Imphal Review of Arts and Politics


Two poems: Unmindful of Dorothy & Dissimilar is looking this way

Unmindful of Dorothy

By R.K. Lakhi Kant


Dorothy awake

In the marketplace

Seems inconsequential

As much as little Dorothy

Sleeping in my arms

Unmindful of anything but

Sleeping in a far off place

The bigger ones


Doesn’t mind

Any of life’s many takes

A mind maybe busy

As beans and a comical taste

Out to grab

A good buy

Maybe blushing inside

At having to con the tourism

Reception’s profuse dates

From which she chose

A wrong travel date

Ah! That’s good

That’s good

In tones that’s free

And redeeming

The other one

Sleeping in my arms

Has an unusual plan too

She doesn’t wake up

In her sleep

Next to my heart’s

Empty god-consigned space

Dorothy slept

Or Dorothy awake

Is all for


Maybe that’s America’s pace

In a place full of tourists

It’s quite an eyeful, and I

Usually accompany them, from afar,

To my own

Life’s fed up




Living space

When I am drowsy too

While sleepy or

Wide awake

Or weary over the noodles or

Unhindered curries

I rest my mind

In the American

Who paced

I don’t know much for what

For a long time to come

Or gone

In my mind tourists have

Always been strange

Strangers each

But suddenly closer too

Stranger when the breeze

Caught them and their hairs

They come and go as the

Seasons which used to be

Bright, or otherwise change

But do no more in New Delhi,

Theirs of now more than

A 20,000 days, or even of more

But it’s a treasure to know

There’s now nothing of

All of anymore on me.


Dissimilar is looking this way

By R.K. Lakhi Kant


New Delhi which

Was my smaller city and home

I don’t take much of it now

It was a heart bigger

Than the biggest

For me

I can’t see though

Much of it now

It doesn’t disclose

And anyway I never

Felt a need to know

Disclosures are a one kind

Too many for me

Dorothy still walks

And unknown to me

My mind has started

Calculating about

The getaways too

I sleep over that


New Delhi’s too far from me

But this city of mine

Now turbulent

Has become a not much

Of, but all the same,

A distant getaway too with me

A fewer more Dorothy

Are still too many more than

A sleeping me.

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