the rest seem'd to be immateriel .

The air arround is purified by prayers....

( prayers -- another cosmic broom.)...and the heart gathers the sparks of light from some chilly night wherein you 've been treading.

Here , one does'nt seek illuminations, because illumination is everywhere .
Here your meals are made of spiritual landscapes ---" the watcher "and" the watched" are one ; the voyage leads you more and more inwards.

Sravanabelagola -- is a pretext to be spiritual!
You move away from dying words and delve into living feelings.
A divine finger performs a divine surgery on you.
You're not here to convert or to be converted; someone peaceful awakening with each dawn moves out of the rocks, and you witness it!!

As i left Sravanabelagola , the immense statue remained silent, witnessing with closed eyes, tolerant, never asked your name nor culture, country, nor the list of your eruditions......... 

" Sit here, be here, and watch!! " 

" drop all your sterile gods -- dead they are, as your ideals" . 

"Here , there's place for only one -- 

the one "in you ", 

the only one worth watching!!
for when he awakes, the silence is full of miracles and births......
then, a word that escapes your lips will be a healing whisper of peace !!"

Your touch "heals" , because you 're healed!!.

No barrages,
no conflicts ,
no filters,
no ideals,
no parasiting emotions....
the profound currents of one single meditation washes them all away -- including , the loftly and the lowly!!!

Only the sponteneous remains.

A one day before indepence day celebration poem

 Dedicated to Kashmir, and to an old jesuit ... priest Stanley.

Leaders in my country

Build gigantic statues on 3000 crore budgets

Instead of schools, roads, proper drainages and toilettes.

Open excretions still prevail

the stink persist from the multiple political speeches, promises and propagandas, language wars.

Broadcasted on tv for mass brainwashing.

On indépendance day they salute the flags

the army parade clowning around patriotic farces

Next day 

the same planned riots, murders, forthcoming élections schemes  and religious issues of

Who ate the cow, or who didnt drink the urine, or who didnt bow before its dung.

When the british left we recovered their methods 

--The taxes.

Wé threw them out to sit in their chairs 

to do the same things in new texts and legislations 

New tax collectors

Taxes to eat, shit, pee, and breathe.

Tax money spend when a minister goes out 

Or changes his mind and comes in, or to pay for his appendicitis operated in the US hospitals 

they look down on the ones in the country as neglected standards

The minister returns post-op, he returns with diplomatic immunity smuggles his gold loaded bagages.

Now, 

Watch out for the new taxes on democracy.

For having said this much, i ve become a national traitor, a terrorist,  a threat to my country's security

À framedup warrant on my head

For not loving my country in their terms

For not becoming ready To be a ' dumb fuck citizen.'

 Writing has never been easy for me, it was never a logical construction of an idea. I wrote from a moment that would prod inside, transform my vision that very instant it enters. 

Yet i know what is boundless in my soul is accessible only when i shatter my heart into pieces,  even then, the words remains as a settling effect of that emotional implosion. 

 A pen is a powerful thing

It can drown you in its ink.

It can transform the parchments of your body and soul 

Weave  poems from a reed 

by 

a river bank.

It can free you like a bird

offering you the sky

It can take you to your darkness

Darkerness deeper  than its ink.

it gives you the unawaited moonlight you need

To grope through the corridors of verbs nouns and adjectives 

Thus you may compose yourself. 

It has killed, conquered, build Thrones and Empires. 

It can nourish you without bread and water.

It can torment you, beat you like sheaves of wheat till your husk has gone. 

From  its immense silence it streams

The music of

your sorrow and joy.

It can lie beautifully

And cut you with unconforting truth.

It can be pure

And bring you the waters 

From the abode of the Gods.

Hold your pen

With your empty mind

With Beauty alone for ink

 Thé morning in your eyes so tender 

Wet with the night that swept through 

Many carressing fingers 

We found what we needed without the lamplight

Kneading the darkness out of your body 

Your blonde hair and silken skin

Tossed on my chest 

In the warmth of your mouth

Volcanicaly Love possessing the body

Became body again.

In moment together in a sponteneous completeness.

Memories without remedies 

long for Spring.

Aquarelle skies,
Lethargic 

above the cedars,
the smokey grey thickens
as though, 

everything true 

stirs out from its melancholy.



Everything aches, 

stiffles in my soul, 
not a word will murmur.

My note book, my pen, and i 

thriving to relate, 
And nothing happens.

So
i watch the rain; knees tucked on the couch
with a bowl of steaming hot tea.

In circumstances such as this, 

a cup of tea has unexpected graces, unexpected virtues, 

almost 

spiritually redeeming;

Spirituality sometimes can 

sit in a cupful of flavours . 

In those tea leaves, 

an ascending fragrance 

drawn from Earth's own Soul set into my whole being.


Today,  
is one of those days 

where the warmth in the tea 

had all its meanings.
Anything done with depth responds equally in a deep manner; 

Even drinking Tea.

Dramatically, 
it transforms all your sighs into a love letter.
Shifting you into your sunlights.

Roots crackle within you,
Moving
like the prana from your hara, 

synchronsing 

with everything that hides behind - stones, streams and laughter.

You came to refuge yourself

on a blank page 

End up

celebrating

the purity of life.

A sip of tea.



.