To a Hoot
I shone in my moment
when the sheets roiled in my dance.
Our beds, our canvas to own and on them
paint our thousand sins.
Remembering to laugh when
we hide the hand that dangles that feast
of life to choke out the time from it,
then chop it up into little choice bits
that feed these very lines and empty
into no sea of morality, or creed,
not even the censure of a vice that
took up residence in our bodies, to make us sway
all the way home, dancing on tiptoe, our lives
like the fur of the strays soaking up the rain.
Then they’d give a hearty shake, then through the window and
keeling,
managed to crawl into bed, to rest a bit, to zest up the next
twenty four, or seven, or twelve, or one.
Bill it to Our Names
Among my brothers,
I asked, “where can I find those who wish to be forgotten?”
The TV proceeded to teach me my soul; sucking on my thumb.
I busied the airways to learn of love and nostalgia
while the sacred censure of my parents was directed at my toys.
I learnt that poor means no money, no money meant no food.
How we dug for gold.
We (I learnt at the academy, the middle-class) need to understand.
I understand that I buy my memory, whenever it falls short,
and the things that could be afforded
populate densely my past – that book I read, that family meal;
that holiday when I lost my aunt’s NCC sword-shaped insignia;
that pen with which I became a shade darker, cheating in an exam;
the car in which I performed my masculinity and learned its many
procrastinations;
right down to the redressed inclinations that found themselves
in the image of old photographs
through which my grandfather was transformed into a poem.
All these I bought. And now these words that I relate. These too.
and those who buy, will be remembered. But only for so long.
BASIL DARLONG DIENGDOH is a native of Meghalaya, India and pursuing his Doctoral degree in Hyderabad. Besides writing, his interests lie in music, travel and cartooning. His works have also been featured in Reading Hour, and he is currently experimenting with his writing. He blogs at: www.nitwitbits.blogspot.com
I shone in my moment
when the sheets roiled in my dance.
Our beds, our canvas to own and on them
paint our thousand sins.
Remembering to laugh when
we hide the hand that dangles that feast
of life to choke out the time from it,
then chop it up into little choice bits
that feed these very lines and empty
into no sea of morality, or creed,
not even the censure of a vice that
took up residence in our bodies, to make us sway
all the way home, dancing on tiptoe, our lives
like the fur of the strays soaking up the rain.
Then they’d give a hearty shake, then through the window and
keeling,
managed to crawl into bed, to rest a bit, to zest up the next
twenty four, or seven, or twelve, or one.
Bill it to Our Names
Among my brothers,
I asked, “where can I find those who wish to be forgotten?”
The TV proceeded to teach me my soul; sucking on my thumb.
I busied the airways to learn of love and nostalgia
while the sacred censure of my parents was directed at my toys.
I learnt that poor means no money, no money meant no food.
How we dug for gold.
We (I learnt at the academy, the middle-class) need to understand.
I understand that I buy my memory, whenever it falls short,
and the things that could be afforded
populate densely my past – that book I read, that family meal;
that holiday when I lost my aunt’s NCC sword-shaped insignia;
that pen with which I became a shade darker, cheating in an exam;
the car in which I performed my masculinity and learned its many
procrastinations;
right down to the redressed inclinations that found themselves
in the image of old photographs
through which my grandfather was transformed into a poem.
All these I bought. And now these words that I relate. These too.
and those who buy, will be remembered. But only for so long.
BASIL DARLONG DIENGDOH is a native of Meghalaya, India and pursuing his Doctoral degree in Hyderabad. Besides writing, his interests lie in music, travel and cartooning. His works have also been featured in Reading Hour, and he is currently experimenting with his writing. He blogs at: www.nitwitbits.blogspot.com
