Not every ball is meant for six.
You better know your batting strengths.
You better know which ones to leave.
You better know your straight defence.
Particularly if it’s Life
Who’s bowling on a turning pitch.
Do not step out your hasty crease
When keeper Karma’s being a bitch.
Do not present the naked edge.
Do not pursue the obvious wide.
Remember, every run you score
Is first and foremost for your side.
It simply wasn’t meant to be.
Two hours too many in the end.
I gently shrouded every line
With blackened brushtipped sketching pen.
Obsessing over sterile words,
I’d wrapped my worth around the verse.
I should have let it go before.
Before it went from bad to worse.
It simply wasn’t meant to be.
It can’t be forced and still be good.
It has to come emerging, free.
It has to feel it’s understood.
I could have said it calmly too?
And what has happened every time
I’ve said my No with twilight calm?
You’ve pressed me harder, haggled on,
As if my No’s not No enough
Until it’s said with thunder clouds.
I tell you I will open up
A little later on my own
But every second day you ask,
What happened? Won’t you share with me?
I’ll tell you someday. Leave me be.
Do NOT infringe my privacy.
I see in me the Brinkman rise –
The Brinkman I’d always despised:
A grown adult with childish fret,
And childish whim and childish threat.
Intimidating with his mood,
Uncertain whether bad or good,
Uncertain what will trigger rage
Uncertain how at all to gauge
The okayness of homely life.
Tomorrow when I have a wife
Will I, like him, be on the brink,
Compelling her to always think
How every single act of hers
Can make her marriage even worse?
Two greyheads on a TV set
Holding and folding invisible words –
My childhood image of having arrived.
Two greyheads nodding, smiling,
Disagreeing with gentle taps to hearts –
I’ve always wanted those sweaters.
And those notebooks with unfastened leaves.
And those fountain pens with teething chips.
And those reading glasses that sat afar
And slipped on noses unaccustomed.
Two greyheads of lives well-lived,
Well-examined, storyfull –
That magical phrase, “Reminds me of…”
And that one, “It will come to me….”
And that one, “Where were we again?”
Are you happy with your score?
Or do you need a little more?
Tho’ days are few
We continue
To wait for tomorrows.
When all is said, when all is done,
We’ll all again be skeletons.
Why pick a bone?
Why die alone?
Let’s live again as bros.
Yohoho yoho ho ho
Yohoho yoho ho ho
The sun’s about to dip its head.
Come, break a little country bread.
We’ll half and half
And laugh a laugh
And shoo away the crows.
We’ll feed the pigs the crusty parts
And revel in their trusty farts.
We’ll shave our hair
And say a prayer
Until again it grows.
Yohoho yoho ho ho
Yohoho yoho ho ho
The pride of leading worthy lives –
It isn’t worth the butter knives
We proudly gave
The blinded knave
To help him with his throws.
So, trust the voice we hear inside
And live by virtues we decide
Until we lie
And say goodbye
In coffinated rows.
Yohoho yoho ho ho
Yohoho yoho ho ho
I’m staring at your sticky note,
“I waited hours for you today.”
I know, I know. I’m sorry, yo.
I have to clear my head today.
I’m deep inside my own behind.
I do not value what I have.
But then I fight, as if I’m right.
“I value you. I always have.”
It doesn’t matter how I feel.
It matters how I feel they feel.
And how they feel I make them feel.
And how to feel the way they feel.
You see? You see how lost I am?
I have to clear my head tonight
Before I write about the fight
And everything I feel tonight.
It’s best I eat my frogs at dawn.
I shouldn’t keep them for the end.
They slip as much, they croak as loud,
They taste as yuck, no matter when.
At dawn, at least, it will be done.
It wouldn’t weigh me down all day.
And when I’m winding down at night,
It wouldn’t steal my sleep away.
Unpleasant but important things
Should not survive my good mornings.
1.
Some commonplace hook,
Something moves away from norm –
A twist. Empty space.
2.
Racing against sleep
The poet plumbs her pathos –
Mimosa leaves fold.
3.
Solitary crow
Perches on the shoulder blades
Of lonely scarecrows.
4.
Simple gratitude:
A bitter kiss on my lips –
The coffee steams.
5.
Gifted, regifted
The book of haiku blooms –
Every page a dawn.
Incessant need to stuff my face.
Interminable hunger pangs.
Irrational insistence on
Invigorating chronic pills.
Immersed, embroiled in steaming tears
Inaction, insecurity,
Inflict internal savagery,
Inviting thoughts of impotence.
“In me, I trust,” I write again.
Minakhi Misra 