Nilmani Phookan

Don’t ask me how I am
Down the Kolong comes floating
A headless girl
For my corpse
...

For days I have heard
only one sound
day and night.
The burning tyre is stinking.
...

The sky throbs, I grope for the lamp
All of a sudden in full flesh and blood
My mother
...

What were we talking about just now?
About stone being hard, water cold,
About fire burning
...

In the woods
deep in the woods
a crane calls
...

That day was a Sunday
A stream of fresh blood from the butcher’s
Rolled over the street to the ditch by its side
The tumultuous passers-by took no notice of
...

I’m going down the hill
It’s getting dark
At my heels
are some rocks
...

We were two families sharing a single house
Time passing through the leaky roofs
Night passing water coming down in torrents
Sometimes a wagtail
...

Do not ask me how I have been
I haven’t ask me either
down the Kolong flows
a young, female torso
...

1
What were we talking about just now?
About stone being hard, water cold,
About fire burning
And peacocks spreading their plumes
About what the world's first dawn was like
And why a sweet fruit becomes bitter
The moment it is in the mouth

About the sky flaring up
Like a live ember
Just four minutes to midnight

About the earth slowly turning to sand
And the shadow of bamboo clumps
Turning to ash

2
No, I don't remember anything at all now
Did you tell me a moment ago
That you love me?

The Love that is dedicated
Only to mankind
And only to destitute children
Or to what lies hidden
Amid the thirsty weeds
At the bottom of the sea
Or in a chunk of coal

Was that what you spoke of
On that midnight
As you shed silent tears?

3
In all these days
I couldn't find a life
That I could call my own
Or a death that was all for myself

Who is it that nibbles to pieces
My days and nights?
How do I tide over this gory time?

4
Who is that having some celebration
So early in the evening?
And who among the dead
Will attend it?

How many times did
The calf skin moo?
And how many times did they return
Reddened with blood?

What did they see on their return
When they looked back?
And who did they not see
On that lonely labyrinthine path?

5
Like the wind
The horses are wheeling about the courtyard.
Listen to their neighing.

Last night, a poet like you
With a low voice
Passed away -

One who had realized
That there was nothing in his poetry
Nothing more profound
Than the chirping of the cricket

What we were talking about
Just a moment ago
About water being cold, stone being hard
And about peacocks spreading their plumes.
...

I'm going down the hill
It's getting dark
At my heels
are some rocks
horizontal vertical round
And in close embrace are
gods apsaras
male and female Kinnars
men and women
all carved
primordial nights.

A pomegranate plant comes up
an orange plant too
From the depths of silence
of thousands of years
emerge a pair of my forefather's hands

The cries of a flock of cotton teals
quiver on the leaves of waterweeds

It's getting dark
on the copper coin of my face
I am burning
On a red lotus
a pearl gleams.
I'm rock and man
I'm clay and man
As if standing at the centre
of a vast circle
I have observed
fire water air planets and stars

I am a horseman of the sun
Taking on a thousand lives
I have accumulated
in my body every sun
of seas of woods of deserts
in my rapt consciousness
every black sun of
every season

I am a naked man
Ageless

with my whole body
I have felt
some rocks
hidden under water and earth
some rocks
and a planet made of
human flesh and blood
My lips tongue
and innards have felt
some rocks
In the angular privacy
of my prolonged life
some rocks
horizontal vertical round:

Siva rock and man
Siva bull and rock
bull and man
the pulse of time
I am rock and man
I am a kiss
planted by men on a rock

Along the flight of stone slabs
the married women have gone up
the hill of rocks
the pristine wisdom of earth and dream

the lyrics of dreamy youth

The night has begun to fall
The moon has come up
through the antlers
of a barking deer
the voices of rocks
have gone up
spirally to the sky

Siva rock and man

Siva a burning tower of eternal fire

Into the body of Siva
Parvati has merged
Crying

Now it is dawn
in the womb of the earth
...

I passed the tattooed night wide awake
looking at myself in the mirror this morning I saw
my face was a piece of ice
a feeling of coldness ran through me

As if I awoke all of a sudden
from a dream that writhed in pain
wanting to write something
I could not find my right hand
my hand on which mushrooms grew

I have not found the words
words I have been hearing night and day
in fire under water from palm leaves
on eternity's darkling roads
wearing a necklace of seven strings
amber-coloured low sounds of barren love
now hang from your neck
all over the bodies of
those who are gone who are coming who are ready to go

Hesitantly I look into your eyes
I go on till turning into a western star
I burn in the air to ash
turning into ash I come down on your face

I have to be wide awake tonight as well
perhaps for this night
I have been waiting all these days
carrying my heart in a sacred copper vessel

In your presence I try to hide my face
in the midst of rain stones trees children
I am now getting submerged
in the mossy nights' deep water

Looking at my face in the mirror tomorrow morning
perhaps I shall see
from the riverbank an old man
is angling all alone
looking at the evening torn into strips

The fish jumping on the water seem to be
jumping onto the bank
a kingfisher would swoop down
on the edge of the water
...

In the woods
deep in the woods
a crane calls

Open out both your arms
let a swarm of stars sink
into the aroma of your hair

In the pond teeming with lotuses
the wind soughs
deep inside your body
opens a red bud

The rain pours down
the opening palm frond
the blood of your breasts
rushes to your lips

Now you are awake
the face of darkness glows
the clouds rumble over the hill
...

A poet had stated
poetry is for those who wouldn't read it
for the wounds in their hearts
for their fingers where thorns are embedded
for the anguish and the joy
of the living and the dead
for the outcry that trundles
down the road day and night
for the desert sun
for the meaning of death
and the vacuity of living
for the dark stones cursed by ruins
for the red patch between the lusty lips of maidens
for the yellow butterflies with wings spread on barbed wires
for the insects, the snails and the moss
for the bird flying lonely down the afternoon sky
for the anxiety in fire and water
for the mothers of five hundred million sick and starving children
for the fear of the moon turning red as blood
for each stilled moment
for the world that keeps turning
for one kiss from you
that man of dust will become dust again,
for that old saying.
...

That day was a Sunday
A stream of fresh blood from the butcher's
Rolled over the street to the ditch by its side
The tumultuous passers-by took no notice of
The stream of blood
A pair of inept dogs with folded tails
Were licking the uncongealed blood
The faces of these restless people
Were like skulls
The scream of the man who had risen from the morgue
Kept passing up and down through the telephone wire
Where a pair of sparrows was lazing

That day was a Sunday
The market was flooded with oranges
Before the sale was over
Another Sunday had begun.
...

For days I have heard
only one sound
day and night.
The burning tyre is stinking.

I have shed tears
And wiped them away
with one hand
with both hands.

In my tears
the stones have soaked,
the grass drenched in blood over there
has soaked in my tears.

The overblown surujkanti flowers have not
wilted though they are about to,
the Dichoi and Dibong have not
changed into ice though they are about to.

For days the moon has not
risen over Diroi Rangali.

You, with the wet lock of hair,
might have lit the earthen lamp
shedding bitter tears.

The burning of tyre is smelling still
I have heard that same sound again.

Will the sun appear
red or black
at tomorrow's dawn?
you too do not know.

[Translated by Niren Thakuria]
...

I passed the tattooed night wide awake
looking at myself in the mirror this morning I saw
my face was a piece of ice
a feeling of coldness ran through me
...

A poet had stated
poetry is for those who wouldn't read it
for the wounds in their hearts
for their fingers where thorns are embedded
...