Ripon Handique (b.1983) lives in Assam. He studied in Nagaland, Andhra Pradesh and Delhi. He worked as a teacher for 5 years. Since at present unemployed, he thinks about the language aspect of poetry; even though it’s not fundamental.
May the voice of reason
It’s sanity to this clutter
All directions without an end
For a veneer
Touted as the glow
May my hands, dripping blood
On this crumbling hills, fling
This burning flag
They with their death wave.
And under that cracking sky,
May innocence again
This morning, by my thoughts clouded,
Finds its range narrowed
Under a hood of leaves faded.
Dark clouds, by flashes of lightning
Embellished, with faint drops of rain
Unfurl their clipped wings, with greyness
Painted on stillness,
To renew this voyage timeless.
Maybe I’ll never see these shores,
As I set sail with what I have,
Wandering and drifting
Beyond those clouds, for you.
Her slender figure wafted through the night.
The night was long, dark and lonely.
And lonely eyes admired her slender hands.
Slender hands almost clutching herself!
This stale air that had warmed me.
Warmed me to admire that figure.
That figure whose hands…unheeded?
Hands unheeded by a speeding auto.
Then a swift glance at me showed fear.
Showed fear blazing her face.
Her face that was …so tender.
So tender, my… slender sister!