Minakhi Misra

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    I want to do a thousand things
    And want to do them well.
    But I have time for just a few
    Before I go to Hell.

    I don’t know yet which few to choose;
    So many to resolve.
    Should I just pick and run with one,
    So long as I evolve?

    I’ve done that with my poem streak,
    Though not so well, I guess,
    For now I find it competing
    Against my fling with chess.

    My body wants to get in shape,
    My soul into zazen,
    My mind into more languages
    That I can someday pen.

    It’s good that poems write themselves.
    I just have to make time
    And show up at my writing desk
    To catch the passing rhyme.

    The rest I have to sequence, though;
    Can’t work them all at once.
    Let’s exercise and meditate,
    So others stand a chance.

    When soul and body are in place,
    As fit as they can be,
    The mind will be more productive
    And have more energy.

    Of course, I’ll touch the hobbies still
    For daily minutes few,
    Till such a time when I can bring
    The effort they are due.

    September 30, 2021
    Poems
  • Side-sleeper

    When he goes to bed every night,
    He turns his back on half the world
    And plants his right ear to the pillow
    Listening perhaps for hoofbeats
    Of sheepish sleep approaching.

    A few minutes or some hours later
    He turns to face with a quiet groan
    The other half of the ignoring world,
    Taking care to keep up appearances
    Even though no one had cared for him.

    I’ve never seen him fully-guarded:
    Never belly-down, never foetal.
    And I’ve never seen him fully-open:
    Never belly-up, never blanketless.
    He sleeps like he fights his days.

    One wonders if his dreams, at least,
    Bring him the peace he so seeks.

    September 29, 2021
    Poems
  • Another Moth

    The warmth of her poetry
    Does not reach me today.
    How can it, though?
    I’m already burning
    With pride and envy.

    I see her and see “potential”,
    The word I now reject,
    For all I have been is that.
    I see her and see “disappointment”,
    The word I now accept,
    For all I am is that.

    Poetry will get her too, no doubt.
    She’s doomed and she loves it.
    She’s had a taste of that delight.
    She ain’t lettin’ it go. No, no.
    A moth drawn to the LED bulb.
    It won’t kill her like that oven did,
    But she’ll keep butting her head in
    And die naturally of a wasted life.

    Or she’ll prove me wrong
    And save me along the way.

    September 28, 2021
    Poems
  • Seconds coming

    He winds it as soon as he wakes:
    That rusted dial on the silver watch
    That has long lost its minute hand
    And may soon lose its hour too.
    Only the seconds tick away strong.
    “No matter, no matter,” he says
    And winds it again every morn.
    I ask him why, though I know the why.
    And like always, he shrugs and smiles.
    “Why let it die when it can be saved?”
    And like always, I nod to myself and then
    At the garlanded portrait behind him
    Of the man who used to wear it
    And of the woman’s beside that
    Who had once told me long ago
    How the ticking of the silver watch
    Was all the memory they had of him
    After he decided to hang himself
    While his teenage son slept inside.

    September 27, 2021
    Poems
  • Veggie shopping

    “Arrive late at the farmer’s market,
    And all the good greens are gone.”

    I roll my eyes at Dad’s wisdom.
    I try to remind him, calmly as I can,
    Marriage is not veggie shopping.
    It’s not even a good metaphor.

    “Of course, it is,” Mom chimes in.
    “Your raw mangoes gave you bellyache.
    Now, you want an overripe mango
    To give you lifelong dysentery?”

    I pause to consider.

    “Some friends would agree,” I say.
    “Marriage does make you veggies.
    It dunks you in cold water
    Way, way over your head.
    And it gets under your thin skin
    With all sorts of sharp things
    And peels out your exterior
    To reveal your tender insides,
    To slice and dice and grate you,
    And throws away your root and core.
    Whatever remains in tiny pieces
    Boils in Society’s spiciness,
    Gets tossed around, this way and that,
    And changes colour completely.
    After all that, it still expects you
    To be tastefully nourishing.
    Oh yeah, you’re right on.”

    Mom looks at Dad, who looks at me.
    “You practised that, didn’t you?”

    “Yeah,” I say. And we all start laughing.

    September 26, 2021
    Poems
  • Stay away

    I always know the right thing to say
    Though never until it’s far too late.
    I always know when to hold my tongue
    Though never have I given it weight.

    I know what hits.
    I know what maims.
    I know what cuts
    Through the deepest veins.

    When all I can ever do is hurt,
    And all I can ever be is hurt,
    Why do you even try to love me?
    Why don’t you just run and shove me?

    Stay away, love. Stay away.
    Look for a new sun on a new day.

    September 25, 2021
    Poems
  • The Key

    When did you start? he asked.
    Around sunrise, I said.
    Fast fast you ran up?
    More like a brisk hike.
    Brisk brisk, fast fast, same same.
    Hike isn’t same as run, though.
    I see, I see. Not even an hour.
    It’s not as tough as they said.
    Thousand steps, easy, yes.
    Yeah. Not too steep either.
    But one journey, very tough.
    Which journey?
    One you missed on the way.
    I heard the waterfall. Looked risky.
    I see, I see. You come alone?
    Yeah. Alone for now. I’m new here.
    I see, I see. No wife, no kids?
    No wife, no kids. Not yet, no.
    I see, I see. No kids, no mangoes.
    Which mangoes?
    Ones you missed on the way.
    Yeah, kids get distracted easy.
    Ripe ripe, sweet sweet, not fridged.
    Maybe I’ll pick on my way down.
    I see, I see. No wife, no gulmohars.
    Which gulmohars?
    Ones you missed on the way.
    Yeah, women get distracted easy.
    Red red, scent scent, not bottled.
    Maybe I’ll pick on my way down.
    I see, I see. No distract. Focus.
    Yeah. I wanted to get here first.
    I see, I see. No patience, no journey.
    Could you just tell me where it is?
    No journey, no destination.
    Right. Thanks. Here, keep the change.
    I see, I see. No need money.
    Right. I’ll look this way first, I guess.
    No destination, no looking.
    Right. I knew it was an urban legend.
    I see, I see. So you don’t believe?
    The Key to Awareness! Here? Nope.
    I see, I see. The teachers will show.
    Which teachers?
    Ones you missed on the way.
    Right. They hold this Key?
    They offer Key. No journey, no Key.
    Maybe I’ll pick on my way down.
    I see, I see.

    September 24, 2021
    Poems
  • Tap tap

    I hear his cane tap the leg
    Of his four-poster wooden bed
    And realise I’d dozed off again
    In my comfortable reading chair.
    “To the bathroom?”
    “Sshhhhhh”
    He frowns and canes his way
    Tap tap tap tap
    To the open window to his left,
    Closes his eyes as he reaches it,
    And smooths his face into a smile.

    Then he canes his way to the library,
    Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap
    To the shelf in the south-east corner,
    And as he slides the glass open,
    I realise what he’s doing there.
    He pulls the box down off the books
    And wipes it on his pajama pants
    And presses an end till the other slides
    To reveal the blue brilliance
    Of his fifty-three-year-old harmonica.

    He canes his way to the window again,
    Tap tap again, tap tap again,
    Frowns again, closes eyes again,
    And plays the only tune he knows,
    In step with the beat coming up
    From the leaking tap in the yard.

    September 23, 2021
    Poems
  • Enough

    I saw a waterfall after three long years
    And all I thought was: this isn’t tall enough.

    I saw a baby crawling to her birthday cake
    And all I thought was: she isn’t fast enough.

    I saw a winter tree sprouting a spring leaf
    And all I thought was: it isn’t stark enough.

    I saw a filled notebook of my daily poems
    And all I thought was: this isn’t good enough.

    September 22, 2021
    Poems
  • Busy

    I have at least three projects due
    But the hours left in the day are few.
    And now a little poem tugs
    At my hand with a vigour new.

    I cannot play with you just yet.
    Could you come at the time we set?
    In the morning, around my desk?
    For I shall then be in your debt.

    Important versus urgent tasks?
    The poem with a tantrum asks.
    I laugh out and go play with it
    Forgetting about wearing masks.

    September 21, 2021
    Poems
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