Throughout my ceiling-staring night,
I heard on every washroom trip
A fellow-flusher up a floor.
It seemed they heard my gurgling chords
Erupting in the echo bowl
And rushed to join the denouement.
Perhaps, with every press, they meant
They’ve stared into my staring eyes
Through flooring tiles, concrete, and more.
Or, maybe they’re just as lost.
And look to me for fellowship.
Perhaps, tonight I’ll press their bell.
In scrolling through his poems past,
In every “I” and every “me”,
He recognised a flash-lit him
In set-squared poses, post-it smiles,
And Jenga wrinkles ’round the eyes,
Anticipating clicking sounds
From oily touches on a screen
His muses fumbled daily with.
His day begins with rings of tea
Encompassing some classifieds
In yestermorning’s local Times
Emancipated from his Dad,
Whose day begins with rings of tea
Upon retirement coaster gifts.
Reflected on the framing glass
Atop the flattering report
Commemorating lifetime’s worth
Of thankless teaching and research,
She sees the senior citizen
About to reap her pension fund
Beside the fuzzy photo of
The twenty-something who had paid
The premiums from her salary.
My hand’s inside an empty slot,
And all of me is out of tune.
My fears arise in monstrous size
Like Sandworms from a whirling Dune.
The extra Spice in take-out food
Has made a Thumper of my tum.
This washroom cubicle is out
Of water, paper for my bum.
Attention is the currency
Of certain games we daily play.
The Power Laws are clear on this:
The takers grab, the givers pay.
The game, defined so narrowly,
Is finite, skewed, and zero-sum.
The winners, few, keep winning on,
The losers ‘wait their turns to come.
Attention can be win-win too:
A unit paid could cashback more.
A mindful minute’s twice the time.
The more is spent, the more’s in store.
Perhaps, he could not listen now –
His day at work has been so long.
Perhaps, he did not listen now –
He’s said he’s bored with me before.
Perhaps, he heard, but couldn’t reply –
He’s never been too good with words.
Perhaps, he heard, and didn’t reply –
He’s never bothered earlier.
Perhaps, he hates me privately –
His Love-Yous vanished months ago.
Perhaps, he hates me publicly –
His friends no longer drop by here.
Perhaps, it wasn’t him, but me –
I could have said it better, yes.
Perhaps, it’s not that big a deal –
It’s just a silly Ph.D.
In Mother’s garden, I say “Hi.”
The koel scoffs a single “Coo.”
Together, we make poetry.
In Mother’s garden, triumphs sigh
Through open mouths of preying frogs
Attacking all the incense sticks.
In Mother’s garden, failures dry
With salted halves of mangoes spread
To, one day, be a tasteful sour.
Some days it’s sand in hourglass.
Some days it’s snow in Christmas globe.
But mostly it is sabja seeds
In water: settled, yet afloat.
I’m okay with this.
It must be true.
I’ve read books on this.
It must be true.
My friends agree on this.
It must be true.
Duffers differ on this.
It must be true.
Leaders debate on this.
It must be true.
Celebrities endorse this.
It must be true.
I’m thinking clear on this.
It must be true.
Minakhi Misra 