Silent Tears

To its shore of years
Dear brother,
Hours may have borne the seasons;
Yet you are,
Within me still;
Your face cheerful and reminding me,
When they say-
‘We are remorseful to hear…’
Oh! What a pity!

I pray for you
Reflecting on the godly commission
I think, you would have accomplished,
Had you but walked this world.
Oh! How it sears in dulcet pain!

With those,
Truly like of friendship,
Some jocund moments I share,
And when I chance,
The melody of your taste, or
Sight your books, prints and raiment’s,
It comes again, the unceasing Malaise.

I tell none
How solitary I am in reminiscence
Of my youthful brother, whose
Demise had come ere time
And does it not sans compact
Bear us to oblivion?
Alas! Everything, but the poignant breath
Wherein lives subtle bygone memories.

My appreciation of ‘Apa’

For the sweat you shed on the terraces
To furnish us food;

For the dwindling strength
You spend in the woods
To keep us warm;

For our immoral peccadilloes
You reproved
To mould us into decent men;

For the worries that
Furrowed your brow
Wrought by our weaknesses and failings;

For the faithful prayers
We learnt to offer and,

For the unblemished footprints
You imprint
For us to follow,
We, thank the good Guru for you.

Grandma’s Last Smile

Seventy eight is not old for my grandma
In her childish hopes and early prayers
Senile sinews burdens spirited tomorrow,
Even as she sleeps in breathless quietness
Ushering death in painless peace awash in glee
Long before dawn she ebbs to the nether shore;
Her frail palms in comforting embrace over
Her bosom that never shall rhyme,
The lively moments of youthful dance!
O’ how rarely death comes in peace!
How rarely sufferance gifts beautiful smile?
How is my final decree chartered seconds away
On the inevitable course I long to measure;
That one breath must leave stealthily in calm;
Sans the sting and stench of deathly battle;
When my compact here is done
I shall await in prayer my gentle friend,
That you shall lead me dancing down the last trail.

Lost vision

It is when the first morning clamour rattle,
A howl, a chirp, a creak or clatter,
The nightlong quietness breaks
and the rose flower fragrance
every morning
seeps through the casement.
Does he ever dream of the unseen world?
perhaps! Of the red rose and marigolds
In the garden he had not seen
Rainbows,snowfalls, stars
and Planes and cars!
He rubs his waking eyes to look
at the purring cat by the pillow,
and the roses-
The daylight rays-
“Am I slumber still?’ thinks he
and the answers in his tears;
‘If these eyes could see;
what a morning it could be.

An anniversary -12 years thence

 

Mellow morning lightly sweep,
This early summer weep
through the garden foliage
The gust of stormy rage,
rain-born brook at the children’s park
I watch as I solemnly walk
In reminiscence of my brother,
O’ I shall not trot any further!
Over the southern plain
solitary I look in vain
hopeful of the visage dear
To appear,
Upon the crimson hue
Plaintive tears due
for the soul,
forever gone.

Words of valediction: On Lyonpo Thakur’s departure from Sherubtse

O’ Lord of the wings
A potent leader,
We the nation builder
In earnest seek
Guidance and glory today
For the last time.
Every single soul
Every little flower,
And thirsting cypress
The college has bred
Must to bow to thee
In immortal gratitude.
You are Sherubtse,
You are its insignia of excellence,
Steering to peak of luminescence
Heart and blood,
O’ Lord of the wings, Our Sir!
We weep to see thee go!

Bouquet of worship-II

-For Penstar,for Sogyel,for Bella, for Karma CW; in dedication

Into social concerns I repose

In your exquisite expression

Of essays etched in patriotic criticism,

Tales told in tactful tides,

Journalism mastered past merit,

Keeps alive the writers spirit,

O’ Penstar!

Thou art the only North Star

We bow to for the

Greatness yet to declare.

Like a vulture’s stroke to heights

In easy flaps,

Stories flow in unbroken prose,

Dissertation dance in captive compose,

Memoirs marked in truthful tunes

Of infancy and playful youth;

Of synopsis set to brevity

O’  Sogyel!

Only you can inscribe

In unexpected topic and text

At the hearth in sleepless silence

To the tattered elders listened,

To local fairy-tales told;

As the embers faded to wintry cold,

O’ Bella!

Thou art born a chronicler

Bygone past you revive,

Traditional legacy you spread

In beauty, in meticulousness;

The dream that almost was lost.

Like a samurai swift in flamboyance

Wield mysterious moves;

Comes the threesomes phrases

Woven in vibrant verses;

Praises life and love,

Nature writ in sanguine sanity

O’ Karma!

Warrior of fewer syllables,

Sounds of fathomless fury,

Draw thy haiku yet again!

Bouquet of worship I

-For Pandora,for Tukuli,for Aurora, for Tshering

For the muses’ charm I look,

For the glint of hope in words

Ornately in marred melody woven,

Such saddest pain from past,

Of romance, of home, of innocence lost

Trickle from the darkest labyrinth,

And every drop a tearful word

Anointed to a rhythm of pensive pity

Oh! Pandora! Pandora!

Your padlock frees your prisoner,

Locks me within

The endless words of poetic victory.

I read to repose on every artistic line

Weighed in amusing wisdom of a seer,

Discreet and daringly keen;

Fragranced in enchanting humour

To bring lesson and laughter laced

In philanthropy, in the humane ways,

Every doleful soul will hail,

Such precision, such erudition

Of the Godly gift well exploited

Oh! Tukuli! TukuliI

Your heart brims with winsome wonder

Upon men chained in daily dally,

Gloriously reminds the celestial virtues

Beneath life’s travails

And toneless trials.

I peek to the northern wink to rejoice

The vault of poetic verses,

A stream of envying essay comes

Like an avalanche,

Smooth and silent it begins

Carving romance in gentle strokes,

Painting nature in kaleidoscopic beauty;

In poignant tragedy flows those painful moments,

As joy laughs aloud from every gentle words,

Oh! Aurora! Aurora!

What eyes and ease you have

For flawless fantasy;

And timeless talent lives to brew

Grandious art to heal souls of all ages.

I await for the newest companion

To walk me to mystic sojourns

Paved in passionate proses,

This winter into her fairy farm

To repose in the scribe’s meadows

Bountiful with ageless blossom,

And I shall lull to deathless sleep

In the warmth and salubrious embrace,

Oh! Tshering! Tshering!

You ferry me into my doldrums’ days,

With your gift of magical potion

From whence I shall drink yet again.

Winter’s Tail

The winter bites like a rabid hound,

Its fangs harsh and razor sharp,

Into flesh and bones

Sinks and gnaws;

Still insatiable,

Its unseen tongue does the trail,

And paws do impatiently pace.

This Season strips of modesty trees,

Its searing breathe robs spring of beauty

And pillages autumnal bounty

Of fading flowers and grassy green,

And hills and vales, sere brown to see.

This icy mountain canine

Presage snows and sunless days,

Hot in pursuit of receding

Monsoon rainfalls,

On its annual year ending forays.

Alas! The fading and faltering land

Bids farewell to southerly birds;

A time of sullen and icy silencewhen

Fethered fanfare’s no longer heard.

Oh! How I long for warm home,

How does Khaling call?

Its hills a garland of silver snow,

The maize fields, dusty and dry,

Dampened sound of Jerichhu,

On its downward, southerly errand

When the cold bites like a hound here.

The wasted life

 For the death self made in ignorance

of the karmic labyrinth ripe in its dance

to comprehend the complexity of the stage set

for those who die for the wishes not met

how can we ever blame those who live

when the karmic baggage is carried on to give,

one self the stage to enact end to life,

not considering the mothers' lifelong strife,

to give birth,love and feed,

what a shameful deed indeed!

Is it not madness? Such sacred soul wasted

the weakness of a human heart demonstrated

and the failed chance to redeem failure

for a better life to endure;

How much pain seared him to offend

the Buddha within to decend

And thousand path to ponder is left

When the body dies the soul is bereft

Of the undone future

the one and the cosmic teacher!

The night I remember

It is the shower, yet again

Cooler as the wintry night

We walked that sodden path

Entwined dearly, full of promises

Still the salubrious your breath visits,

As I lay on the cot in half a gay.

There were stars then; now none;

The hidden moon now gone

Sailing behind the pale horizon

Whence I watch from my casement;

There your hazy image defies again!

It is the breeze, yet again

Discreet as the night we sat

Beneath the artemesia canopy

Weaving dreams of lasting matrimony

On the loom of deepest love

Tonight! Heaven is cast grey

Presage a deadly spray, my love

As I close my bleary eyes

There you are upon the firmament

Alas you recede into fathomless night; yet again.

The Magic of Art

With one sweep of a magic wand

Materialises an ethereal figure

Made corporeal by colour:

Lashes black and shadowed brow,

Cheeks are of a burning glow

Smiles unnatural, this captive thing

Glides by in pastel clothing.

Immortality is for keeps;

Beauty is only skin deep;

Like pristine peaks covered with snow,

The garbage of climbers hidden below;

The artist’s reality is a relative one.

Ruby lips that no man kiss,

Me neither!

Tresses long, stiletto Ms.

Oh, Rose! My lady rose!

Yours is a charm without flaw,

Your fragrance puts to shame

Fashionable French perfume.

No need have you for talc or cream,

Beauty will shine through

Everyday rainbow, seasonal blooms;

Graces God-Given turns artistic tools.

Tender Moments

With splashes akin

To the morning waves; luscious

Your smell of skin,

Softness of the lips

As I, into the midday clouds

Stare- A visage!

The waning smiles

I still can reminisce

All the time.

Night grows deep in a mellifluous

Strain, starts to singe and seep

My heart-

Heeding to the still promises

Sung for me

With the tiding moon,

Miles away too soon;

Comes again gentle your touch.

The stars like temple bells

Upon the yellow this winter,

Dangles for me,

And forever snows enchanted,

A silent Himalayan lake,

Tranquil and brimming with love

Are only comparison I can make!

Tonight I know

A lonesome pain it will be

And I, for the prime time-

Oh! Never before, but

Pour for me some champagne strong,

Then shades drawn

Sing some doleful song.

The Synopsis: Making of a Teacher (1999-2002)

800 days then!

Moulded, chiseled, churned

This training is a titanic lore;

Micro-lessons and teaching practices

Sixty assignments,dozen projects or more?

Lectures and demonstrations,

Of course some reticent remonstrations,

Ah! A human frailty!

Progressive presentations,assessing examinations

Cultural ventures, debates and discreet dates!

Footballs and baskets,volleys and tennis,

Tutorials, Clubs, Committees and Councillors,

Elections, resignations and conventions,

Decisions and indecisions, queries and contrasts;

Professional creeds and curricular needs,

So much learnt, yet many more;

Campus beautification and agricultural simulation,

In broiling heat and lashing rain

Or hellish hail; did we ever fail?

Child study and nature-nurture

In solemn prayer or meditative trance;

For some a prime chance!

Evening stroll and stolen romances,

I was there for discreet glances!

And in the summer house

A woman in the blouse!

And in my room a dwarfy mouse!

Some days were good, some days better,

When over a ripen Jackfruit we squabble,

Over a mere rumour babble,

Mosquito bites and sleepless nights,

Thunder and lightning is a summer’s right;

800 nights of work and waiting-

Three years worn, three wrinkles wiser,

In earnest gratitude we stoop and bow,

For now we reap that we sow,

Ah! Occasional welcomes and valedictions,

Teachers do we become!!

In rememberance of the days as a trainee at Samtse College of Education. Happy Teachers Day to my Lecturers at Samtse

God amongst men

For the appellation you acquire with certificate

Won through toil in schools,

Or destined to be a Guru

For the Role model you become

In words and action,

An ideal man’s simulation

For the power in words and dexterity in art

To chisel lasting pillars of posterity

In your everyday work

For the greetings you receive from children

In schools for teaching

And the tribute that men give

For the trust the nation places in you;

A torch bearer for the ignorant,

The living light of tomorrow

For the Guardian of the heritage you become

In the loom of modernization

Struggling to survive or revive

For the life you give unto each child

You become the second to Mother,

And the God amongst men, O’ my teachers!!

Looking within

When you feel solitary

As if lost in the quagmire

Born of destitution;

Weary from endless everyday toils

When the reveries of childhood

Blown in innocence

Haunts through the night;

Yearning its return once again;

When those you love comes to memory,

Shroud in smiles or gallant gait

Or of attempts gone to vain;

Or of someone forever lain

When hope seems miles away

And life’s battle is half won;

The painful sweats dry in loss,

And sleepless nights torments;

When the mind is teeming with fear or sorrow,

As if the world closes around you

Yearning the tranquil strength of wisdom;

Pray deep and true my friends.

O’ hearken to the rhythm of the heart,

And gaze on to the untouched faraway road

For the hope that will echo like a song,

For the love that will conduct you along-

What more can words portray

When life is but a strange fancy!!!

A Clear night contemplation

Of a moon-

Visiting to the puddle

At our water tap; perhaps

On a walk

Or in painful thirst,

Upon the world from home.

Of feelingly whimsy moments

the lovers groom

Of graces and faces and paces;

To the steaming plate

Of milk

Comtemplates a cat idly from

The grate,

Upon the flattering reflection.

Of the stars-

 Strewn upon the concavity,

Are wisey told to children

Something of a festive fair-

Who knows,

Of the princes and the fairies old?

Childhood Within

In the permafrost of memory;

Scattered are those scores;

Of remnants- the childhood colours-

A collage, though of pallid years

Capsules bright moments and tears

That no forces can efface.

Those escapades fervent

Forays undaunted

Into the neighbourhood;

Cocooned delights and, aye!

That blemishes painful too.

Fire wood from forest fills;

Arduous climb into the winter hills

For yellowing green bamboos;

Of-times upon some lazy pastures

Grazing the cattle

And poor songs I sing.

At school among friends

In summer we squander and play,

Even during the muddy May

Wall girt though the wide world,

Almost an arcane dream it was!

What of tender roses? I pose;

Writhing worms in soggy fields;

Rains and streams

Daylight and dreams!

O’ it comes in sparks and spits again!

When the autumn breeze blew

A swell of flesh, full of frown,

Frail of fingers, faltering eyes,

The first and the eldest mother said,

On the seventh month was born

And in gratitude my palms I fold,

Oh! Coffee here is already cold?

Buildings

The antic dwellings are loosing

Foothold of it charismatic tradition;

Stone walls and shingled roofs,

Ornamental windows,

Wooden shutters,

Are only discreet souvenir!

Our warm hamlet house,

Humbly droops to the concrete

Innocence betrayed,

My man’s desire for the cold

Bricks upon the green hills

Of rising towns.

Into the pine woods, giant buildings

Crawls and creeps,

Like boulders of the shore,

Bare and roofless and sore

Bereft of an oven,

Chimney and sizzling ambers.

Moss eaten, darkly,

Slimy green, on it’s walls

That cracks and peels

In summer time

When the foliage roots grows.

Even a crow must disdain;

To nestle in the sad niches

Reeking of bricks;

And trowel cement,

The giant scar,

Smeared in paints.

Adious from the North wind

I come every winter from the ice lain

Glacier in the north of Drukyul

Alone, among barren meadows and ragged falls

I discreetly watched the rills rise and laugh

As it traverse impassable mountains

And serene vales,

I breathed on shrubs and frozen pines

Shrouded in stainless snowflakes,

Creamy and quiet.

I built icicles at waterfalls;

Drew lucid rainbows for the gods

Even on sunny mornings

 I whistled to the mountain children

Clad in woolen raiment

Woven last summer

I crawled under beams and eaves

Of the gallant Gasa Dzong

Perched majestic on a slope.

I prostated at the Drugyel dzong

Listening to the ceremonial echoes

And the ancient battle cries.

I listened to the Punatsangchu chatter

Of the summer coming

On its lonesome sojourn south

I played on the corridors

Of empty schools filled with dusts,

And children’s commotion long gone

I circumambulated a Khangzang  chorten

At the Chuzomsa crossroad

Enfolded amidst host of pray flags

I danced among the village girls

On a Losar’s day

To a traditional tune.

I sheltered by night amidst foliage

And fallow fields

To solace my sinews

I talk to a drunken man

At the Phuentsholing gate to tell

I shall return another time.

A humble begger

That eve, solitary

Down the dusty street

In need of a pen of my choice,

Peeping here, choosing there

Came into a shop so cozy;

Whence a man old from age

In tattered attire,

So much like a sage bows,

‘lopen la,’ hissed he in humbleness

Or in earnest need

I know not-

Oh! Pity me!

For those pearls in the waning sight,

For those scars on his hands,

And on his frowning face a pain-

Oh! What little clothing he wore?

Him I blessed fifty notes

Smiling we parted strangers

And I in hunt for a pen again;

An hour brought me to a rest-or-rent,

Dark inn with stained bulbs,

Thirsty and hungry and drained

That summer;

Hailed I a Pepsi from the depth

Of a refrigerator.

In came him, my fifty notes comrade

Grinning sat across me

With folded hands to me says,

‘Lopen kadrinchhee so much,’

Alas I behold those innocent eyes

Drunk and reeking,

From beer or rum

I know not,

For as drunk as drunk can be

My humble beggar was.

An acquaintance of an awakening kind

I think I know him

Though not by name,

That man in the dust-smeared gho;

With tearful eyes peering,

Through the foliage of uncombed hair.

He is ill perhaps!

I am worried he is young,

Yet the furrows!

And if my conscience is true

He has a child or two

From a widow he mothered once

Like a faded frescoes \

In a dimly lit temple,

Sat he at the corner of Moonlit Bar,

Only bones and veins beneath the rind,

A desolate friend did I find;

No better than a moth on a cabbage leaf

That  thrive healthy by day-light

And dance round the glow at night

Among throng of its own.

I entreat in modesty his forgotten name;

He surveyed me with his ruddy eyes

In recognition or in hidden shame;

Stuttered as he spoke

Like a wounded general,

And the breath was foul waste of wine;

I think I chanced sooth upon his brow!

Alas! He was Dawa,

The epitome in manners at school,

Gross years thence,

The light and love

And idol of yesteryears!

‘My friend,’ said he in senseless murmur,

‘To the echoes that arose from the crevice

Of my heart I listened,

And heard not the whispers

of my wise elders,

Thus I failed them,

The essence of my name and hope,

Blinded by the light of my ignorance

In my innocence walked astray,

Fettered to drugs and dame

Smoke and wine

Hither I am,

No better than a moth

On a cabbage leaf.’

I paid his bills,

I pat on his bony back,

And out I walked with repentance

Gnawing my helpless sinews,

In reverence to him

For his revelation.

A Place in my heart

In the abyss of my mind

A golden glow of past glory

An unspoken message lies

Within your limpid eyes

Of heartfelt love and care

That dispels nightmare

And nostalgia of bygone days;

It leaves me amazed.

Those meandering vales and hills,

Sweet strain from them fills,

That blest and beautiful plain;

I am back in Khaling again!

Amidst the attar of flowers

Under cool and clean showers,

They come to me in dreams,

Those memories in streams.

Oh! Khaling is a heaven of a place

That sacred dangling lake its grace;

The atmosphere is so jolly;

There falling in love is no folly;

And when a night, a ghostly light

Comes calling to sight

And the spirit through the dark peep-

The enchanted valley is fast asleep.