Names intrigue me the most.
Even mine does!
Come to think of it,
I was named even before I knew
...
Like clothes you wear me
Like a tool you use me
Like ink you pour me
And write stories
...
In the hills of seven huts,
Where war is either a name or surname,
And dreams are translated into numbers,
And a number became a gambler's sad song,
...
(for Scarlets)
Scarlet was born in a house of ill repute.
She learnt early how to use lipsticks, and
...
All appear denuded
When you set in:
Forests, hills, rivers, winds and
The nymphs.
...
I owe so many.
And they've become overweight.
I can't carry them.
Whenever I returned home
...
(A village in the Khasi hills)
Sickly pine trees in tiny clusters
On balding hillocks with grey grass
...
Forty-seven years old,
But he remains lost at eleven.
He smiles at dogs and people
With effortless honesty.
...
Before the butchery -
Beasts from hell came with vulgar armory.
We heard them marching on mud of breasts,
Crushing tender veins, and
...
Born at Imphal, Manipur (an ancient asiatic kingdom formerly known as kangleipak before it became a part of India in 1949) , Ibohal kshetrimayum writes poetry only when the muse insists. He, therefore, believes in the passivity of a poet, who receives every poem as a gift from his muse. He neither claims ownership of his poems nor ascribes what is received to his virtues. He is a retired civil engineer who waits for poems to come to hm without forcing one from himself.)
What's There In A Name?
Names intrigue me the most.
Even mine does!
Come to think of it,
I was named even before I knew
About it.
Now I know,
How names maneuver life.
I choose not to say for others,
But for me my name contradicts:
My belief,
My faith, and most importantly
My face.
Let me elaborate.
Once upon a time,
In my homeland,
A king changed his name,
With a borrowed name, nay,
A tutored name to be precise, and
With hm we lost our names,
Our belief,
Our faith,
Our language; and most devastatingly
Our faces.
Now I don't know,
What my name tells me
About me.
But it has told others
All (false)about me.
It betrays me every time
I say it to someone.
But, for my father,
Who gave me this strange name,
I keep it.
Father died on a christmas day.
His head was resting on my chest.
His breathing was retarding.
His eyes were struggling, infrequently,
To remain open, and
I heard his feathery murmur -
Son, say me a prayer...
With my fingers gently pressed
Beneath his jawbone, feeling his pulse,
I bent down to his ear, and
Said the Lord's Prayer, and he closed his eyes.
The neighborhood's Brahmin came along,
And (re)christened father as 'Bhakti Mohon Das'.
My father was never known by that name -
I corrected.
The revered broker of names smiled and replied -
What's there in a name?