Creation

Tender little tides of creation
Often forgotten tides of composition,
No ownership, no one’s possession,
but whosoever, it is final touch of the image,
Shape and reshape out of clay,
Renovating the assembled system today,
For the eventual recovery tomorrow-day.

Tiny tides in the gasp of life,
Impelled by our lived-experiences,
Cross the threshold,
Stuff the hand-made earthen corpse,
To mystifying energetic performance,
Communicating to the living matter.
Cultivate as the maker’s own masterpiece,

Artistically metabolising the sword of human survival,
Drawing and withdrawing the blade of militarisation,
Refuting the monster of the ruler’s muscle-
Careless, kiss and kill ideology,
Shameful Brotherhood, Love and Peace propaganda,
Slaving tides of varied range and audacity,
Gently thrilling expression of pain and suffering.


Soothingly arousing a trivial melodramatic insurgency
Demystifying the authentic blade of materialism-
bicycling greediness and covetousness-
Journeying from rancour to succour life
with the abyss of non-existentiality,
Communicating to the living matter,
Cultivate the tides of aesthetic pleasure.

Usham Rojio
14-03-2010

Stop Peace Hunting!

Flaunt no more your guns,
like an insincere advert
offering customers its stain.
In them, my choosy eyes take no delight
nor do I scare to pen my verse.
They are shiny roses amid deadly thorns.
Moan not if futility results from your frantic shoots.

I’m not blind, am much aware of sound mind
I’m not deaf; my ears grasp the hopeless strike.
Disparity, you say you extremely dislike.
What about your insincerity?
What about your insecurity?
Rome, they say wasn’t built in a day
As listless seconds altered to wearied minutes
Lonely Minutes to frustrated hours
Unwieldy Hours to mundane-ridden days
Peace-hunting days to peace-hopeful weeks
Harmony-buffeted Weeks to convalescing months
On the road to recovery Months to bitter years.
Streams to flow in deep red.
I’ve nothing to share.
Flaunt no more your guns,
Before it strikes you back.

Usham Rojio
18th April 2011

The pain of Disparity

Where are those days
indifferent and proactive?
The circled flight of birds-
unified, natural and free...
All had gone astray...
Parched land of disparity,
where like the dog
Humanity is tied in the veranda
by chains of eternal anarchy.

Myself uneasy and concerned these days,
The circled flight of birds-
rebellious restrained and caged...
blurred with time,
The entire 10 years struggle was just a puppet show...
But a three days drama made a BIG sense
For the simple reason that
Anna Hazare was not Irom Tomba
The sun is stern, and the moon weeps.

See the fractures
There is a boundless range
Feel the heartaches
there is an endless pain.
And I can’t tell,
if the cats are any higher
Than mountains.
I can’t stay in this country
Brother Anna
You stepped all over us…
your paths are like tectonic valleys
millions of lines
discriminating and racial lines
What for
I have to sing
Jana Gana Mana…?

Usham Rojio
17th April 2011.