She’s fifteen weeks plus day or two–
Already old enough for flips
On to her tum to celebrate
With toothless grins on shiny lips.
She hasn’t figured out the crawl,
But if she spots a beanie knit,
She flips and flips into a roll
To reach it, bite it, drool on it.
I wonder what audacity
Propels me daily to begin.
Begin again despite the odds.
Begin again despite defeat.
A year ago, it took me weeks
To make myself begin again.
Perhaps, it’s all I’ve done this year.
Begin. Begin. Begin. Begin.
Perhaps, it’s Sisyphus who laughs
The loudest at the end of day.
There must be something strawmen do
Beyond their Christ Redeemer act
That makes them so employable
In gardens, dojos, arguments.
Sometimes they scare,
Sometimes they spar,
Sometimes they die for men in power
But still beyond these acts esteemed,
They do something that makes them seem
So aspirational to us,
Who choose to let our silence speak.
He takes the meekness of my words
For weakness of my mind and soul.
Perhaps I shouldn’t offer him
A peak into my whole.
Perhaps he only wants to see
A stoic strength and silent toil.
As if his blood is cold as slush,
As if it doesn’t boil.
As if he’s never felt despair
Engorging on his muddy guts.
As if he’s never drowned himself
Amidst the ifs and buts.
He thinks I write to lead, inspire?
I write my truth – my good, my bad.
Some days, I have the strength of soles.
Some days, I wish I had.
So, who is he to sigh at me?
To shake his head a little bit?
I’ll ripple up his very being
With just a ball of spit.
I’m tempted at this zombie hour
To steal a line from Yeats or Blake,
For I have walked without a theme
For quite some hours in cold, awake.
But then I hesitate, resist.
Perhaps, tonight is not a night
Where someone’s line excites a thought
I can explore, extend, and write.
Perhaps, tonight is only this:
A fool in poet’s clothing prowls,
Renouncing all the warmths of love,
To have a reason for his howls.
I sit in lotus pose to peel
Awareness, trying to reveal
The stillness of my mental lake,
But all I see’s a frothy wake
Behind my pinball consciousness.
I notice I am hooked to play,
To paddle focus back its way
So it can bounce around a screen
And give me shots of dopamine,
Rewarding all my haziness.
I give up, get up, sigh and peer
Into the dusty vista here
That’s misty on the winter morns
And noisy with the traffic horns
Announcing all our cluelessness.
A pinch of envy to my butts
Is what I need to straighten up,
To jet, to flush, to pull my pants,
Instead of simply dreaming on.
A punch of envy to my guts
Is what I need to settle down,
To dump the toxic shit I hold,
Instead of simply hustling on.
I fan a deck of cards and ask
To pick the one you think is us.
You scan our deck of days and say
“But this is so ridiculous.
One day, we were a two of spades –
Too tired from our daily jobs.
Another day, a six of clubs –
We sucked with glee on boiled cobs.
And then another, diamond ten –
We found our wealth in happy tears.
And then that day, a queen of hearts –
We learned to love beyond our fears.
So, even if you force me now,
To pick just one is very hard.
I swear, this is no gendiri.
I see an us in every card.”
It’s time you stopped being Peter Pan,
The boy who’s all potential,
With promise to be anyone
He chooses to grow up to be.
But all he sees is Captain Hook,
Adulting by escaping Time
That ticks inside a crocodile.
If growing up means running scared
And being a coward, hurting all,
It’s better to refuse to grow.
But that entails a hefty price:
To shun responsibility
And run away from kith and kin.
For if you stay, and stay a kid,
The same potential praised by all
Will stink pathetic, burdensome.
And while you may have self-esteem –
Though even that is doubtful now –
You’ll slowly lose your self-respect.
And, trust me, they are different things.
I know you’re scared to even try.
No matter what you do, you’ll fail
To rise to said potential,
And so you’re building Neverland
With made-up perils, nemeses,
Who sabotage your every try.
But know that even stories stink
If heroes are forever stuck.
Begin, instead, by aiming low.
Then lower that to lower still,
Until you know you’ll get it done.
Without complaint. Without excuse.
And then you do it yet again.
And then, again. And then, again.
And once you get the hang of that,
Go find the smallest daily chore
For which you can be counted on.
And once you do that smallest thing,
Go find the smallest next in line.
And then, again. And then, again.
Until you’re carrying all you can.
Of course, you’ll face the ticking croc.
Already, it has got your taste.
So, don’t get all hooked up with it.
You do your thing and let it rest.
Of course, it will not let you be.
Of course, it will come after you.
But why engage it, make it mad?
You do what you’re banked on to do.
So, when your final day does come,
You’ll be a man, a Peter Some.
My mirror shows my fading youth,
My fading year of burned out heart,
My burned out poetry of love,
My loved ones gone or almost gone,
My almostness of everything.
I wipe my glasses, look again.
Behind me, bricks of history books
Remind me, “Things were even worse.”
Minakhi Misra 