Like delicate tracery
you mapped
the delusions of my heart,
planning the evening
and the rain,
it was revenge,
and I did not know,
not recognising your art.
We speak of rebirth,
the cycle of life and death.
But words are faithless.
I ask you again
Who prays to the wild wind,
in the chill dawn
who cries to the first sky,
you bring me pain, oh!
You bring me pain!
We should have known
life’s little madness would find us again.
Keeper of the holy mountain
facing the four heavens,
the art of healing
is slow with doubt,
but all life is turning in shadow image.
Now my cup is empty,
I only know
the sun and moon crown
the heart of the blade.
TIES
There are ties
we do not talk about.
I confuse you with my penance,
but these are the secrets
of my clenched heart.
I carried your image
to the world’s edge.
Among strangers and friends
suddenly I would recall
rivers, and summer rain,
the vivid years.
I laughed,
the holy stones
of your dim country
ringing in my ears.
Who brought me back to taste the mountains,
the breath of these hills,
at sunrise to sip
the sweetness of this light?
I see your mould, steadfast
in the outline of the hills.
On your dark shoulder
lion and tiger circle the night.
In these hills,
the centre of being,
one by one voices are extinguished.
Exorcised,
blameless,
returning
returning,
we murmur in our sleep
MY LOVE
Forgive me, my love,
if your searching mouth
draws no fire
from my sleeping limbs.
I used to watch for the tender hand
For the tender hand
Lingering
on this naked arch
shining
this radiant hair.
No more, my love,
let these voices stay
in the soft shell of night
where summer’s abundance
screens our separate lives.
The lessons of the moon
never taught us risk of pain.
Intense tenderness
has a way of breaking
lips and eyes, my love,
let this frailty stay
where the wind moves
the shining mountain
dressing the wounds of night.
The gladness of my love
will be daily wage enough.
Behind closed lids
scattering endless days
in the sunlight that splinters
fragrant, as flowers do,
we’ll call our names
again, my love,
where the jungle blooms
with no promises.
The river of dreams
penance and pilgrimage,
linking life’s designs
in truth and legend
changing
like the noon
eternal
as the sun,
when will you bring me
my season of birth and spring?
Once you sprang clean
washing boulders,
clearing streams.
A quiver of arrows
braced your motion,
now the light changes,
in new terrain
will you remember
the golden chain
that linked us
in a dream?
RED FLOWERS OR WHITE
The girl with the long hair
has lured my love away from me.
With a look he admits it.
What means a season’s magic?
Red flowers, or white
Ah! men forget so soon.
The empty road
the evening light
the magic of silhouettes
and empty sky,
lingering, we overstayed.
Should my foolish heart be blamed?
The wind sings my song.
Go, go, go.
My smile will follow you.
In the arms of summer,
in the: voices of dawn,
I know the whispers of women
will always call:
What means a season’s magic?
Red flowers, or white
Ah! men forget so soon.
Selections from River Poems
Contributor:
MAMANG DAI. Freelance journalist, from north-eastern Arunachal Pradesh. Formely of the Indian Administrative Service. She is an inspired poet, noted for her beautiful love poems. River Poems is her recent collection. Her other publications include Arunachal Pradesh The Hiddden Land.
