Minakhi Misra

Author: Minakhi Misra

  • I hardly get along

    Retreated from the world, because
    with none I get along.
    In loneliness I learned, with me
    I hardly get along.

    I made myself an island then,
    entirely of myself.
    Now, with these naughty surging waves
    I hardly get along.

    I’m used to diving into books,
    and swimming in their depths.
    Now, with the heights of bookcastles
    I hardly get along.

    It’s good I lost my papers old.
    Now, Hindi has my heart.
    With those romantic English rhymes,
    I hardly get along.

    Translated from my Hindi poem, जमती नहीं

    jamtī nahīn

    zamāne se dūr huā ki kisī se jamtī nahīn
    tanhāyī mein jānā ki merī mujh hī se jamtī nahīn

    apne ko āp hī mein ek zazīrā banā diyā magar
    ab in lehron kī naTkHaT dillagī se jamtī nahīn

    ādat thī kitābon kī gehraiyon mein Dūbne kī
    ab unse banī Tile kī unchāyī se jamtī nahīn

    acHā huā purāne Kāgaz Gum ho gaye Misra
    Hindī pe dil ā gayā he angrezī se jamtī nahīn

  • So futile

    To make me laugh is so futile.
    Diverting me is so futile.

    I’m used to very little salt.
    This sea beach trip is so futile.

    The floor is cold, but leave the drapes.
    This sunshine rug is so futile.

    To nightmares, all my dreams have turned.
    To show me dreams is so futile.

    It’s better if I fade in verse,
    For fame in verse is so futile.

    Translated from my Hindi poem, बेकार है

    bekār hei

    hasā bhī do hasānā bekār hei
    yun merā mann behlānā bekār hei

    kāFī kam namak ki ādat hei mujhe
    samandar ghūmā le jānā bekār hei

    parde mat kholo, Farsh THanDa THīk hei
    yun dhūp kī kālīn bicHānā bekār hei

    kābūs ban chuke hein ye sāre sapne
    ek nayā sapnā dikhānā bekār hei

    behtar hei misron mein masrūF rahūn
    misron se mashhūr honā bekār hei

  • Block

    So, should I ask my thoughts to come?
    If possible, in verse, to come?

    I’d sown my words in hopes they’ll crop
    In monsoons of my tears to come.

    It’s time to change to office clothes.
    I’ve waited long for her to come.

    I’ve come, so I will fill this page
    Though only fakes of words do come.

    Today, we’ve written whatever, Misra
    Let’s ask the readers tomorrow to come.

    Translated from my Hindi poem, ब्लॉक

    block

    Khayālon se keh dūn nikal āyen?
    ho sake to banke ghazal āyen?

    boye the alfāz is ummīd mein ki
    ashkon ke mausam mein fasal āyen

    aur kitnā intezār karein aise
    office chalein, kapde badal āyen?

    āyen hein to saFha bhar dete hein
    chāhe laFzon ke hamshakal āyen

    āj ham ne kucH bhī likhā hei, Misra
    padhne wālon se keh dūn kal āyen?

  • Not ready

    To sulk at me, this Life’s not ready.
    To break apart, this heart’s not ready.

    Though Luck runs out with Poetry,
    For so much work, this Luck’s not ready.

    I sold my books for groceries.
    And yet to leave, this Art’s not ready.

    I brought my riches with my noose.
    To loot me, still, this world’s not ready.

    I’m ready, Misra, with my wish.
    To drop and fall, this star’s not ready.

    Translated from my Hindi poem, तय्यार नहीं

    tayyār nahīn

    zindagī mujhse rūTHne ko tayyār nahīn
    aur ye dil hei ki TūTne ko tayyār nahīn

    sunā thā shāyarī mein Kismet phūTti hei
    merī Kismet hei ki phūTne ko tayyār nahīn

    rāshan ke bahāne kitābein bech āyā
    par adab hei ki cHūTne ko tayyār nahīn

    zar-o-zevar liye sar-e-dār ho gayā
    par koī mujhe lūTne ko tayyār nahīn

    tayyār kHaDa hūn māngte kHahishein, Misra
    sitārā hei ki TūTne ko tayyār nahīn

  • Move on

    Why shatter at his final breath?
    A candle lit is meant to melt.

    Go ask the stars his new address.
    You’ll find them when no city’s left.

    Don’t flood your day in misery.
    Its course will change once you correct.

    Forget your dream. He won’t come back.
    You rubbed your eyes, that Misra slept.

    Translated from my Hindi poem, आगे बढ़ो

    āge baDHo

    kyon bikhar gayā unkī sāns nikalte hi
    bujh jānā to tey hei charāG ke jalte hi

    sitāron se pucH le unkā nayā patā
    wo milte hein seher se dūr chalte hi

    yūn māyūsī mein din tabāh na kar
    tere din badlenge tere badalte hi

    bhūl us Khāb ko fir dikhegā nahīn
    miT gayā wo Misra tere ānkh malte hi

  • Luck

    Even among the lucky, unlucky is he
    Who’s just chewed a paan, when someone brings tea.

    The people, who live in black marble homes,
    Complain of their guests’ black-eyed jealousy.

    No one’s surprised that Chandu’s aunt ran away.
    Only on full-moon nights Chandu’s Uncle comes to see.

    Compared to one with only pictures of God,
    The idolist thinks he’s the greater devotee.

    There will be more days when writing is tough.
    A poet is one who can still write poetry.

    Translated from my Hindi poem, क़िस्मत

    kismet

    kismetwālon mein bhī badkismet use kahā jātā hei
    jisne pān dālā hotā hei koī chāy le ātā hei

    kāle sangmarmar wālon kī pareshānīyān aur hein
    ghar āyā rishtedār unpe kālī nazar lagātā hei

    kisīko heirat nahīn ki chandū ki chāchī bhāg gayīn
    chandū kā chāchā to bas chāndnī rāt mein pās ātā hei

    bhagwān kī mūrat biTHāne wāle ko ye waham hei
    wo badā bhakt hei usse jo bas ik taswīr lagātā hei

    aur bhī din āyenge aise jab likhnā mushkīl hogā
    shāyar wahī hotā hei jo tab bhī misrā likh pātā hei

  • No one has seen

    Their own destiny – no one has seen.
    The surrounding sea – no fish has seen.

    They find the jewels of melodiousness
    Around a neck no jewel has seen.

    She’s lying if she claims she has,
    To find me, never turned and seen.

    My family’s so happy with my success.
    My bowed down head, no one has seen.

    My friends sure bought my published book.
    A page inside no one has seen.

    Expecting praise from him, O Misra,
    Who never a poet of worth has seen?

    Translated from my Hindi poem, नहीं देखा

    nahīn dekhā

    kisīne apnā muKaddar nahīn dekhā
    macHHlī ne kabhī samandar nahīn dekhā

    zewar-e-tarannum us gale mein milā
    jis gale ne kabhī zewar nahīn dekhā

    jhūTH kehtī hei gar kehtī hei usne
    ek bār bhī mujhe palaT kar nahīn dekhā

    merī taraKKī mein yūn khush the gharwāle
    kisīne merā jhukā sar nahīn dekhā

    doston ne merī kitāb kharīd li par
    kHolke kisīne bhī andar nahīn dekhā

    unse wāhwāhī kī ummīd kyon ‘Misra’
    jinHone ik DHang kā shāyar nahīn dekhā

  • Gifts

    My son’s up to some rooftop disaster.
    He’s drowned the moon in a palmful of water.

    He says he keeps a promise, thus,
    To daily gift the moon hereafter.

    Perhaps, he likes some college girl.
    “Attendance Full,” reports Headmaster.

    He’s doing all the chores at home.
    From me, it’s something big he’s after.

    Don’t fall for all his sweet-sweet words.
    The cuckoo claims it’s a nest recaster.

    “A couplet new in your hand, my boy?”
    “The same one, Dad. The one you last heard.”

    “Let it be, mister. It’s clear in your eyes.
    Someone has stolen your sleep and laughter.

    “You open that book every day now, Misra.
    Whose gifted rose do you look after?”

    Translated from my Hindi poem, तोहफ़े

    tohFe

    cHat pe bete ne kyā nātak lagāyā hei
    chullū bhar pānī mein chandā dubāyā hei

    kehtā hei roz chānd tohFe mein detā hei
    kisīko diyā ek vādā nibhāyā hei

    shāyad college mein koi pasand hei ise
    Teacher ne bhi attendance full batāyā hei

    kucH din se ghar ke saare kām kar rahā hei
    kucH badā māngne ka plan banāyā hei

    uskī mīTHī bāton mein na fas jānā tum
    Koyal bhi kehtā hei ghosalā banāyā hei

    ā gaye bete hātH mein nayā sher hei kya
    purānein hein Pāpā pehle sunāyā hei

    rehne do janāb ānkHon mein sāF dikHta hei
    Koī he jisnein rāt kā chain churāyā hei

    ye kitāb tum roz kholne lage ho ‘Misra’
    bolo kiskā diyā gulāb cHupāya hei

  • Doesn’t burn

    A book may burn. Its idea doesn’t burn.
    In fire, it shines – this gold doesn’t burn.

    After kicking all from this society,
    In name of God, this place doesn’t burn.

    O men of power, see the Martyr’s Flame.
    The men may burn, their will doesn’t burn.

    The rich may burn in envy of the rich.
    In envy of crowns, the begging bowl doesn’t burn.

    The flame of poetry is strong, O Misra.
    It’s just that your kitchen stove doesn’t burn.

    Translated from my Hindi poem, नहीं जलता

    nahīn jaltā

    kitāb jal jāye FalsaFā nahīn jaltā
    nikhartā hei āg mein sonā nahīn jaltā

    mohalle se sabko nikāl kar kehte hein
    ab mazhab ke nām mohallā nahīn jaltā

    siyāsat wālon kabhī amar jyot dekho
    insān jalte hein irādā nahīn jaltā

    jalte honge amīron se dūsre amīr
    hīron ke tāj se ye kāsā nahīn jaltā

    badī āg lagātī hei shāyarī ‘Misra’
    bas kambaKhat ghar kā chulhā nahīn jaltā

  • What should I bring?

    As wedding gift, what should I bring?
    I’m drugged, what prayers should I bring?

    Your husband keeps the windows closed.
    What bottled breezes should I bring?

    Your concrete yard will have no scent.
    What petrichored earth should I bring?

    You’d hardly get to steal a drink.
    What highs in perfume should I bring?

    I know you hate to make your meals
    What picnic boxes should I bring?

    Just call me, Misra, if you’re sad.
    I’ll sneak you out. What should I bring?

    Translated from my Hindi poem, क्या ले आऊं

    kyā le āun

    teri shādī mein bol kyā le āun
    duā nahīn hei davā le āun

    band rahtā hei khiDkī shohar terā
    botal mein bharke Fizā le āun

    pakkā āngan mahakne se rahā
    pahlī bārish kā mazā le āun

    cHup kar ab tū pī nahīn sakegī
    itr mein ghol ke nashā le āun

    pakānā to tujhe pasand nahīn
    main do dabbe har subā’ le āun

    āwāz de ‘Misra’ gar kHush nahīn hei
    wahān se tujhe bhagā le āun