In Between

In Between

Slow flowers hung uneasy
On rain-laden branches,
Drooping awkwardly
With grave tenacity
To survive the in-between:
The passing season
And the one forthcoming
Unbeknownst, what fruit
Would yield, sweet-kissed
Or sour to the core.

And when love crosses over
Dallies in the in-between,
What end must it meet
If no fond face should come along?
Would baggages be empty
On the foreign shore,
Or would they cling on
Like loathsome leeches?

The droopy petals thrive
Once freed of the weighing waters
And may I be so
As I move from this in-between.

Random Spring Musings

No one dies before their time.
Though the living rant on-
“Gone too soon,”
No leaf falls before its time
Nor any flower before its due.

And I was wrong, to think
That the rains would bring back
The passing spring blossoms;
For the showers have left me with
Bare branches trailing off
Towards the ever changing sky.

And I look at us and I see just how
Spring is one adventurous season,
For who knew, a year ago, that we’d be here
Under the ever changing sky-
And who knows, a year after, where we’d be
Though laughter bind us together today?

MODERN LOVE STORY

I let you walk into my life while you walked nonchalantly by,

Unaware, of course, of the thousand heartstrings you pulled in your entrance and exit.

Falling headlong, willingly and yet never without apprehensions

Life threw in its own ironical timing.

Off-balance, I found myself relegated to the fluffy stuffs

That came along with the business of losing yourself

In trying to find your validation in someone else’s eyes

Where the causal effect had often been disastrous.

I thought I was dying, even though you made my life

Light up into endless sparkles shining deep into the night sky.

I didn’t know what to expect, for I had the floodgates secured

And grew too fond of the stronghold of barred gates and dried ground.

Unprepared for the deluge of motions that could override me off my perfect day,

I had no ready arms to swim against the torrent of confounding waves,

So I was swept- head and body, spirit and soul; tumbling along the rocky ledge

While the brightest sun danced with the bluest skies.

But life is a series of discoveries; and old lessons remain

To be relearnt at each new juncture, such as in letting myself go and

Willingly falling headlong into you, I was meant to relive pasts that scarred

That I would be reminded once more that I am perfectly fine, despite

All the lack you see in me; and that with or without,

I am where I am supposed to be: right here, with heart

Grateful and blessed, to take each day as it is given to me,

For nothing that I know is meant to stay for good.

A Monday Note to Nothingness

I’m supposed to be writing lines

Due in two days for submission

While the last date for slides submission

Is the dreaded today –

The clock is ticking and time is passing

And I sit in my cabin, noise- cancelling

Headphones snug over my cold ears:

I really need a good back-rub.

Thoughts float everywhere, above me

Beside me and beyond me;

I want to muse on that guy who walked past me

At the new supermarket yesterday

He was fine to the nine

And I wouldn’t mind to dine –

But just as I seem to be able to catch words,

I am interrupted by eager faces peering through my cabin door;

Eager – or sheepish, I cannot really tell

Maybe they respond directly to the face they see:

Bespectacled, cold and distant

Eyes clearly diverted to a land they never will reach.

Still, words do not come easy; even though

I feel too much and think too much.

I should be kind to myself, I desperately know.

Maybe I should go and get a good back-rub.

What’s in a name, anyway?

“You, of all people should have used
The correct spelling of your name.”

And you could only smile, wryly
For phone conversations can only last thus long.

Venflon stuck to my vein,
Tears flowed endless on our cheeks
As he told me the story of how he was called to be
As I recounted mine, in that Emmanuel Hospital so many years ago.

He said, “Sometimes the Lord speaks
To His chosen people,
And gives them insight
So that names have meanings for His calling.”

I bear the name, the blessing of God
For of the many names brought forth
Great-uncle thought befitting of me
Not just to be his namesake,
But because my parents waited
Five long years to have a child.

But why I chose to be “Somte”
Replacing our native “aw” for “o”
Is a different story
Which began, when as a teenager
All you wanted was to fit in among
Peers who were prone to dismiss you.

And being in a culture so diverse
And languages so different
Your name was prone to misspelling
“Sawmi” as “Swami”-
And each syllable of your name
Pronounced to bear different meanings:
“Laal” for the colour red
“Maal” for an article, but has sexual connotations
“Swami” for addressing the yogi or the husband.

And to say, “Hi, I’m Somte,” seems to be
Easier, even though still different
From saying, “Hi, I’m Chanda/ Meena/ Neetu”
Rather than saying, “Hi, I’m Lalmalsawmi.”

Much easier, or so I thought, to type
Somte Ralte
In my Orkut and fb accounts,
Though some friends still search to find
Lalamswamte Raltei.

Then, and maybe till now, I have never
Felt the need to assert my cultural identity
Through the correct spelling of my name
Or one without.
For I believe, despite the “aw” or “o”
Or the feminine indicator “i” behind the name*
I still am a Mizo, and proud to be so
My only fear is I would not live up to my name.

*Common names may be shared by both genders in Mizo society which
is made distinguishable by the “-a” suffix that indicates male and
“-i” suffix that indicates female.

** Previously published in “Hilltalk: Collected Writings from Mizoram: (2017) and my first poetry book, “Wild Hearts” (2019)

We Sing As The Days Go By

Upward, upstream and uphill we go
Braving the scorch and the wind;
With each climb our limbs strengthen
And our hearts, skilled with each fall.

We sing as the days go by;
Casting old worries aside, we make peace
With ourselves and the world
For soon will our feet be washed by eternity’s genesis.

There, at the shading shed overlooking the lake
We contemplate on our journey made;
Stories that line our faces deepen,
With the setting of the evening sun.

We will stay for the night, to rest
And dream of younger days;
When words were puzzles and riddles,
And love, an embittering enigma.

For when we wake to the new day,
We will rise with the dawn, knowing
How time has changed everything
And placed all things to perfection.

Note: My ancestors believed that upon death, the soul crosses ‘Rih’ lake and reaches ‘Hringlang Tlang’, a hill from where the soul can see the mortal folk. Here on this hill is an enchanted spring, whose ‘lunglo tui’ waters cause oblivion; ensuing the soul to forget its memories. Once the soul is captivated by ‘hawilo par,’ a magical flower that prevents the soul from looking back, the soul is finally freed to enter into ‘pialral,’ or heaven.

This poem is about growing old and coming to terms with life in all its surprises and bafflements; to accept and let go; to forgive and to heal for once our journey is over, all that really matters is peace.

My Summer Garden

My love walks into my summer garden
Overfilled with blossoming trees and ripening fruits;
He finds in me a pair of planter’s hands,
Unaware of the hours spent in sifting and shifting of the soil.

He thinks the world of me; and he is my world rightly so;
Yet between our perfection, there are untold imperfections-
Like these cystic scars writ all over my face and back
There are scars within that are yet to fade with time;

While all is well with God on the throne
I wonder if my summer garden would outlast the storm,
And wonder still, if my love will stay
Once the storm unearths the barrenness of the underneath soil.

If I Tell You That I Love You

If I tell you that I love you
I do not mean that
I love you to keep you;
Though the heart, fond of attachment
Does want to do so for a lifetime.

If I tell you that I love you
I do not mean that
I love you to be loved back;
Though the heart, fond of attachment
Does want to do so for a lifetime.

If I tell you that I love you
I do mean that
I love you just to love you;
To wish the best for you,
To find warmth when you smile,
To know that you are loved.

If I tell you that I love you
I do mean that
I love you, knowing the barrier
Standing tall between us.

If I tell you that I love you
I do mean, that I remain
Grateful to have met you
Where we were always fated to meet.

And if I tell you that I love you
I do mean that I love you;
That I hope against hope
To dream against dream
That somewhere tonight
Under the starry sky
You sleep soundly,
Being loved.

Unruly Hands

Privileged, audacious

Impudent unruly hands:

Expounding their entitlement

Emboldened by senseless disregard

Of one stranger to discipline;

Embracing, Hugging, Nuzzling,

Grazing, Caressing, Fondling,

Rubbing, Stroking or Fingering,

Without any guilt or remorse.

Resting easy on sacred atonement

That sacrifices the guileless to silence;

On unjust diction of imbalanced structure

Where one is to rule over the other.

But love me with honest hands,

Even if they are bare and freezing;

For these ruly hands have crumbled

Under the burden of unruly hands.

NB: There’s an arguable belief that most times, poetry is an exaggeration of everything. While this preconceived notion (or, cultivated through one’s selective reading) might hold true to a certain degree, I vehemently disagree to the statement that poetry is a place for exaggeration because to me, poetry is a hallowed space where I can be confessional and secretive at the same time.

Having said that, may I take this liberty to state that I had written “Unruly Hands” last year, as an expression of what I had gone through as a child, a girl, a teenager and a woman who had been groped and caressed without any “skin-to-skin contact.” Having gone through the devastating, and humiliating experiences and never really having the courage to speak up about it, poetry has become the safest place for me to express my abhorrence for loose, promiscuous and untamed hands and my desire, as a woman, to be touched with love and respect that is my absolute right as a woman and as a human being.

Believe me, there’s nothing cathartic nor is there room for exaggeration to talk about these incidents that had haunted for a larger period of my life; and I say this for many women who’d had similar experiences but never actually talked about it because these aren’t things that we were taught to be appropriate to be discussed. There’s nothing empowering about being “groped,” whether “skin-to-skin” or “cloth-to-skin.” It is absolutely demeaning and disrespectful; but the saddest fact is that it it always the victim who suffers the most (and the longest).

A Love Note to Myself

Dear Self,

May you never forget who you are

May you never give up on yourself,

Never underestimating

But never overestimating yourself.

May you never stop dreaming,

Never outgrow the child in you.

May you always be grounded

Despite storms and calm seas;

May you always be kind to yourself

As you are kind to all else.

May you always believe in eternity

As you strive amidst the temporal;

May you always gaze heavenward

To see the beauty above you.

May you always be true to yourself

Even if all else are false;

May you always love

Even if it breaks you down.

May you always, always see

The silver lining in the horizon

And always find a reason

To walk further on.

May you never lose hope

Even when all things go wrong.

May you always, always be

What your Creator has meant you to be.

Note: First published on Facebook, 23rd December 2013.