Baruk works with words, pictures, bones, feathers, maps, wood and broken liquor bottles. Originally from Shillong in the north east of India, he now lives in Hamilton, Aotearoa New Zealand, and uses http://bottlebroke.blogspot.com as a creative dumping ground.
the promised land
torn away from our vision
of the happy hunting grounds,
we are condemned
to an english heaven.
so torn away, in fact
that the only term i know
to explain it
is borrowed-
a bland american rendition
of another tribe's afterlife.
hiawatha's other song
i saw
a colour today.
brown
it was;
like the skin
between your fingers
soft
with funny wrinkles
when stretched.
or a tree
before
april autumn tv
taunted us with news
of summers far away.
i saw
a colour today.
white
it was;
like the skin
between your fingers
soft
with funny wrinkles
when stretched.
but the trees aren't white yet.
will they, too, soon be?
clear, cool, pool
clear
cool
pool.
with water that tastes
of musty roots
and bits of leaf
and mossy rock
clear
cool
pool.
with water that smells
of cold fresh dawns
and tepid noons
and dusty dusk
clear
cool
pool.
and in a corner
by the log
half dragged onto
a sandy bank
he sprawls.
shot through the head.
rebel. informer.
brother. friend.
clear
cool
pool.
leave us our hills
goddamn you chinky rebel fools
(who water these hills with our blood)
goddamn you indian army goons
(who water these hills with our blood)
leave us alone, you bastards,
leave.
to eat and sing and dance and sleep
a quiet meal
a happy song
a drunken dance
and
sleep.
deep.
without
constant, constant, constant
memories
of your
goddamn guns.
and bloody countries.
leave us our hills.
leave.
all you bastards,
leave.
