Author: Minakhi Misra

Is language such a savage tool
You will not stoop to pick it up?

You speak to me in overlays
Of tastes and coloured archetypes
In motion with emotion’s scent
In contours of constructed time.

You scoff at my translated verse,
And scold me for this scaffolding
Of words and space in measured lengths –
Impressing now, expressing now –
Secured with strings of syntax stripped.

You mind if I remind you it’s
Amusing how a musing must
In music move to memory,
Afraid of fading in a frayed
Crochet of crude rememberings?

Whatever your aversion be,
Remember that my gratitude –
So grand and great an attitude –
Is merely motes to mighty moods
That blow beyond the Beaufort scale.

Remember I am amber that
Preserves the servings of your verve.
Remember I am humble ’cause
My kneeling kneads your naked nerves.

Remember it’s my craftsmanship
With language that enables you.
Remember I’m an amateur
And yet, I am a master too.

You learn that it is possible
To cry all day and cry all night
And wake up crying from the sleep
You don’t remember losing to.

You learn you can be split in halves
Or thirds, or quarters, but no more,
Attending to the tasks and those
Who do not have the words you need.

You learn the shape of family
With bleeding fingers lining up
The edges on the other shards
The broken part has left behind.

You learn that gravity of loss
Is infinite, explaining why
(He would have rolled his eyes at this)
There’s weight in massless emptiness.

Who has no poetry within,
Perceives no poetry without.
No story within, no story without.

Systematised non-fiction builds
Systematised rigidities –
A recipe for dissonance.

With fiction, fill your life with lives.
Be loose. Be slow. Be eagerly.
Festina lente, mi amor.

It pops up almost every day.
“Is there a point to doing this?”

To writing poems, reading books,
Highlighting excerpts, keeping notes,
Recording thoughts in diaries,
And digitising all of it –
These snapsnots of an inward life.

“Is there a point to doing this?”

Another Zettlekasten tool,
Another thick biography,
Another common commonplace,
Reminds me of the benefits,
And yet it pops up yet again,
“Is there a point to doing this?”

To which a gravel voice replies,
“Just label this and set aside.”

If that’s the only point it serves,
A practice prompt for mindfulness,
A drawing-water-chopping-wood,
It isn’t quite as pointless, no?

“But what’s the point of mindfulness?”
An antidote to pointfulness?

Some times take selfies in our minds,
While others let us pass them by.
Not always do we get to choose.

Sometimes, we brew rememberance,
But sip too soon and smart our lips.
And every sip thereafter burns.

The best remember future thems
And plan for every past that stops,
In time, forgetting who they are.

She raises me, erases me.
Across my ages, gauges me.
In phases, now, she fazes me.
With pages, stages, cages me.
My curséd cursors cursoring,
I’m worse in verse and worsening.
For phrases, still, she praises me.
Into her mazes, chases me.
Therein the rings of writings ting.
Therein, the rites of righting sting.
Therein, she right debases me.
With blazing gazes, razes me.

Sometimes, it’s just a single line.
The rest is bubblewrap and tape.
For no one buys a floating quote
To wear against the cold of being
Alone in mediocre crowds.
Sometimes, it’s only bubblewrap.

My ego is my oxygen.
Without it, I cannot survive.
My every cell of consciousness
Is energised a certain way
That these material cells remain
A unity that’s labelled I.

My ego is my oxygen.
Without it, nothing kindles me.
No emberred insecurity.
No arson of resentment, rage.
No bonfire warmth of empathy.
No cooking flame of artistry.
No forge for casting character.
No engine for ambition, drive.
No torch for visioned enterprise.

My ego is my oxygen.
Without it, I would never die.
It rusts my mettle latticework,
Erodes my grit to verdigris,
And tarnishing my temperance,
It putrefies my wasting wit.

I woke up to my tummy’s snores
And stubbed my toe again against
The leftovers from day before.

I swore I’ll pack the soda cans,
The paper cups, the apple cores,
Before you ring the bell today.

I swore I’ll do. So sure I’ll do
As soon as tummy snores no more.

Remember how I swore I’ll roast
At least some corn for us today?
I’d stored a couple in the fridge.

They needn’t be for breakfast, no?
I swore I’ll get more in the morn.
Perhaps, I’ll get us even four.

As soon as tummy snores no more.

Retirement’s not retiered time
From cultivated calendars.
My liberty of leisure lies
In eschewing expected ends.
À glandouiller, I gladly lay
Against all guillotines of guilt,
Relinquishing rewards, relish
My meaningful meanderings.