
Stories
A fly on the wall–still,
dead, curious, alive; listening
as a story fades; pieces
of a tale absorbed by the
turmeric stained jainkyrshah, only
to be washed away.
A fly on the wall flies
with yearning; flying
behind a story that rises
with smoke from
the rooster's feathers. Smoke
paints the air, drenching
it with rays of unfaithful peacocks
and stubborn stags. Air
now memory, colour and scent,
swallowed by cicadas who vibrate
hymns of faithful clothespins
like weary red strings. But
can a story fade or
does it fly to find other stories to
listen
smile
laugh
cry? Like
people, stories too can
meet in jadoh stalls and pata. Some
stories like winter,
melt with butter in a steel bowl
on restless charcoal. Some
stories bigger than most, like
the diengiei cast
a
shadow
over
others. Some
stories lose their way
to fall back as dew on
windshields of new lovers
and starving drivers. Some
stories like an eclipse
turn daylight into night,
staying longer than a candidate
who visits you for votes. Some
stories too painful, as
other sensitive stories flee like
the tiger upon licking the
blade of an axe. Some
stories fold themselves into
a grocery list of mother slipping
into pockets of
absent-minded fabric. Some
stories unheard but
familiar as the taste
of tungtap: formless
and edgeless, though bites
like cold mountain spring,
cuts through rock,
dampens a matchbox–to
then trickle down into the
stillness of a well, only
to be washed away
as smoke meets water.
-Badondor Diengdoh
Original poem "Stories" by @a_pocketful_of_plums 🔥🔥🔥 Thank you so much for sending this poem! 💚💚💚
This is a moving and beautiful poem. The evocative style paints layered Khasi cultural allusions like the peacock who abandoned the sun for a garden of mustard flowers and Sier Lapalang. Words, language, stories gain a body in a tribute to our oral tradition, where a story transcends time and space because it is constantly moulded by the one who tells it. The poem exhorts the power of the spoken word. It is a testament to the persistence of Khasi collective consciousness as smoke and water rise from the hearth.
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