A Curious Case
He trudges the sidewalks of Laitumkhrah.
Says he whispers to himself
Others see him making strange
indistinct noises.
Everywhere he goes
He carries a paperback in his black trench coat
It’s a novel by Joyce,
A story about a poet.
When he sits alone in that same old
bus stand
He quivers and shivers when he reads.
He sees those words dance in the air
He wickedly smiles as he mumbles
and mumbles “Me…am…poet…”
The sad memory flickers with
colours of fame and glory
Nothing is lost to a man who believes.
Willie Gordon Suting
Oblivion
Growing up, pleasant smiles everywhere
I had dreams, they were vague.
Will I ever reach my goal?
Holding up, with my slight conscience; I was naive and everything didn’t seem clear.
Oblivion, I fear you. I’m still trying to find my path and I’m impelled to be remembered.
I will not relinquish my promise,
For I don’t want to be buried away and lost.
Oh oblivion! Spare me. I beg you, don’t call out my name. I’d rather endure pain while I’m remaining rather than being called out by you when my build goes cold.
My oath to you oblivion, I will not cease until I’m fully sated with myself.
I wish for individuals to remember my title when I’m reposed on a bed of white silk.
I’m rather impulsive, but I shall never feel no remorse.
Oh oblivion! Spare me. I beg you, don’t call out my name. I’m restive knowing you’re out there.
I shall age with mistakes but oh;
I beg you, don’t call out my name.
Althea Faith Kharshiing, Class IX
Revenant
A revenant she was, wrapped in silent screams.
Her nights were hellish, haunted by her dreams.
The tale of horror was written on her skin,
The scars were ugly, her past was mean.
Trapped in the gallows of time were her deeds.
Sowed in the tar of guilt were the sickly seeds.
But she was the iron that went through fire.
She became the shield of her sisters’ desire.
In her rested the sun’s rage,
In her kindle the wild fire.
She cared for no sage,
She was the master of her own desire.
The moon, her distant sister cried,
I have no spark, I have no light.
Darkness engulfed, she lost her sight.
The enraged Sun caught hold of her light.
“Imbecile mistress! Oh my dear moon.
Reflect my light, for yours would end soon.”
Said the sun in her own glory,
Stronger she became for the wars so gory.
The sun burned and burned more,
The war mongers ended like they were folklore.
Her fire moulded her sisters’ sculpture
She filled them with love, she gave them their lustre.
Aadrita Chakravorty