Who will look at the sun and say,
‘I know this sky, bright and blue’
The blood that flood the sun rays
is what you and I shed
for freedom and liberation
Thousands went up in smoke in the fire of freedom
Thousands shot through the barrel of liberation
Thousands mourn, with their arms spread
Decapitated limbs and torso and heads
fell in their prayers
ever wondered
when smoke clears
if you will inspire
a stranger to
write a song
about you
give them
sleepless night
see you
in their dreams
feel an ache
for not
speaking
Snow capped mountains
glistens in the late winter sun;
melancholy song of hoopoes
beckons me home;
fluttering colourful flags
gives me hope to move;
the ring of the water prayer wheel
churns up memories;
smoke from the hearth
teases my taste buds for Ama’s food;
smell of freshly plowed fields
reminds of Apa’s protective hold;
the music from the flute
tells me my friends are waiting;
before the last leaf falls
I will come home
Let me cry tonight
I am a mere shadow
that coils your soul
my face is forgotten
which was etched in many hearts
Let me cry tonight
my voice doesn’t echo
which sang poetry
my songs fed barren hearts
as others fed mine
Let me cry tonight
no more colours flash in my eyes
which were once deep with them
like smoke I drift aimlessly
between bleak lives
Let me cry tonight
I am a bewildered spirit
eclipsed by my anonymity
threatening to efface my identity
of being existent
Let me cry tonight
[My friend ‘A‘ questioned me about the mention of cigarette in one of my poems. I explained and ‘A’ thought it was very poetic. So ‘A’ suggested we write a poem collaboratively, prompted by cigarette. Over facebook chat, me with my coffee and ‘A’ with a cigarette typed lines after lines to fill in the others blank. So here it is — ‘our’ poem. The last line is from TS Eliot.]
I hate the ads
I hate the manufactures
But I love it when he watches me smoke.
He never loved my curls,
But he desired the smoke that curled up my red wonju*.
Now,
a devilish grin curls his lips,
when I blow an ‘O’ –
proud of his protégée.
He used to tell me,
“It’s only with the ‘O’ you beat me. And that’s why I love you.”
And I smoked to get a perfect ‘O’
so he would love me more.
Three years of ‘O’
Now —
for him here’s a perfect ‘O’
but I hate the grin that curls up his lips
when he says, “Oh baby, once again.”
I inhale deeply
‘O’ my mouth; blow an ‘O’ at him.
I get up and leave
as he struggles to come out of the ‘O’
I look back; a devilish grin curl my mouth.
But his eyes, runs to me,
curls into the warmth of my smoke-stained fingers,
and tells me once again,
“Let us go, then you and I”
*wonju, one of the four pieces that make up Bhutanese women’s National dress, Kira. It is worn inside a tego (a kind of jacket.)
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