There in the distant land
A figment of mine imagination
A glimpse of fantsasy
Blinked by impossibility
Wrapped by uncertainty
A sand castle we built
To have our sorrows redeemed
I know behind that smile
Laid down are the inexplicable tears
When every boon in itself is a curse
When every curse in itself is a boon
When you sit down there
In front of your window in the noon
When your mind's muddled up
With brutal introspect of self
When you peruse your own flaws
While remain obscure of other's
At that moment, I hope
May you find your Four Leaf Clover
May you revive yours fervour
In that distant land, so far-flung
Underneath the mythical horizon
When you create poetic symphonies
Amidst every lethal animosity
Bringing minuscule joys
From that one Time Bound Memory
And remain oblivious of reality
While basking in the only self curated gift
The illusional happiness
But a million stories, hidden underneath
Leaving behind their timeless legacies
Even when originality speaks
When you decide to remain altruistic
Even when there has only remained
A dagger strapped heart
May the suffering turn paltry
And the serenity a plethora
I hope you may strive
To shine like the thunderbird
That you are
I hope peace finds you
And embraces the angel
That could lie only within you
I wish O’ Dandelions
To see the return of life
Amidst the chaos and struggles
Let me blow all the seeds
And feel the love and care
It’s been such a long time
I have not heard the sweet song of hope
Those hidden feelings, I need to express
I want to breathe again
The peom was first published in the 13th issue of "The Little Journal of Northeast India" and was selected later for "Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English 2022" (Hawakal).
Darkness falls faster in the hills, the lady said –
nights are for clearing minds.
With the last stroke of light fading into a shade of no return,
I reached the village square, jaunting the red soil of Khasi hills,
dodging tall grasses, betel nuts; escaping the nudity of a lucid river.
The ‘6:30’ of the lady’s eatery clock was smudged with smoke,
people were engrossed in rice-daal-aaloo fry – a simple affair.
Nights are simple in the hills, the lady said –
eat and sleep. Primitive, yet existential.
By the time I finished my simple affair, the rain washed
the village with wind and moonlight; making it
cleaner, quieter, simple like the night.
My night was a blue house at the end of the road uphill.
How do they know that I like neon gold light when it rains?
A veranda with a thousand sun stains?
May be the rain told them this house is like me, with
more windows than walls,
more rooms than space,
a silent floor, a roving roof,
a blue house for my blue rain.
I had no baggage, only a few pebbles from
the river Umngot that got inside my pocket when
I was trying to sheathe her nakedness with mud.
Why did no one tell her that clarity hurts?
Ignoring my half-drowned heart’s daylong persuasion,
aloof, she went down(stream).
In acquiescence, I left her water as it is and ran to the hills.
Hills are not rivers; they know how to hide things
that belong only to them.
Tomorrow, I would hide her pebbles;
her secrets safe with the hills, with me, with the blue house
that has too many windows to hide secrets but few walls,
like me, like the river – too much clarity hurts.
Nights are simple in the hills, the lady said-
days would come like a dream.
By Dr. Chayanika Saikia