I.
Bring me the skull of words—
Not polished, not pious,
But one chewed by jackals
And left in the Brahmaputra's mud.
I know its stench.
Hiruda taught me:
"A poem should hurt
Like a river cutting through rock—
Relentless,
Unapologetic,
True."
II.
I care nothing
For golden jubilees,
For marble statues of dead verses.
Time? Let it drown
In yesterday's tea leaves.
Here, now—
Where betel-stained teeth
Gnaw at the world's lies,
Where my pen bleeds
The same red as paan spit
On dusty streets of Guwahati—
Give me your broken words.
I'll hammer them
Into something raw,
Something that breathes
Like monsoon wind
Through bamboo groves,
Something that outlives
Even memory.
III.
Comrade,
If you've kept
Even one syllable
From Hiruda's last cigarette,
Let me taste its ash.
I'll make it sing again—
Not pretty,
Not perfect,
But alive.
-
Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Offline) - Published: July 8th, 2025 04:00
- Comment from author about the poem: Honoring Hiren Bhattacharya's (Hiruda) revolutionary Assamese spirit.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Damaso
Offline)
Comments3
This poem has introduced me to some new words and a new story. Very nicely written it has great images and is a wonderful tribute earning a fave
Thank you so much for your kind words! I’m really glad the poem resonated with you and introduced you to something new—that means a lot. Truly appreciate you taking the time to read and favorite it. Cheers!
A touch of learning and education for me with this wonderful write, enjoyed the read
Thank you so much for your kind words! I’m really glad you enjoyed the poem—your support means a lot. Always happy to share a little creativity with you. Hope you’re doing well!
You are very welcome
Great write
Thank You 🙏🙏
You're welcome
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