Minakhi Misra

  • Books
  • Poems
  • Stories
  • Opinions
  • Hindi
  • Archives
  • Library
  • Green Dots

    I can no longer point out when
    We start feeling truly lonely.

    Is it when we start wearing emoticons
    On our faces, as easily as makeup
    And break-up with the face which reeks
    For weeks, with the emotions of truth that leak out?

    Or,

    Is it when we measure out our friends
    In the trends of green dots on chat-boxes,
    Feeding the paradoxes of human contact
    That impacts us through pokes and thumbs-ups on walls?

    Or,

    Is it when we pay more attention
    To the mention of our name on some page
    That says “You’re awesome”, when in real,
    We don’t feel the same warmth that the sound of it gives us?

    We can no longer tag the moment
    that is more potent than the company
    and cacophony of green dots popping
    and dropping their way into our lives.
    Those carefree laughs shared on swings,
    Now lost in pings, cannot be replaced
    By glee-faced yellow circles staring into our eyes.
    Are “we” now only truly together
    To weather the winter of distance,
    this instance, from within our silos of solitude?

    November 26, 2014
    Poems
  • A Puppet is Mightier than the Sword

    “Never corner your enemy – he will fight back.
    Always give him a chance to run, so you can slash his back open.”

    They always came with the setting sun,
    With the winds filling their turbaned masks,
    Howling the herald of a troubled night,
    For the travellers never meant good news.

    (more…)

    November 16, 2014
    Poems
  • The Dancer on the Sill

    “Is it true that you can steal portraits from nature as well?”

    She did not immediately acknowledge the question, but continued to stare intently at the raindrops breaking off the window sill. I had the unsettling feeling that she could see something that I was clearly missing. I followed her gaze, resting my eyes on the very edge of the window. The rain was breaking into a hundred different miniscule rubies and sapphires where it touched the concrete, shining in the light borrowed from the low flame of the hurricane lamp. Indeed, there seemed to be a fatalistic beauty in it all, with just a sheen of hope to delude the unsuspecting daydreamer.

    (more…)

    November 8, 2014
    Stories
  • More than meets the lie

    Untruth, once said, is a burden:

    On my mind that must keep track
    Lest it should lose itself wandering
    In the wilderness of imagination;

    On my heart that must beat louder
    To drown the cry of conscience
    Till it chooses to speak no more;

    On my eyes that must keep open
    Against the weight of shame
    That pulls them to the ground;

    And on my truth that had to be hidden
    Because it was not good enough.

    November 7, 2014
    Poems
  • Sunrise

    You asked me today
    What I would write about you if I ever did.
    If I could paint you, you would know.
    I wish my words could paint your mind
    As the oil colours the canvas of cloth.
    I wish you could see what I see.
    I see a rising sun,
    Red with shyness,
    Trying to hold back her brightness,
    Embarrassed that the world can see her.
    I see this rising sun,
    Aware of her potential for brilliance
    When she ascends the young firmament of receding stars.
    But she is afraid of doing so. Not so early. Not now.
    She does not show that she likes
    When people appreciate her beauty.
    She enjoys it and becomes redder.
    And her redness, the innocence of her reservedness
    Spreads slowly across the wet canvas of the sky behind her;
    Clouds, dark and ominous, start getting silver linings.
    The things that were scary, are now in better light.
    She does this without knowing it.
    She feels that by lighting up the sky,
    She has somehow exposed others around her as well:
    Exposed to the eyes of people
    The eyes that criticise beauty as much as they condone it.
    But she also knows deep down that it is her destiny
    To rise one day to the zenith of this firmament
    And once there, resign herself to full brilliance.

    Resign herself is what she thinks of it.
    Pride is what she needs.
    She bows her head and hides her face,
    Hoping the darkness of her hair is cover enough.
    She does not know that when those eyes open
    And stare directly into the eyes of mortals,
    It is no less beautiful than a sunrise
    For they are too brilliant to look directly into.
    And poets, unlike painters, can only draw
    Inspiration from nature.
    They lack the vision of originality.
    And so they have to reduce a picture
    To a metaphor, an imperfect parallel. A glimpse.
    I am incapable of painting better than this.

    November 7, 2014
    Poems
  • “Here, drink.”

    “Can I have a look at your work?”

    For a long time now, I have dreaded that question. For me, my writing is private. It is not meant for those who do not know the context and so I choose very carefully who sees my words. And yet, if you know me well, you would know that I have tried in the past to overcome this dread, that this page that you see today is not my first blog. I have, in the past, started and abandoned three of them. Each of these blogs has a story of its own and each has quite an independent share of my writings on it. I will not migrate my work from there, though. They belong there, crystallised in the amber of time. But I will tell their stories here. (more…)

    November 7, 2014
    Uncategorized

Thank You.

Readers like you help me make my best art every day. The simplest way to support my work is to buy my books, or make a donation.

Privacy Policy | Terms of Service | Return & Refund Policy | WordPress | Contact

  • Follow Following
    • Minakhi Misra
    • Join 34 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • Minakhi Misra
    • Edit Site
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar