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.
When irritation shimmers
Like unfinished coffee,
No deodorant masks
The salmon on the chandelier.
When frustration whirs
Like turning microwaves,
No epoxy seals
The cockroach in the kaleidoscope.
When anger writhes
Like boiling eggs,
No seatbelt holds
The turkey to the trampoline.
While going through a nasty ‘mail
An ex had sent me long ago,
I stumbled on a nice detail:
A something she had vowed to throw.
I used to slip some sticky notes
Inside the bag she brought to school.
They used to have some poem quotes –
Some lines I found too beautiful.
The data hoarder that I am
I’d logged those in a journal too.
And later with a handycam
I filmed those pages, flipping through.
The film became an Excel sheet,
And then a MATLAB database,
And then again a Google Sheet
I lost around my college days.
I laughed and hovered on reply –
No clue if she still used this ‘mail –
And shrugging, sent a worth-a-try,
Archiving off the entire trail.
A fortnight after losing hope,
The mailman gave our bell a ring.
He handed me an envelope
That had her cursive lettering.
No sticky notes, no poem quotes,
It only had a pocketbook
Of limericks (and mold and motes),
She’d picked up at a book fair nook.
Inside, an old “I love you, M.”
Some scattered marginalia –
I traced the paper scars from them –
A bold “megalomania.”
“You have that silly smile again,”
My mother picked the envelope.
I tried to snatch it back in vain.
“The one who made you moan and mope.”
I sighed and told her everything.
She laughed and laughed and walked away,
Returned with journals bound by string.
“Your mother loves you every day.”
Minakhi Misra 