Minakhi Misra

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  • Sunday Readings

    She did not understand a word
    Of English that I’d read to her,
    But every Sunday she would come,
    Entreating me to read to her.

    I did not read so well back then.
    I stammered, mispronounced my words.
    I did not pause at commas, dots,
    But still, with joy, I’d read to her.

    I’d read to her my comic books,
    My classwork books, my story books.
    I did not know a single book
    I did not want to read to her.

    Her palms were made of leather then
    To help her wash the thousand clothes
    She wrestled with behind our well
    As I began to read to her.

    They say she’s hard of hearing now,
    Of seeing, smelling, tasting too,
    But, Misra, if she knows your touch,
    Her leather lines, go, read to her.

    June 30, 2022
    Poems
  • Tailored

    He’s been a tailor forty years,
    But only one in Gate Bazaar
    Who doesn’t wear a tailored shirt,
    Or tailored pant, or tailored laugh.

    His multicoloured factory tees
    Are well-contrasted with the jeans
    He buys in black from cycle gangs
    Who pilfer merch through shady means.

    He’s favourite of the locals, though.
    They say his tape can measure love:
    When mother’s love will add an inch
    And spouse’s love will shave it off.

    He knows who want their pockets deep.
    He knows who want their pockets small.
    He knows who want their pockets hid
    Inside the linings of their shawls.

    The young and old, the rich and poor,
    Rely on him for daintiness,
    Then why he doesn’t stitch himself
    A pair or two of formal dress?

    The elderly in dhotis say,
    About some fifty years ago
    When riots happened every day
    And lynchings made for popcorn show,

    There was a tailor, handsome smart,
    In fittest, neatest, tailored clothes,
    Who stitched for MPs, MLAs,
    For swearings-in and public oaths.

    They say he thought he could be one
    And dressed accordingly enough.
    He’d often hang around their house
    And do their bidding, little stuff.

    One day, however, MLAs
    In heat of drunken rioting
    Adjudged the tailor’s ambition
    Quite arrogant, disquieting.

    They went into his seamster store
    And ripped his collared shirt to shreds
    And ripped him open alongwith,
    And left the floor in flowing reds.

    His little one who saw it all,
    Upon their tattered bodies swore
    He’ll never wear a tailored pair
    And never aim beyond the store.

    June 29, 2022
    Poems
  • The Grandmaster

    Arrival of this chequered guest
    With specs he only wears for dress
    Reminds me to beware of his
    Interminable games of chess
    He plays with pawns of uncles, aunts
    And cousins close and far removed
    And even their domestic help
    And strangers in their neighborhood.

    He keeps himself away for months
    But come Diwali, Puja time
    He shows up with tobacco teeth
    And choicest fruits of winter clime
    To sit and peel and chew and spit
    Invented genealogies
    Of ancient slights, fraternal fights
    And yet unmade apologies.

    He crochets up a yarn of time
    Into confusing pirate knots
    Of narratives that apparate
    As Conan Doyle, Christie plots.
    And then he waves his crochet wand
    With flair of wizards masterful,
    And holding knots in either hand,
    Untangles with a single pull.

    My parents, full of gratitude,
    Declare they are so fortunate
    To have him have their bullseye backs
    Against the darts of envy, hate.
    They shower him with sweets and praise
    And tell me to be more like him.
    I shut my mouth and meekly smile
    With dimness of a knight on rim.

    I try to see his board entire.
    I know it’s but his zwischenzug –
    His move between the obvious moves –
    Before his queen and pair of rooks
    Coordinate and capture pawns
    To grab more space – ancestral land –
    But then I fail in making sense
    Of how he has his endgame planned.

    He has no wife, no legal heirs.
    He lives his chequered life alone.
    And though he’s only fifty now
    He’s peeing through a bladder stone.
    His BP’s low, his sugar’s high,
    His lungs are often out of breath,
    So even if he captures all,
    How does he plan to deal with death?

    I see. He too is just a pawn
    In hands of mighty Loneliness,
    Who keeps us all engrossed in some
    Interminable games of chess.

    June 28, 2022
    Poems
  • Hours

    The day devours many hours
    From right under your nostril towers
    If unprotected by the powers
    Of calendars with coloured stars.

    The night then slips into the mix
    Its AI-ML engine tricks
    Which keep suggesting content picks
    That throw your calendar afar.

    June 27, 2022
    Poems
  • Some poems

    Some poems come quite instantly
    In moments I’m waking up,
    Or working through a coffee cup.
    They come with sudden urgency,
    As if whatever’s left in me
    That didn’t assimilate in me,
    That didn’t become a part of me,
    Is now coagulating down
    Into a coloured poignancy.
    They bring me great relief when out.
    A moment’s lightness pervades me.
    Expressed in right consistency,
    These poems have a stickiness,
    Endowed unmistakably
    With airs that shock and move the eyes
    That risk even an idle glance.
    No wonder they are simply shit.

    June 26, 2022
    Poems
  • Drink water, my friend

    I wonder if the fairy tale,
    Where mermaid turns her mermaid tail
    Into two human appendage,

    Which feel impaled by thousand knives
    With every step of grounded stride
    And every second’s idle life,

    Is just a warning tale about
    The pains of leaving water out
    Of daily diet, getting gout.

    June 25, 2022
    Poems
  • My Muse eloped with passing Time

    “I’ll come to you in half an hour”,
    Was what she told me every hour.
    She asked me why I did not help
    My mother clean the dusty shelves
    And pick the fallen shiuli pods
    And stitch the garlands for our gods
    And check finances yet again
    And clean the clogging washroom drain
    And boil the cups of lemon tea
    And buy some better fitting tees
    And entertain that sudden guest
    And join him on his scheming quest
    And listen to complaints all day
    And nod my head this way that way
    And work and talk and eat and rest
    Before arriving at my desk.
    But even at this midnight hour
    She tells me, “Yes, yes. Half an hour.”

    June 24, 2022
    Poems
  • Forever Lullaby

    So much depends on waking up
    And knowing you have woken up.
    It’s commomer to open eyes
    To manufactured dreamy lies
    Repeated everywhere you see,
    Incepting deficiency.

    By reinforcing shame and fear
    With ads unnaturally clear,
    We steal your powers to question, doubt,
    Your time and space to figure out
    The things you have, the things you need,
    Penumbras of your growing greed.

    We call this theft a service done
    To help you choose our chosen one,
    Thus freeing up your precious hours
    That you can spend on watching stars
    Who twinkle on your OLED screens
    And show you all your neighbours’ dreams.

    June 23, 2022
    Poems
  • Rise

    It’s okay to be scared, alone,
    But not okay to overwrite
    Your every single line of love
    With frenzied, foolish, futile fights.

    It’s okay to be full of flaws,
    To feel inadequate, ashamed,
    But not okay to throw away
    The solemn promise you proclaimed.

    It’s okay to repent at night,
    To cry, submit your will, and pray,
    But not okay, upon the dawn,
    To not atone again today.

    June 22, 2022
    Poems
  • “Positive Thinking saved my Life”

    “A silver lining”, “brighter side,” —
    The fragrances of fairy fart —
    Are great for textbook moral science,
    Or even fortune cookie lines,
    But spare me those on Monday morns
    When all I see is pending work
    From people taking happy hours
    A bit too early Friday last.
    My mind is not a clear pond.
    The shit they’ve dumped is bobbing on.
    The water’s gray with moldy green.
    In it, the only good I’ve seen:
    A Narcissus won’t smile, but frown.
    Won’t fall into himself and drown.

    June 21, 2022
    Poems
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