Dream Palaces / Tensin Tsundue – IV

My father died
defending our home,
our village, our country.
I too wanted to fight.
But we are Buddhist.
People say we should be
Peaceful and Non-Violent.
So I forgive our enemy.
But sometimes I feel
I betrayed my father.

 

Betrayal by Tensin Tsundue

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Dream Palaces / Tensin Tsundue – III

When it rains in Dharamsala
raindrops wear boxing gloves,
thousands of them
come crashing down
and beat my room.
Under its tin roof
my room cries from inside
and wets my bed, my papers.

Sometimes the clever rain comes
from behind my room,
the treacherous walls lift
their heels and allow
a small flood into my room.

I sit on my island-nation bed
and watch my country in flood,
notes on freedom,
memoirs of my prison days,
letters from college friends,
crumbs of bread
and Maggi noodles
rise sprightly to the surface
like a sudden recovery
of a forgotten memory.

Three months of torture,
monsoon in the needle-leafed pines
Himalaya rinsed clean
glistens in the evening sun.
Until the rain calms down
and stops beating my room
I need to console my tin roof
who has been on duty
from the British Raj.
This room has sheltered
many homeless people.

Now captured by mongooses
and mice, lizards and spiders,
and partly rented by me.
A rented room for home
is a humbling existence.
My Kashmiri landlady
at eighty cannot return home.
We often compete for beauty
Kashmir or Tibet.

Every evening,
I return to my rented room;
but I am not going to die this way.
There has got to be
some way out of here.
I cannot cry like my room
I have cried enough
in prisons and
in small moments of despair.

There has got to be
some way out of here.
I cannot cry,
my room is wet enough.

Dream Palaces / Tenzin Tsundue – II

Pull your ceiling half way down and you can create a mezanine for me

Your walls open into cupboards

Is there an empty shelf for me?

Let me grow in your garden,

With your roses and prickly pears

I will sleep under your bed and watch tv in the mirror

Do you have an ear on your balcony, I am singing from your window

Open your door,

Let me in.

I am resting on your door step.

Call me when you are awake.

A proposal by Tenzin Tsundue

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Dream Palaces / Tenzin Tsundue

When I was born
my mother said
you are a refugee.
Our tent on the roadside
smoked in the snow.

On your forehead
between your eyebrows
there is an R embossed
my teacher said.

I scratched and scrubbed,
on my forehead I found
a brash of red pain.

I have three tongues
the one that sings
is my mother tongue.

The R on my forehead
between my English and Hindi
the Tibetan tongue reads:

RANGZEN

by Tenzin Tsundue

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New Short Project – Dream Palaces: Tibetan Poets In Exile

Some weeks ago my friend Ananya Vajpeyi began posting verses of Tibetan poetry on her Facebook Wall. That is where I first read them, and that is how I first became aware of the existence of a large number of young Tibetan poets living in small, cramped hostel rooms and apartments in Dharamshala and etching the confines and struggles of their existence into poems. I remember talking to Ananya about how moved I was by some of the words, and how evocative they were. It was in one of our conversations about this poetry that the idea of producing a short piece about these young voices, and their determination to have their works published, and heard came about. Details »

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