Minakhi Misra

Author: Minakhi Misra

  • Falling in

    I’m sinking
    In the books. I learn
    I’ll earn. Such shame
    I feel. Such worthlessness
    I know is false, is just
    Hormones.
    Her moans
    I miss. Her
    Breathlessness,
    Her need to surf-
    Ace up
    For air. Forayer, dive
    Into the deep. End
    All these hesitations. Suck
    Her breath away.
    Her breath – a way.

  • Santa’s List

    They call me to the Principal’s.
    Which isn’t odd. I often win
    Some scholarship or contest prize.
    We had a few this Christmas Week.
    I also am on Santa’s List
    For full attendance round the year.

    The English teacher’s stoic face
    Is all the warning I receive
    Before receiving to my face
    The Christian hand of Sister B.,
    Who holds the staff of Principal,
    When Sister K. is out on leave.
    I see the Nativity Star
    Resplendent in my smarting eyes,
    As smarting cheek receives again
    The Christian touch of bamboo stick.

    She points to where my essay lies,
    To words she’s circled out in red:
    “If Jesus is of virgin birth,
    Is Jesus, then, the first to break
    His Mother’s sacred Maidenhead?”

    I point to where the title reads,
    “What will you ask of Santa Claus?”
    And picking up her Pilate pen,
    I cross my name off Santa’s List.

  • It’s complicated

    Don’t assume
    I don’t appreciate
    Your little-little kindnesses
    Are all that I can now endure
    These growing piles of gratitude
    Unsaid though not unfelt
    Are lost
    My deepest thoughts
    Unclaimed though not unowned

  • Tender is the right

    Bird song plays ping-pong
    Around the misty valley.
    Wings miss the spring’s kiss
    And snakeskins slither slowly.

    Sir says, “Do surveys.”
    And turbans turn to tally.
    Dozer comes closer
    Into the hardwoods holy.

    God staffs His odd laughs
    And tribals come to rally.
    Hills fill with kill spill
    Of stifled rifle volley.

  • Pretending to be Patroclus

    So what if I am Patroclus
    Pretending of Achilles’ strength?
    Achilles lives through Patroclus.
    Would else there be an Iliad?
    And can an average person be
    Enough to wear Achilles’ helm?
    Does that not take an equal strength
    Of mind, if not an equal skill?
    Is it so wrong to ask for more
    Than what I’m told I have in store?
    The exile is what makes the man
    In every hero’s epic myth.
    I am the hero of my life.
    There is no other narrative
    As meaningful to me as this.
    And so I must adhere to this.
    I know I’m not Achilles born.
    And yet I am Achilles-trained.
    It’s arrogant to humble be
    When I am not afraid of me.

  • This Page is Now

    This page I read is just a sky.
    The words are simply stars of thought.
    They may appear together “now”
    But they are simply images
    Of thoughts that sparked some time ago,
    And never in a single “now”.

    Some words are from the ‘pre-first draft’,
    The one the author ‘jotted down’
    But did not know it was a book.
    Some words are from the ‘firstest draft’
    The one the author risked to ‘write’.
    Some words are from ‘revision draft(s)’.
    Some words are from their editor(s).
    Some words are simply ‘print mistakes’.
    The words are “now” inside my mind
    But all I see has been “before”
    And may not be there “later” though
    In some ‘edition(s)’ yet to come.

    This starry now’s so beautiful,
    I’d measure time in nows I turn.

  • Sweaty air

    The air is sweating! Air is…come!

    It’s just the dew. I told you, na?

    No, no. It’s sweating. Come, na, come!

    Uffo! Put on your monkey cap!

    No, no. No time! Come out, come out!

    Uffo! Don’t crush my spinach plants.

    No, look! The air is thur-thur cold!

    Of course. It’s winter. Winter’s cold.

    No, no. The air is sweating, see.

    It’s just the dew, love. Vapours cond…

    No! When you sweat, your body cools.
    And not the other way around!

  • Six-word Story

    For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
    – Ernest Hemingway

    They say it’s penned by Hemingway.
    It may not be for all we care.
    It shouldn’t matter anyway.
    What matters is the story there.

    Of course, we have the lump in throat:
    A baby, dead. Its parent(s), poor.
    Though not a word the author wrote
    Allows us to be fully sure.

    Perhaps, it’s one of hundred gifts
    They got but couldn’t use in time.
    Perhaps, they buy in bulk at thrift
    And eBay it at premium dime.

    Perhaps, they found it on a train,
    Or nicked it from another’s bags,
    Or had to buy, on shop’s complaint,
    When doggy ate its seller’s tags.

    Perhaps, they fell for “iPhone sale”
    And got it in that pristine box.
    Perhaps, they found the voodoo nail
    Before they pulled the baby’s socks.

    A million other stories fit
    So snugly in this Six-word line.
    Then why, then why go kill a kid,
    When our imagination’s fine?

    Because it’s not a “Six-word” tale.
    It has two more that make it work.
    The “Ernest Hemingway” detail
    Is making all our tears jerk.

    The man is god of brevity.
    He wouldn’t write some frivolous prose.
    Of course, it has more gravity
    Than any that we can propose.

    And so it matters if he wrote,
    Or if it’s from another’s pen.
    For they must have our louder vote
    Applauding at their magic, then.

  • Sing!

    Who goes?
    Who knows!

    A spy?
    No! Why?

    Then name yourself.
    To frame myself?

    You are to blame?
    No, no. For shame!

    Then why?
    I’m shy.

    You want something?
    To see you sing.

    I do not croon.
    You speak too soon.

    Away, away!
    If so you say.

    Again, you freak?
    It’s been a week.

    I still don’t sing.
    Or so you think.

    Go on, get out!
    No need to shout.

    Your nerve!
    I serve.

    Away!
    Okay.

    Why haunt me so?
    I think you know.

    It’s gone. Forgot.
    I’m sure it’s not.

    And risk all this?
    Is this to miss?

    It’s everything!
    Or so you think.

    Who are you, man?
    I’m just a fan.

    A ghost?
    Almost.

    Undead?
    Not yet.

    A voice?
    A choice.

    I will not croon.
    Hmn. See you soon.

    You here?
    I hear.

    Okay.
    Okay.

    You here?
    I hear.

    Okay.
    Okay.

    Hello?
    …

    You here?
    …

    I’ll sing.
    …

    You’ll hear?
    …

    I’ll sing.
    …

  • The Cave of Silent Dreams

    Some days I need to just retreat
    Into my Cave of Silent Dreams
    To watch Platonic shadows dance
    Upon defensive walls I’ve raised
    To keep myself away from me.
    No Leonidas kills a wolf,
    Nor no Amāterāsu sulks,
    Nor no mistrustful Bāli roars.
    It’s just a fire on my back.
    It’s just some shadows in my sight.
    It’s just a willing dreaminess,
    Escaping lit Reality
    I dared to see and blinded me.