Tinnie Moe Poems

My cigar is burnt up
the red-brown sun about to set.
Will you take me home?
...

Shakespeare and U Punnya.
Not enough chanting and singing.
Learn at school and read at home.
Know all the texts.

Once put to memory, in the crowd
drop references boastfully.
Articulate but cannot plough.
Go hungry
when the pitaka pot breaks.
...

When blood boils, it explodes.
When blood freezes, it ices over.
Hushed and anchored
without deliberation.
Our Burmese derive from Shakya
insulated.
The sight of blood agitates,
cools to extreme fear.
Be brave and be afraid.

Young heart
a moment brave
close to a hay fire
opportunistically following grandfather.
The chase is constant
perhaps like paradise or a wish
perhaps without knowing
on a trip without a path.
The cow eats plums
obscured.
This is our Burmese people.
...

The fluctuating graph
of my dream
deformed and curved
inverted,
sprawled.

Wandering in Germany, England,
Belgium and Holland,
Have I become stateless?
I miss this, I miss that,
at each of life's junctures
one thing today, one thing tomorrow
my mind dyed
a dull colour,
forests on fire,
my winter dreams
deranged.

My own country without peace
I take refuge in other nations
How can I feel secure?
The path I believe
still vague,
the door not yet ajar.

In my village, country
I would spread a mat
compose poems and read,
hum songs,
sip tea,
pick at tea leaf salad,
my hope
a life where I can do as I want.
When will my wish be fulfilled?
I search but I cannot see.


Marching a long way
towards China
a revolution launched
sacrificed lives,
today is Victory Day
I shall also march
grabbing my pen to victory.

For the democracy movement
to meet victory
I'll pray at Shwedagon
renewing strength.

I yearn, of course I yearn,
but I don't.
I must support
my fellow millions
to hoist the victory flag.


We are repressed
our chests crushed
a life without liberty,
the common saying
'death would be better'
echoes in my ear.
For liberation
from imprisonment and control
I will sacrifice my wishes
for the cause of freedom,
the people, distressed,
the lords of war all powerful
as in the past, they rule by sword
and must be changed,
for the cause of the fighting peacocks
with strength
with a clap
along with others
we give the weak a hand.
Hoist the peacock flag!
Flowers of victory shall be worn.
...

If I
had
wings.

That would
be a poem.

If I
have
a poem.

To all humanity
fly, glide
spreading music.

Just in case
I
don't have a poem.

Far from humanity
in a dark place
without wings and without friends.
The caged chicken
gazes in a stupor.
...

You heard me well,
Abandoned screaming
at the Golden Wishing Well
...

There in a moment
I floath over
sunrayed flowered fields
and paralysed
...

Well I guess I got my wishes
I got them all so soon
A deep dark core of despair
How long I withered in there
...

How can they wish for something more
to fraily knock at their withered cabin?

So much fools envy what it looks to be
...

An Endless Well of abandoned tears
A transparant moon hides all my fears
Something so full of sorrow
holds no more room
...