Author: Minakhi Misra

It doesn’t take a genius
To find cicadas in the wild,
Erotic in the wilderness
Of Homer’s epic poetry,
Or Oriental pottery,
Or haiku strings, or prayer rings.
Tobacco boxes full of things
Are seldom void of molted shells,
The lingerie of mating bugs.

The challenge is to bring me here.
For once I’m here, I will not go.
I’ll scribble something with a pen,
I’ll twiddle something with my thumbs,
I’ll clackety-clack the qwerty keys,
And somehow verses will emerge.
But only if I’m somehow here.

It’s not so easy. Not at all.
I have a dozen reasons why
I shouldn’t, wouldn’t bring me here:
I have responsibility;
My family depends on me;
I’m wasting people’s time with this;
I’m wasting my own time with this;
I’m masturbating verbally;
I’m past the waiting patiently;
I should be taking moneyed work
Instead of scribbling wild, amok;
I’m not the talent I could be;
I’m not a latent prodigy;
I’m simply fleeing from myself,
Instead of seeking formal help;
It will not matter anyway,
No matter what I write today;
And even if these aren’t true,
I’m scared of writing something new.

And so, my task is crystal clear.
I have to somehow bring me here:
It’s okay, don’t be mad at this;
It’s okay to be bad at this;
It isn’t this that makes me sad;
It’s just the dream I’ve always had;
It isn’t clear how long I’ll live,
So why not give what I can give;
If nothing else, someone may see
There’s something to consistency;
Who knows, a worthy artist may
Decide to show up everyday;
And if I can be just that spark,
I’ll have absolved my life of dark;
And, dude, it’s just some lines of ink,
There’s nothing here to overthink.

So, get this ass on to that chair,
And share what only you can share.

They told me, “Read up Medicine,”
For all its wondrous cures and gifts,
Withholding how its errors are,
Quite literally, buried now.

They told me, “Read up History,”
To learn from errors of the past.
I did, and now I proudly make
The ones I found most glorified.

They told me, “Read Humanities,”
They told me, “Read Philosophy,”
They told me, “Read Psychology,”
Until they said, “You read too much.”

Humanities, I read, to boast;
Philosophy, to find excuse;
Psychology, to trick myself
To think I am a wise recluse.

And all the while, I died inside:
An intellectual suicide.

My metaphors are tantrum kings.

They come to me with rolling eyes,
Entitlement in twitching thumbs,
Attention skittling every time
Their boredom threatens to emerge.
They breathe a “hmm” or simply sigh
Without intention to abide
By any task I set them to.

They do not join me at my desk.
They do not want a daily job.
They simply want to quickly rise
To top of someone’s Google search,
Be printed on some custom merch,
And bask in found celebrity.

This too shall pass, I tell myself.

Exactly zero thoughts of mine
Are mine in all entirety.
In fact, I find it very hard
To zero in on any part
Of any thought that may be mine.
The best that I have done so far
Is phrase a thought a different way.
And, in a way, that’s good enough.

Longevity embeds itself
Inside the nerves of stubborn minds
Who cling to life with phantom hands
Through charges firing in the brain
That cannot travel down the spine.

He’s in again. He’s out again.
He’s got the hang of comas now.

They asked me as a marketer
To spend their cash to “make a buzz.”
I slid open my window glass
And made them sit in traffic noise.
They looked at me, I looked at them,
Until they did not look at me:
It’s hard to look at anything
When all your focus has to go
To swatting buzzing mosquitoes.

The sin of Pride’s a summer fad.
It always comes before the fall.
Before semesters start in school,
Before awaited shows return,
Before reality combusts
Your holiday shenanigans.

Successes slip and habits break
And fortunes boomerang away.
The beach-tanned body’s out of shape,
Romantic flames are doused in rain,
Promotion gives you vertigo,
And Mastery demands its bills.

You’re left with highlight reels and pics
To see and show again and oft
Throughout September evenings
To few who still express their love.

You Sloth into a helpless Wrath
Against the ones you Lusted for,
Denouncing them for having Greed
For things they got but you did not.

Of course, you do not Envy them —
Preposterous of me to claim.
You’re simply eating humble pies
With Gluttony of victimhood.

On nights as this, I ask of You
The courage to be happy too,
To surf above the frothing blames,
To lotus-leaf the nasty names,
To do what only I can do,
To stay, to act, to build anew,
To make it through another night.
And then a night. And then a night.