Posted in poem

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.

Posted in poetry

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.

Posted in poem

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.

Posted in essay

“These I Have Loved”: Appreciating Brooke’s The Great Lover Amidst Covid Crisis

Despite the abundance of dystopian literature around us, not many of us expected that the world as we knew it would come to change with Covid-19. Lockdowns after lockdowns, we are where we are now: with thwarted plans, some of us losing our loved ones or acquaintances to the pandemic, all the while learning to make the best out of this shared ordeal.

To state all the innumerable things that have come to change isn’t plausible. However, if we are to list the things that we have missed the most following the incursion of the virus, our lists won’t be as varied. We miss the littlest things that we’ve taken for granted: the embrace of a friend, the greeting of a handshake, the fellowship of kindred souls, the freedom of merely being.

With these in mind, an appreciation of Rupert Brooke’s poem, The Great Lover (1915) wakes one up to look at the world from a different perspective. The British soldier-poet has been immortalised by his lines in The Soldier (1914): If I should die,think only this of me:/ That there’s some corner of a foreign field/ That is forever England.

What had moved the poet, who lived to see just twenty seven years of the world, to claim that he had “filled his days/ So proudly” such assuredly as he has in the poem will be preposterous for us to wonder. Yet the poem itself, though often read in the light of the poet boasting about his life, aptly reveals why it is imperative for him to call himself “the great lover.”

The poem, written in the tradition of Georgian poetry, is basically a lengthy list of the things that the highly sensuous poet has learnt to love and appreciate: companionship, nature, cycle of life and yes, the littlest mundane objects.

In the second stanza of the poem which runs into a lengthy forty seven lines, the poet meticulously gathers the things that add to his life, saying:

These I have loved:
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such—
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair’s fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year’s ferns….
Dear names,
And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water’s dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing:
Voices in laughter, too; and body’s pain,
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.
Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They’ll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
Break the high bond we made, and sell Love’s trust
And sacramented covenant to the dust.
—Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what’s left of love again, and make
New friends, now strangers….
But the best I’ve known,
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
Of living men, and dies.
Nothing remains.

These lines are comparatively different from the first stanza, wherein Brooke revels in his interpersonal relationship with his fellow men. Should claim be made that there is a faint note of obligation while immortalizing the people he loves, the description of his pyschological state maybe interpreted as a resulting stress in his interpersonal relationships, which the poet has but embraced fully.

In the second stanza, however, the poet is seemingly more at ease as he describes the mundane objects that add to his well-being. There is no note of obligation as he lists them one after the other; most probably without any order of preference but as they appear to his thoughts while writing them down.

This second stanza is worth remembering, for herein is everything that we’ve taken for granted and never really appreciated although they’ve added much to our lives. Perhaps it’s easy to ignore inanimate things for the very reason that their presence don’t really make us feel obliged to notice them. But Brooke sees differently. He acknowledges these inanimate objects and nature around him; and wishes to immortalize them alongwith people that he loves. And how beautifully done! For who sees dimples in the movement of water but a poet with the keenest observation? Who ever imagines the stones lining the ocean to be feeling the heat of the sun and bask in the temporary coolness that the waves provide them? Who marvels at newly peeled sticks and “the cold/Graveness of iron”?

The Great Lover is much more than a soldier-poet penning down the myriad things that he feels have elevated him to the status of being a “great lover.” More than anything, it is a poem asking its readers to rethink about their values and learn to appreciate the littlest things in life as well.

The poet knows that all these things that he has loved will falter and fail him eventually. Not even his absolute faith would keep him from the gates of death. Despite his attempt to immortalize his loves through his verse, he comes to the inevitable truth: “Nothing remains.”

Perhaps it is this understanding, that nothing remains, which makes the poet sensitive towards life. Perhaps this is why, he says that “(his) night shall be remembered for a star/
That outshone all the suns of all men’s days.
” If there’s one thing to take from Brooke’s Great Lover is his attitude towards life. While counting all his blessings, he doesn’t downplay the other side of life:

The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and still content,
And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.

Knowing how the cycle of life brings in the darkness and light, the poet has learnt to accept both of them and has learnt to make the best out of every situation that life throws him in. This is where the poet has transcended over time and experiences, and this is exactly where the poem becomes an encouraging poem, asking us to rethink our core values and learn to appreciate the smallest blessings in life for come what may, nothing really remains.

Posted in essay

Rim Risk & G’nie’s Genius: An After-thought

The first time I heard G’nie about a year ago, he was on a local entertainment show having a mock rap-battle with the host. I asked those who were tuning in who he was, and the answer I received was, “Don’t you know G’nie?”


Honestly, I’d never heard of G’nie then, or so I’d thought (a cousin later mentioned that we’d actually overheard their street performance while having lunch in a restro: “Kha, ‘dawt vek’ tih hla kha…”) and I’ve never been a big hip-hop fan, even though it was huge in our teens; with names like Michael M. Sailo, Vincy, RD & The Three Rappers and RDi aka Ladylicious reminding you of younger days. In spite of that, I’d never really paid attention to them/ their lyrics because we were more into pop music, crooning to BSB, Westlife, NSYNC, Britney, Christina and so on.
G’nie’s was different. I was immediately struck by the impromptu lines he came up with with the three words given to him, here are his lines for the keyword “Taxi:”
Khawpui ka fang kual a, ka chuang a Taxi
Nula ka hmu, a va sexy
A chawnte saw a va seksi! (Link below)


Like I’d said, I’m not familiar with hip-hop but what I’d heard back then, were definitely “bars,” or an extremely good lyrics in hip-hop slang. Of course, your definition of “good” might be different from mine just as my idea of “good” differs from one another. Because I’m inadequate, I’m not going to break the lines into syllables & metric systems because I’m not going to make a fool of myself. But the rhyme is distinct: xi/xy/si. Beyond the rhyme, though, is the mastery of words and wit which is demanding of great respect. I mean, not everyone can come up with bars, can they? That too in a live show! Definitely not me, sorry! That’s exactly why I call them “bars.”

The last keyword was “Vawksa.” I hadn’t expected G’nie to poke fun with himself when he ended his lines about his thin frame, rapping:
Ka cher in hria, thau ka neih chhun pawh vawksa!


I understand this was an entertainment program but it was such a hilarious projection considering that G’nie would claim the only fat he had was pork! For someone with limited sense of humour, self- humour is the kind of humour I most respect and here was G’nie self-humouring before live audiences for a show.


The second time was actually me hearing my brother (who hardly sings) throw out some lines here and there and I went again, “What’s that song?”
Rim Risk,” he said, “out a long time ago.” An immediate search for Rim Risk on the net ensued (Link below). Didn’t expect it’d be a G’nie collab but it was rightfully so. How fun are the lyrics:
A duh loh che leh ngai awh
Chuh helh ve a ngai tawh
Tunlaiah mi fate an nghal ania
Inngaihtuah nan hun a tlai tawh.


Most definitely am not a guy but the spirit of brotherhood in the song warms the heart. The willingness of the other to be the mediator for the love-struck one and his approval of the girl reveals the depth of their “bro-hood.” What cackled me up was the advice he gave to the loverboy:
I sam te kha met la
I hmulte kha ziat la
Smart zaih hi tunlaiah
A cool tih I hriat kha
Confi deuhin awm la
Tawng hnem suh…
Mahse fiamthu nuihzathlak erawh
Thawh hreh suh


Here’s the professional love-guru talking, and it’s aptness is truly comical to a girl. Clean-cut, clean-shaved, well-dressed, not talkative but a fairly funny guy. That’s an ideal, right? Well, depends on how long you’ve walked on this earth, though 🙂
Apart from being quite contemporary, the song brings in an old Mizo adage, which again is well-placed within the subject-matter of the song:
A uite nen lam
I chul nel peih chuan
A duh ve mai ang che


To find this adage within the song gives an insight into the continuation of lyrical culture among Mizo lyricists, which again, is a good feeling because the new is nevertheless being informed by the old and in that way, may be a tribute to the old.


Can we also talk about the vocables in the song? The last line of the chorus “A lo hit ve phian mahna” concluding to the “na-na-na” and the latter vocable “la-la-la” ending to “lalthian” isn’t regular to my ears; which was the part I found catchy when I heard my brother mumbling to it the first time.


Now that I’ve grown older, I’ve been much intrigued by natural aptitude of lyricists, especially in the way they integrate different cultures into their songs. Can’t escape mentioning Israela Pachuau for what he has done in terms of amalgamating the ethos of Mizo gospel song-writing with blues. And the finesse with which G’nie has brought together different cultures so effortlessly in his lyrics surely can’t be overlooked. For to assimilate cultures so completely as to intellectually naturalize them isn’t everybody’s piece of cake; and the process isn’t exactly a stroke of luck.


And if we’re to talk of G’nie’s lyrics in English, the amount of hard-work and diligence it takes for a non-native speaker to write so eloquently, to rhyme thus effortlessly, to incorporate local elements to the non with such mastery deserves utmost respect.


During my holiday while at a missions a decade ago, this uncle and I were watching a local program on t.v which was being hosted by the late Michael M. Sailo. I can never forget what my uncle had said then with utmost pity for the MC: “He pa hi chu Mizoram-ah a leng thlawt lo a ni e.” Allow me to be dramatically poetical and agree, “yes, our sky can’t contain the brightest stars.”

It’s nobody’s shame but ours if we contemplate on what this uncle had said back then; even if we don’t necessarily agree with him.


G’nie has been on our w/a statuses for many reasons and memes we’ve circulated but I truly feel his sentiment when he said in his interview by Mali that many of us aren’t able to read between the lines of his lyrics and fully appreciate his play of words. Must be disheartening to hear the clamour of empty vessels all over the place; a distress to realize that your art is beyond the taste of your own people. With the kind of lyrical mastery G’nie has come up with, it’s no wonder that our collective intellect is yet to embrace his gift. But it’s taken that a trailblazer is often frowned upon at the beginning, and G’nie, though not the very first of the tribe, has inducted unprecedented craftmanship over lyrical art. If our soil isn’t tended yet for his lyrics to germinate, we better be doing something about it!

However, from the perspective of a non hip-hop fan, it’s fairly difficult to understand the many facets of the culture itself. Forget about the beats, it’s tough trying to pick up the very language itself because of the usage of unfamiliar slang words as embellishments. Or the employment of battle/war background between the artists in their verses. To most, I’m sure the image of hip-hop is still associated with baggy trousers, tats, flashy jewellery, projection of young rebellion indulging in life that mainstream society shuns. In terms of lyrics, perhaps many have no interest at all or find no relevance at all. Perhaps a day will come soon when our perspective changes so that we’ll be able to enjoy more of the beauty behind these verses.


There’s no denial that we’re incapable to fully comprehend the lyrical genius of G’nie yet but that’s never going to stop him from coming up with better bars and more profound subjects to talk about. Seeing his work gain attention from foreign reactors who are more affluent with the genre and lyrical stylistics is a testament in itself to his genius. Our skies mayn’t be able to withstand the brightest stars, but they have found their place in the vastness of the universe and are illuminating those in their proximity. Someday maybe, when the tide turns and the stars re-align, the space they have illuminated will colour our skies with wonders our ears have never heard of.

Links:

1. https://youtu.be/rSzZqh2Al-I

2. https://youtu.be/u-4rjM23BJg

Posted in north-east india, poetry

March Moon

March Moon rises behind Cannon-hill
Seeped in rusty blush from the season’s burn;
Curious eyes in wonder still its sight
Wagging tongues its beauty enunciate.

Comes quarter to midnight, and March Moon
Basks in its ivory splendour overhead.
From its heavenly seat it beams,
While the world under its radiance sleeps.

And sleep we shall, under the dying March Moon
Our precious shut-eyes to depart
From shifting notions of rights and wrongs,
Benumbed by our obsessive interests in the selves.

Tainted March Moon from our embers:
A testament of our adulterated intellect,
Where faith and customs assimilate
Into a perfect decree of void.

Yet we lull ourselves to sleep so dear
While voices are silenced and arts contained
While masculinity and effeminacy tread on thin lines
While we all are victims of socio-political experiments.

Just like rusty March Moon, so are we
Corroded in our proximities; dulled to senselessness;
All the more apt, in our slumberous state
To claim our beauty in our moribund frames.

Vigilant shoots rising from the mire,
Like March Moon climbing the spire
Surely shall their glory attain in ivory
Once distanced from the drowsing fire.

Posted in poem

The Last of the Rising Day

Should the last of the rising day dawn
No more to celebrate small joys
Numbing senses to the fifth,
I would still wish to say
That I had loved you;
In whatsoever way
Love had been idealized
Or in howsoever way I thought
Love should have been.
Should the last of the rising day dawn
With no second chance to arrive
May you be comforted knowing
That I had no regrets
Despite everything being said.
Each journey we took
And the road that ended
Would never more change
A hundred thousand pieces over.
Should the last of the rising day dawn
I hope it would end with the most beautiful sunset.

Posted in north-east india, poetry

Autumn Letters

Dear B,
If you’d ask me
How I do these days,
I’d tell you that
There’s not a day that doesn’t bring
Thoughts of you;
There’s not a day I don’t think
Of all the things we’d talked about-
More so now, as my only world
Is growing smaller and tighter.
I should’ve listened to you
And uproot myself many moons ago.

Is it too late?

I wish to call you,
And talk with you again
Of these things that’s looming about us
To listen to your calming voice once more
To assure me that all will be well.
But I know that miserly Time
Has never been our friend
And our days and nights
Are never compatible.
I thought you should know
How I feel like such a fool
To finally realize that
The binding noose has tightened
And young saplings of dreams
Have been crushed by the weight of responsibilities.
You would understand if I say,
I feel suffocated in this freedom
Where double standards rule
And etiquettes so easily faked.

I wish to vent myself
So I could rest easy on my solitude
And roam my skies once more,
Without baggages weighing me down.

Am I too late?

When you hear from me,
I count on you, to assure me
That I’m not too late.

Posted in poetry

Hello, Dongwon

Each time I see your pictures
I am made to wonder
If your sky is always this pink
As the four frames allow sight;
Pink skies and golden crescent moon
Twins inseparable in your art,
What do they stand for you,
Who embosses their permanance?

I watch the sky too,
Awed by the magnificence
Of the Creator’s stroke
By the speech of His brushes;
Each sky speaks differently
But lend me dreams to chase,
Reminding of the brevity
Of all things beneath its expanse.

With your endless pink skies
And charming golden moons,
I never cease but wonder
How palette of colours speak
To each his own,
To each artist his own tone,
To each dreamer his own desire,
To each mortal man his immortality.

Do visit the inspiration of the poem:

https://instagram.com/hello_dongwon?igshid=1rpgyvavhyg1h

Posted in north-east india, poem

Dear Isa

Today we put to ground
The star that was sent to illumine our hearts,
The joy that was placed among us for a short, short while.

How do we even explain, how
With hearts broken, we love deeper
With tear-rimmed eyes, we see clearer:

That the ground we stood on needed to sway,
That a lighting was needed to strike on our cloudless day,
That a sacrifice was required to wake us from our complacency.

We look at each other, speechless
Searching for answers none of us can provide,
Each of us believing that it could have been otherwise.

And how do we move on with such a loss,
Carrying this gaping hole no one would ever fill?
How do we rise together from this mire,
Knowing that nothing would bring our star to shine again?

How do we find the right words to say,
When they do not even form in our hearts,
When no adverbs can qualify the depth of our sorrow?

And how do we not hear the voice now silent,
In your melodies we all sang together,
In another lifetime that seem too long ago?

Sing to us, of songs that would soothe
These bereft hearts still in daze;
Sing to us so we would gaze heaven-ward,
And find restoration our weary souls are in want of.