My hand’s inside an empty slot,
And all of me is out of tune.
My fears arise in monstrous size
Like Sandworms from a whirling Dune.
The extra Spice in take-out food
Has made a Thumper of my tum.
This washroom cubicle is out
Of water, paper for my bum.
Attention is the currency
Of certain games we daily play.
The Power Laws are clear on this:
The takers grab, the givers pay.
The game, defined so narrowly,
Is finite, skewed, and zero-sum.
The winners, few, keep winning on,
The losers ‘wait their turns to come.
Attention can be win-win too:
A unit paid could cashback more.
A mindful minute’s twice the time.
The more is spent, the more’s in store.
Perhaps, he could not listen now –
His day at work has been so long.
Perhaps, he did not listen now –
He’s said he’s bored with me before.
Perhaps, he heard, but couldn’t reply –
He’s never been too good with words.
Perhaps, he heard, and didn’t reply –
He’s never bothered earlier.
Perhaps, he hates me privately –
His Love-Yous vanished months ago.
Perhaps, he hates me publicly –
His friends no longer drop by here.
Perhaps, it wasn’t him, but me –
I could have said it better, yes.
Perhaps, it’s not that big a deal –
It’s just a silly Ph.D.
In Mother’s garden, I say “Hi.”
The koel scoffs a single “Coo.”
Together, we make poetry.
In Mother’s garden, triumphs sigh
Through open mouths of preying frogs
Attacking all the incense sticks.
In Mother’s garden, failures dry
With salted halves of mangoes spread
To, one day, be a tasteful sour.
Some days it’s sand in hourglass.
Some days it’s snow in Christmas globe.
But mostly it is sabja seeds
In water: settled, yet afloat.
I’m okay with this.
It must be true.
I’ve read books on this.
It must be true.
My friends agree on this.
It must be true.
Duffers differ on this.
It must be true.
Leaders debate on this.
It must be true.
Celebrities endorse this.
It must be true.
I’m thinking clear on this.
It must be true.
It’s dangerous to tell someone,
“You are okay the way you are,”
Especially around the time
They’re bleeding through reopened scars.
Of course, they aren’t okay then.
And if they are, it’s bloody grim.
“If this is it, I’m kinda shit.
I’m worse than you. I’m worse than him.”
The thing they really need to hear,
“You’ve got a lengthy way to go.
So better crawl some baby steps
If spine will take some time to grow.”
Of course, they’ll curse your arrogance,
And call you names – “Insensitive!” –
But deep inside they know you’re right,
They know this ain’t the way to live.
It takes a little longer, yes.
And always longer than you think.
Despite the buffers in your plans.
With life. With love. With everything.
It takes a little patience then.
A little willingness to flow.
An effortless alacrity
To steer, to stop, or let it go.
It may be late, but not too much
To ask forgiveness for your sin.
It may not heal the wound, but still
Prevent infection setting in.
It may be late, but not too much
To fight for what your love had earned.
It may not bring it back, but still
It’s good to have your spine returned.
It may be late, but not too much
To give away your excess hoard.
It may not purchase peace, but still
A night of sleep it may afford.
It may be late, but not too much
To be yourself before someone.
It may not burn your mask, but still
The tan will prove you faced the sun.
It may be late, but not too much
To love despite the chances lost.
It may not fill your life, but still
The holes will lose their years of frost.
Be sure with whom and where you walk,
For walks can make you fall in love.
The longer ones that feel too short.
The shorter ones you drag too long.
The ones through peaceful tree-lined lanes.
The ones through shady tunnel space.
The ones with water-bottle bags.
The ones with stifling Covid gags.
The ones you almost do not start.
The ones you walk few feet apart.
The ones that start with awkward feet.
The ones that sync into a beat.
Minakhi Misra 