Minakhi Misra

Month: June 2023

  • Dreams

    It’s dreams that put me down to sleep.
    Exhausted with the man I am
    I dream to visit other lives.
    I wake up grateful in this man,
    This man whose consciousness has fled
    Exhausted with the man he was.
    The one who fled must not have been
    Aware of all advantages
    This man has over other lives.
    No matter! I will make of him
    What he has not yet made of him.
    So many many things to do.
    So many many lives to touch.
    So what if he has erred ago?
    So what if he has traumas past?
    So much so much ahead of him.
    He still has dreams awakening.

  • Monsoon afternoon

    While sitting on the fence, I saw
    A narcissistic monsoon frog
    Regard its rippling countenance
    Inside the well my Grandpa dug.

    It croaked at it a mating call
    And promptly got an echoed yes,
    But something in the eagerness
    Alerted it to something else.

    It jumped around the steining wall
    And stole a look inside to check.
    The one inside seemed eager still
    And beckoned to its rippling lake.

    “Don’t fall for it,” I heard me say.
    It, startled, jumped into the well.
    I clapped my forehead, slapped my thighs,
    And bit into a half-picked nail.

    “For all I know it’s happier.
    The monarch of its monsoon realm.”
    I let the drizzle tickle me,
    Resumed my throne upon the fence.

  • Shrink

    “You write because you feel too much,
    Too much to keep it all within.”

    I love it when my therapist
    Relinquishes her ” you tell me”,
    And shares a bit of what she thinks.
    For what she thinks is so so off
    I cannot help but laugh aloud
    And make her blush and closed again.

    “You call me not to look at you.
    You call me now to laugh at me.”

    Sometimes, I wonder if she’s right.
    And other times, if she’s the right
    Psychologist for me to see.
    At least, she’s pretty. Present. Prompt.
    At least, she’s vulnerable too.
    At least, she reads the books I read.
    Not all of them. Important ones.
    At least, I see her as a friend.
    Perhaps the only friend I trust
    In times I do not trust myself.

    “I write because I do not feel,
    I _cannot_ feel the way they feel,
    The way the writers I admire
    Describe the feelings I require
    To feel that I can also feel.
    I write because I envy them.
    Now that’s a feeling I can feel.”

    She laughs. I sigh. She laughs again.
    “Frustration. That’s another one.
    You try too hard, but I see you.
    You write because you feel too much.
    Too much to keep it all within.
    Now, tell me if I’m wrong, okay?
    You’ll write this as a poem too.”

    At least, she knows the way I think.

  • Start the day

    The day is done for others, but
    I haven’t even started yet.
    They stretch their backs,
    They shoo their kids,
    They plonk into their TV couch.
    I haven’t even started yet
    For that is sort of what I did
    Throughout the day,
    Throughout their day.

    I pick the pen, I scratch my head,
    I roll the pen between my teeth.
    The laptop booting takes a while.
    I type with pen between my teeth.
    Within the minute I am sure
    The lines are going nowhere good.
    They take their writer’s life as guide.
    I think about deleting them.

    The nurse, whose shift has just begun,
    Is here to make mistakes again.
    “You have to rest.”
    “It’s all I do.”
    “The laptop’s on.”
    “I see it too.”
    “You have to rest.”
    “I have to write.”
    “The doctor scolds me.”
    “My delight.”
    She turns and stomps out. Then returns.
    She’d left the clipboard on my bed.
    “You have to rest.”
    “I’ll do my best.”
    She turns and drops the clipboard pen.
    At least, she’s started with her day.

  • To write, you dream

    I slip into a seashore sleep,
    My snoring waves erasing all
    The lines I’d fingered in the sand.

    I wake to melancholic notes
    The bottle sings on empty tum,
    Its paper cargo still so blank.

    The snoring waves return, return.
    The fingered words erase, erase.

    A hermit crab ideas out
    And dashes sideways leaving dots:
    “To dream, you sleep,”
    Its Morse Code reads.

    “To write, you dream,”
    My page begins.

  • Shuhaari

    The Japanese believe the way
    To learn an art by copying
    Involves three steps of mastery.
    They call this their Shuhaari Way.

    You “Shu”,
    Then “Haa”,
    And then you “Ri”:

    “Protect”,
    Then “Break”,
    And then “Depart”.

    Within the art you want to learn,
    “Protect” the style that moves you deep.
    Immerse in what the masters do
    And copy everything you can.
    You give your all to do this well.
    It builds your fundamentals strong.
    But if you stay with “Shu” too long,
    You’ll only stay a replica.

    So, then you “Break” away and dip
    In styles that never moved you so,
    And styles you never understood.
    For now, you’ll see with widened eyes
    And heart that opens wider still.
    Your mind will challenge all you’ve learned.
    You’ll twist and bend the stiff and straight.
    You’ll slice and graft and fail a lot.
    You’ll try and keep the things that work.
    You’ll leave whatever doesn’t work.
    Again, again, again, again.
    But then you’ll find you’re splitting hairs.
    Your “Haa” is just a sum of parts.
    You need a soul to make it whole.

    And so you now “Depart” from all
    The styles you copied gracefully.
    You go where only you can go.
    So far within, you lose yourself.
    So long until you choose Yourself
    To animate that sum of parts.
    And when you serve the ones you serve
    The thing that only you can serve,
    You’ll see that others copy you.
    You’ll see yourself within their parts.
    They’ll call you Master of the Arts.
    But here, you must remain with “Ri”.
    “Depart” from honours, titles, claps.
    Forget about your Mastery.
    Begin a new Shuhaari lap.

  • Midlife

    For some, the road’s their only home.
    For others, home’s their only road.
    It doesn’t mean they aren’t lost.
    It simply means they haven’t found
    A better road, a better home.

  • Sometimes…

    It’s not the weight but how you lift.
    It’s not the slope but how you climb.
    It’s not the dark but how you see.
    It’s not the punch but how you breathe.

  • He shouted at me in my Dream

    You think you are Intelligent.
    You think you are Creative too.
    The only thing you use them for
    Is making up Excuses new.

    You do not rise to Need-of-hour,
    Not even to Potential.
    You fall to these If-not-for-thats?
    You’ll fall to Immaterial.

  • Faith

    She said she’d lit a prayer lamp
    To help him with his interview.
    He said the lamp’s a waste of time,
    “You trust in God, hunh? Good for you.”

    “What’s wrong in having faith in God?”
    “He’s just a myth, accepted lie.”
    “What’s wrong in having faith in myth?”
    “I’m getting late. My CV file?”

    She handed him the printed sheet,
    “You’re placing faith in future You.
    A You who’s just a myth for now.
    A lie you want accepted too.”

    He pointed at his bullet points.
    “They’ll hire me for things I’ve done.”
    “In faith that things you’ve done induce
    Predictions of the things you can.”

    “I cannot do a single thing
    If I cannot have faith in me.”
    “Does faith in you somehow ensure
    Tomorrow you will even be?”

    “Of course I can’t. And nor no God.
    It’s Randomness, Statistics, Luck.”
    She pointed at the watch and said,
    “I’ve lit the scented lamp for Luck.”