“And who are you?” the crowned germ asked
While flying through our door.
“Only a mite of a different gene,
Who’s trying to be more.
“Your Dad is sick, your Mom is too,
And you’re too weak to act.
Come, serve your king – an honoured guest –
And pray you’ll stay intact.”
I welcomed it, I welcomed it –
This virus crowned in Fear –
And thought of guests at weddings Red
And Rains of Castamere.
I thought of guests at weddings Red
And Rains of Castamere.
It’s good you practise what you preach.
But only practise. Let it teach
Instead of words, instead of speech,
For talk is merely stubborn leech,
Which sucks the lesson out of reach.
So, do, just do, I do beseech.
The single Gulmohur bloomed in me
A garden-variety parental pride.
I looked at it and wondered what
Accident of soil, water, and scraped up dung
Had led to this everything-nice.
I pulled my phone to take a picture.
First, a closeup in Portrait Mode.
Click. Click. Click. Awesome.
Next, a wide shot against the sky:
A triumphant red on a whitewashed blue.
Click. Click. The focus blurred to furry brown.
The monkey plucked it, ate it, blurred away.
Maturity is biting your own tongue
When pulling theirs – with tongs! – is what you need?
Maturity is offering a hand
When ripping nails – with snips! – is what you need?
Maturity is wearing hockey pads
When hitting balls – with sticks! – is what you need?
Maturity is “acting your age” crap
When growing up – with scars! – is what you need?
No wonder rotting fruit is tagged: “Mature”
I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!
Mumma, I knew it.
But how? Did Grandma tell you?
No, no. No, no. The paper.
The newspaper?
Ah-hunh, Ah-hunh.
It said a star had died.
A big star far, far away.
And so?
And so?! Silly!
The star died, so Baby was born.
Hahaha. Who told you that?
You only, no, Mumma!
When Papa died, a star was born.
So, when a star died…
1.
“Covid testing: 1st floor”
“Covid vaccination: 2nd floor”
Inside the only elevator in the building.
2.
In the queuing area:
“Senior Citizens: high priority”
Watchman in the queuing area:
“You’re retired, no? What’s the hurry?
People have to go to office.”
3.
On the wall behind the registration desk:
“Wear your mask at all times.”
Intern at the registration desk:
“Remove your mask for identification.”
4.
In the post-vaccination resting room:
“If you have any side-effects,
Call this number: …”
Below the sign, in marker ink:
“Out of Order”
5.
On the way out:
“Avoid crowded places”
Below, on a brown-taped pamphlet:
“VIP entry at {local private hospital}”
The sugar “brings a diabetes” or two,
Depending on the nurse who catches you.
At times, you get away with stinky looks.
At times, you get a jab of insulin.
The ones in charge, the ones you keep in-charge,
The ones who live on your retirement –
The nerves on them, sometimes, do get to you –
Ingrates! Embargoing sugar cubes?!
These sugar cubes cost you thirteen pills
Of pain alleviation medicine –
You had promised two weeks, but you counted wrong,
Or so you told the Hypoglycemic.
She has no use for those, except to buy
Her favourite rum raisins off Gouty Guy,
Who gets away with every little thing
Because of all the pain he’s always in.
He’s not supposed to have your pain-relief,
She’s not supposed to have the alcohol,
And you are not supposed to have the cubes,
But this is how economies are freed!
I wonder whether I can write
A poem on a mourning morn.
A grief will may be numb me through
So thoroughly I may not move,
Forget the act of moving minds
Who come to read the crafted lines
Through different strands of space and time.
Through different strands of space and time.
Is there consensus in community
To look upon the easiness of rhyme
With those indulgent, patronizing eyes?
As if…as if…the pleasures of the damned
Are damned as guilty pleasures, damned as guilt,
And damned as damsels’ distressed liveries.
As if…as if…the tools of titans dead
Deserve the pantheon of literature
Exclusively. Excuse-moi, rhyme!
Pentameter! I wrote in it, you see?
And not a hint of rhyme to pollute it.
I dashed my diamond. Are you satisfied?
A crutch! A crutch it has become.
A crutch I must discard at once.
A crutch that holds my words upright,
Though none of them are fit to stand
Upon their own iambic feet.
A factory site it has become:
Assembly line of poetry,
Producing lines of poetry
In cycle time of seconds few
At cheapest cost and quality.
At once, at once, arrest this flow.
This flow will make me write a lot.
A lot of shallow nothingness
In garb of musicality,
Eroding all the work so far,
The work in which I struggled much.
My masochistic vanity
I must protect. At once! At once!
Minakhi Misra 