Category: Poems

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.

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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?

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.

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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

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.

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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

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.

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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

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?

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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

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?”

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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

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.

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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

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?

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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

In your own art, a thriving star you couldn’t be.
From salary slips, free you couldn’t be.

You only bragged of traveling the world.
Even Berhampur’s Sindbad you couldn’t be.

So what if you had a gun to your head?
A pseudo-Shehrezaad, you couldn’t be?

So what if you remember all your words?
For your words, remembered you couldn’t be.

And why so stingy with giving applause,
When worthy of applause you couldn’t be?

That name, O Misra, couldn’t make you much.
A poet, yes, but poor you couldn’t be.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, न हो सके

na ho sake

apne kalām mein tum ābād na ho sake
tankhādār reh gaye azād na ho sake

bas bolte rahe ki duniya ghumoge
tum Berhampur ke bhī Sindbad na ho sake

Bandūk bhi ho sar pe tum kyā hi kahoge
Jān bachāne bhī Shehrezād na ho sake

yād honge tumhein apne ash’ār sāre par
aFsos hei kisī aur ko yād na ho sake

kyon karte ho kanjūsiyān dādbakshī mein
Khud to kabhī Kābil-e-dād na ho sake

ab kyā hi milā Khudko bulākar ‘Misra’
shāyar bhī bane aur barbād na ho sake

I would have been a poet, but
This Love stood in the way.
I would have died in name of Love,
but Life stood in the way.

The story of my Life was frayed.
It would have stayed the same.
But thirst to win a moment’s worth,
again stood in the way.

All ports I searched to find no drop
of victory anywhere.
I’d search some more except my own
indigence stood in the way.

I’d saved some money turning nights
to days and days to nights.
I’d settled in the job, until
my blues stood in the way.

All mornings and all evenings
I thought of suicide.
I’d gone to buy some Death, but then
a girl stood in the way.

She taught me how to live again.
She tried to live with me.
I wasn’t ready for her yet,
Conceit stood in the way.

Collecting grains of broken heart
She went her way again.
I tried to call her back, except
Silence stood in the way.

In silence and in loneliness,
No clue what I’d have done.
But thankfully my poetry,
Misra, stood in the way.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, बीच में आ गयी

bīch mein ā gayī

ban-nā mujhe shāyar tha āshikī bīch mein ā gayī
Fanā ishK mein honā thā zindagī bīch mein ā gayī

shikastgi si merī ye zindagānī thī magar
pal bhar jīt ke jīne kī tishnagī bīch mein ā gayī

ghāt ghāt dhūndhā magar ik būnd Fateh kī na milī
Talāsh jārī rakhtā par muFlisī bīch mein ā gayī

rāt kā din aur din ki rāt karke paise jod liye kucH
jam chukā tha naukrī mein māyusī bīch mein ā gayī

har subah har shām bas Khudkushī ke khayāl aaye
maut lene chalā hi thā ajnabī bīch mein ā gayī

jīna fir sikhāyā usne jīnā sāth mein chāhti thī
Main nahīn tayyār tha aur KhudGarzī bīch mein ā gayī

dil ke reze baTor kar wo chal di apne hi rāste
sochā nām pukārūn par Khamoshī bīch mein ā gayī

Khamosh bhī main tanhā bhi na jāne kyā kyā kar jātā
shukar manāo ‘Misra’ shairī bīch mein ā gayī