Minakhi Misra

Because I write so fluently
I often do not write so well.
I let redundant words abound,
Forget to tweak for how it sounds,
Forget to prune my sentences
To their digestible essense.
I write without a clear thought
And hide behind vocab a lot.
I write with more authority
The lesser I have clarity.
Some days I do it even worse:
Forget the form and write in verse.

“Guo-guo-guo,” she goes.
The grasshopper of Ho Yan’s prose.
“Guo-guo-guo,” she goes.

She finds herself two country boys,
Who look to nature for their toys.
She asks, “Guo-guo-guo?”
Towards the sky the brothers show.
She nods as if they know she knows.
“Guo-guo-guo,” she goes.

The elder shushes younger’s lips,
And offers ‘hopper turnip chips.
Before she knows, the trap is set.
The elder wins his country bet.
Between her twitching body’s throes,
“Guo-guo-guo?” she goes.

He says the roots that form the trap
Had fallen into younger’s lap.
Before they’d thought of eating those,
They’d heard some distant guo-guos.
The younger bet his bloodied nose,
“Cicada’s crying out her woes.”
The elder tutted, “Ho Yan’s prose.
Where Jasmine buds a single rose.
It must be ‘hopper, listen close.
Guo-guo-guo, she goes.”

The country boys then hear a croak.
The younger tells a Ho Yan joke.
The ‘hopper dangles upside down.
She’s heard of Ho Yan’s frog’s renown.
If there be frogs, there will be dragons.
And dragons steal from country wagons –
They spare the cattle, take the boys.
So thinking, ‘hopper’s hearts rejoice.
And when the jaws of Ho Yan close,
“Guo-guo-guo,” she goes.

I used to own a crispy key
In shape of childhood memory.
I cannot find it anymore.
Perhaps, I ate is long before
The attic shut and gathered damp.
Perhaps, I stamped it on the ramp,
On which the doggies chased my friend
Until she turned and put an end:
Assertively, she threatened, “No,”
And watched the doggies’ fashion show.
Perhaps, it has an elephant’s trunk
To bathe on days of college bunk.
Perhaps, it’s not a crispy key,
But just a warped reality,
Like memories are bound to be.

I’m stressed I haven’t done my work.
I’m caught in catching up with it.
I’m working over dinner plate.
I’m trying to get done with it.
I’m irritated that you speak.
I’m irked that you are calling me.
I’m sure you are the reason why
I’m so behind delivery.
I’m not your little kid, okay?
I’m vexed you look concerned for me.
I’m in control, yes, on my own.
I’m done with all your sympathy.
I’m quick to focus all the rage
I’m storing up inside of me.
I’m quick to say I feel ashamed
I’m born into this family.

Not every ball is meant for six.
You better know your batting strengths.
You better know which ones to leave.
You better know your straight defence.

Particularly if it’s Life
Who’s bowling on a turning pitch.
Do not step out your hasty crease
When keeper Karma’s being a bitch.

Do not present the naked edge.
Do not pursue the obvious wide.
Remember, every run you score
Is first and foremost for your side.

It simply wasn’t meant to be.
Two hours too many in the end.
I gently shrouded every line
With blackened brushtipped sketching pen.

Obsessing over sterile words,
I’d wrapped my worth around the verse.
I should have let it go before.
Before it went from bad to worse.

It simply wasn’t meant to be.
It can’t be forced and still be good.
It has to come emerging, free.
It has to feel it’s understood.

I could have said it calmly too?
And what has happened every time
I’ve said my No with twilight calm?
You’ve pressed me harder, haggled on,
As if my No’s not No enough
Until it’s said with thunder clouds.
I tell you I will open up
A little later on my own
But every second day you ask,
What happened? Won’t you share with me?
I’ll tell you someday. Leave me be.
Do NOT infringe my privacy.

I see in me the Brinkman rise –
The Brinkman I’d always despised:
A grown adult with childish fret,
And childish whim and childish threat.
Intimidating with his mood,
Uncertain whether bad or good,
Uncertain what will trigger rage
Uncertain how at all to gauge
The okayness of homely life.
Tomorrow when I have a wife
Will I, like him, be on the brink,
Compelling her to always think
How every single act of hers
Can make her marriage even worse?

Two greyheads on a TV set
Holding and folding invisible words –
My childhood image of having arrived.

Two greyheads nodding, smiling,
Disagreeing with gentle taps to hearts –
I’ve always wanted those sweaters.

And those notebooks with unfastened leaves.
And those fountain pens with teething chips.
And those reading glasses that sat afar
And slipped on noses unaccustomed.

Two greyheads of lives well-lived,
Well-examined, storyfull –
That magical phrase, “Reminds me of…”

And that one, “It will come to me….”
And that one, “Where were we again?”

Are you happy with your score?
Or do you need a little more?
Tho’ days are few
We continue
To wait for tomorrows.

When all is said, when all is done,
We’ll all again be skeletons.
Why pick a bone?
Why die alone?
Let’s live again as bros.

Yohoho yoho ho ho
Yohoho yoho ho ho

The sun’s about to dip its head.
Come, break a little country bread.
We’ll half and half
And laugh a laugh
And shoo away the crows.

We’ll feed the pigs the crusty parts
And revel in their trusty farts.
We’ll shave our hair
And say a prayer
Until again it grows.

Yohoho yoho ho ho
Yohoho yoho ho ho

The pride of leading worthy lives –
It isn’t worth the butter knives
We proudly gave
The blinded knave
To help him with his throws.

So, trust the voice we hear inside
And live by virtues we decide
Until we lie
And say goodbye
In coffinated rows.

Yohoho yoho ho ho
Yohoho yoho ho ho