Ibohal Kshetrimayum Poems

Names intrigue me the most.
Even mine does!
Come to think of it,
I was named even before I knew
...

Black was a thief,
Who stole anything,
Between pots and clothes.
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Wet curls
Begging a wish
To touch them.
But for the mist,
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Like clothes you wear me
Like a tool you use me
Like ink you pour me
And write stories
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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
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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
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(A village in the Khasi hills)

Sickly pine trees in tiny clusters
On balding hillocks with grey grass
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Forty-seven years old,
But he remains lost at eleven.
He smiles at dogs and people
With effortless honesty.
...