Meeting Tsundue*

28.02.2022

He arrived yesterday,

a refugee,

with no nationality

but an ID card he renews

every year.

A bright red oath glowed

on his forehead.

“I will only remove it

when my country gets freedom”

he declared.

He spoke,

I listened,

to the tales of his country ,

and it’s confiscators,

3509 kilometers from here,

beyond the mountains.

“My countrymen were nomads” he said.

He another one, I thought,

with his huge backpack

and a cloth bag 

full of books he wrote,

slept anywhere, ate meagrely

and spoke three tongues.

“Sometimes I feel more a part of this country”

he mused,

“but am unarmed by the way 

others stare

and call me

ching-chong ping - pong,

ensues rage sometimes,

sometimes laughter…”

but still moves on!

“Intelligence and compassion is all one needs,”

he told me,

“a mind unfettered…”

and pat his national flag

tucked safely in his pocket,

then walked ahead

to new boundaries to cross .

*Tenzin Tsundue is a Tibetan poet, writer and activist who has dedicated his life for the cause of his nation's freedom. 

Love Letters

“Can you write a letter

like Florentino Ariza?

then consider yourself creative!”

declared the Professor.

I decided to write one

soaked in tears and passion

but turned out

a miserable failure

- a few lines

from the Don Williams song

scribbled on an empty page

in the notebook;

and left it at that…

The next time I took up the pen

I was in love

and waited for

words to ooze from its tip…

Alas, all it could do

was copy down poems

of E.B. Browning and E. E. Cummings

I dispatched to my lover

in a sealed envelope.

The third time, however,

I finally learnt

to serve my feelings on paper…

It took pain

it took longing

it took shattering to the infinitesimal degree

I realized,

to write one...

I remembered Neruda!

Remembrance

Today the waves brought,

strings of words

mired in sea slime and salt,

glimmering in the melting moonlight

with quiet thoughts of remembrance…

Of the gentle breeze

and ecstatic kites,

like eagles hovering

in the cobalt blue sky…

Of a calm evening

splashing hues of orange and pink,

while we waited for fishes 

to leap out

 

of the heaving Chinese nets...

Of conch shells

lying deserted

with secret missives

from mermaids

to lovers above...

And of course,

of storms lashing in rage

while the shore stood

like a tragic hero

subdued by his own flaw

in the final act...

Questions

 Who am I?

                                            The question stares

                                            at me and the unknown

                                            I blink…

What does it mean to exist?

                                            My soul reddens

                                            spitting fire

                                            into the universe

                                            I burn...

What does it mean to be a woman?

                                           To fall like a cascade

                                           to dance with the clouds

                                           to create from dust anew

                                           I dream in flashes

                                           I laugh!

Meaning

“Define meaning…” 

 quoth the philosopher.

“Someone

 who puts on a new garb

 and

 elopes with every reader!”

 Quipped the poet.

Grey

“Human action, 

can never be completely 

conscious and rational!”

declared the philosopher.

“How can that be?”

questioned the confused scientist ,

“You mean,

 when it’s achromatic or colourless

 and therefore meaningless?”

“It’s a place…” intervened I,

 with all my poetic license,

“where black bleeds into white,

  white into black

  and

  includes everything in between!“

Paradox

 “I’m desperate,

 to put ink on paper,” I said,

“but feel uninspired...“

“Desperate to write and uninspired…hmm…” he remarked,

“How can that be? They don’t seem to go hand in hand…”

“Why not?” said I,

“Grey is a colour too!”