You came to me, one monsoon night,
while I was sitting alone, frozen
at one corner of my cubicle, thinking -
soberly intoxicated and wide awake
...
Tonight I gaze at the sky,
Twinkling stars sparkle and fly,
But the blue moon as always,
Void like an empty canvas.
...
august ends in a lugubrious lament,
pouring its infinite downpour. in between the sky
and the ocean, here is the land, whose name speaks of beauty,
peace, equality(?) and empathy (! !) . once
...
it kind of occurred to her that happiness
is nothing but a state of being happy.
the tocsin had been tolling for more than
...
Everytime I ponder about the word 'we'
I feel that it's about u and I,
and my mind goes so far as if we
had known each other for ages.
...
How I wish I could fly.
Red bull won't give me wings,
Instead it would make me
burn the midnight oil,
...
May I have your attention!
Here comes The Hero, Alcohawla
Who carries his Hawla-bible everywhere
And preaches his gospel with his hawla-spirit
...
Chapped lips, emetic skin, languorous eyes.
Living in subsistence, counting minutes after minutes,
waiting for the day,
when my soul would be relinquished
...
Remember the X and Y
Plotted on vertical and horizontal lines
Where you and I were first introduced to it
In the class on economics
...
Another September is coming to an end
but my borrowed-books will not be back—
the mesmerizing midnights' children,
...
Born and raised in Aizawl, Seiji is a young budding poet from one of the north-eastern states of India. He writes poem mostly in English and prose in his vernacular dialect and English. He studies at the university of Mizoram; lives in Aizawl.)
Poetry
You came to me, one monsoon night,
while I was sitting alone, frozen
at one corner of my cubicle, thinking -
soberly intoxicated and wide awake
from the debris of thought and despair
that had weight me down. I was
a july in december. A thin linen
that didn't quite fit with the world,
was how I felt. But,
you've told me that I would find the key
to open the fragile spark of my soul,
that might keep me 'holding on'.
I opened, the journal,
and poured my heart with words I've imbibed from your intoxication
to the white blank pages.
I used to tell myself, why
had I been searching for the key
when you were always open for me.