Poems whose origin is Kasi
Warm, yellow, early
sun rays on
steps of stone,
Cold, turquoise, early
Ganga water;
early, sleepy echoes all around;
I,
alone,
not lonely,
daily drifting, quite out of the river.
Vermilion, late, reflected,
warm, green: stone steps,
water, temples, river, air,
later, resting echoes all around;
I,
between
stone and water.
From: GloMag June 2020
I wonder sometimes how my old friends talk of me!
Do they talk of me as I talk of them? They would too,
if they were me. They aren’t. Are they? How’d I know?
One smiles and calls me an unconscious, apolitical,
right wing Hindu. The mirror never told me that,
nor could I see or know by myself. You need outsiders,
analysts, specialists, critics, friends whose words outweigh
your words, who outsmart, out-say you any day?
Another smiles and calls me a minor god.
He’s an atheist. So I’m not sure what he means by it.
I sometimes think of the one who showed me oyster shells buried
under layers of dry Ganga alluvium. That old friend
of mine is my friend no more, though I meet him
sometimes and we smile no doubt, but we have grown
into two persons who can’t be friends anymore.
We were the best of friends, and we meet sometimes
even now. How does he talk of me?
Or, does he talk of me at all?
Even when we meet, we know that past is no more,
and times have changed; us too.
Published in GloMag, December 2017
There were eighteen children last week, many of them infants.
They died before reaching safe camps.
Their deaths were ‘preventable’ says a report.
They would have lived if helped earlier in their exodus.
Were they just ‘Syrian’ infants? Or just infants?
Forced to flee from their own land. Forced to freeze and die.
No food, no shelter, and open sky raining fire.
It’s reported: ‘The situation in Al Hol is dire’.
The caliphate collapsed, and the dogs of war were let loose.
They tore the flesh, spilled the blood and chewed on human bones.
The god on earth, the lord of the States, did his best to help.
The world shed two tears, and half, and sent wishes,
From its heart,
as they died.
Published at: https://dissidentvoice.org/2019/02/there-were-eighteen/
Do you remember the first time your paper kite
rose in the air, spiraled, went down once, then up?
I remember
how I watched and cheered from my terrace while you
strove to hold your spool and fly it from yours.
I remember
how your mother came running when we shouted with glee.
I remember the proud gleam, her eyes.
I remember
many more things; days, faces, neighbours.
That time is gone, long gone are you, and they.
I pass
through my days and nights mostly in a world
where you, and they don’t belong. Yet
I think
(when I have time to think) of those times for time
is a place where I go and live once more the past.
Yes, I live.
Published at: https://www.setumag.com/2019/03/poetry-rajnish-mishra.html
Noir
To register my songs I stand in a queue,
they stop and stare, I act all’s fair.
I wasn’t born with the name, the name
they call mine. I return nothing I’m given;
nor refuse what I earn, or forget what I learn.
I don’t burn gifts to warm my hearth.
Names grow upon you… ta dum ta dum ta daa.
Names grow around you when you belong to all.
Names waltz around you… ta dum ta dum ta daa.
Names tell about you, they tell lies so well.
I run with the hare all night and hunt with the hounds at dawn.
I do that all the time… ta dum ta dum ta daa.
I do my things for reasons mine.
Their war, their games, my gains… ta dum ta dum ta daa.
Some say I have a wooden heart.
My life, my part, their ways… ta dum ta dum ta daa,
till the sparrow flies away.
Rose
Jab jab bob and sting: that is his routine.
Light feet, heavy fist, waltz in the ring.
Jab jab cover and hook, rounds to while away.
He glides around; pivots round to swoop on his prey.
Jab hook bob and weave. He makes my heart his ring.
Down up up, he holds me gingerly.
Down up up, he lifts me tenderly.
My love, my life, his eyes are blue.
My love, my life, his eyes are true.
My fluttering heart flies with him,
he gives his sparrow wings.
Bleu
Yesternight I met beauty –
‘Beauty that must die’.
Tonight it’s fled, bones bent, flesh melt,
The crowd, the name, still mine, and mine is a wooden heart.
Morpheus my lord, hold my life. My hand is yours,
I sing my lord, my hymn is yours.
You stink my lord: ding dang dong.
Shall we waltz to this tune, or spar: ding dang dong?
Shall we dance, for a round or three: ding dang dong?
Boys! the worst of the lot!
After the bells three: ding dang dong,
the sparrow flies away.
Dedicated to Edith Piaf
I have managed to stay alive; yes,
till now.
So, I should know.
I’ve lied a thousand times,
and one.
Not liking it sometimes.
Done it well every time.
That gives me the right to preach,
to pontificate, even.
What do I tell my child?
Should I ask her never to tell lies?
Then how will she survive in this world?
Should I command her to tell lies then?
It increases the chances of survival,
indeed.
It’s settled. I’ll train her in the science,
or arts,
of hypocrisy, corruption, lies and deceit.
No, my daughters will never know the man
you used to meet in the lectures, for I am not that man.
You made that man of me, out of me.
Thank you, for making me
every time we met, at least a “demi-God”.
For a class of demi-gods, nothing less would do.
Together we were: the magical world,
alone, I am: just a faded snap of that world.
I live those days in dreams, and feel that high again.
That world has gone, and time never is the same again.
Stay in touch, all of you.
I can’t afford to lose you.
For you make me wish to be what you think I am
(and I know I am not, but wish that I were).
Published at: http://www.winamop.com/rm1900.htm
Ghats, narrow lanes, sand, temples, river: images that flash, in all presentations consistently, lose to “always”; combinations of all or some of them present ever in images of my city, the city of light, of life, eternal. No I’ll not name it. My city, is your city, and theirs. My city is stuck with what it’s given. My city as shown, as true, as real, yes it is all, and not. The spirit, the life, the transience, the sorrows, the joys, the filth of flowers, and all that’s seen or not, at all hours, For the world to see, is my city simplified, palatable, presentable, made easy. Multifaceted? Never. Simply, ‘city for dummies’.
Published at: http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6772
A father is born once more with his child
and lives once more in the Eden its eyes.
I did not want that twinkle leave my child’s eyes,
if not ever, then at least as long as she remained a child.
When does it end nowadays, childhood?
Once it used to be eleven, no, ten. Or was it nine?
Back then, in my time, inocence was stretched beyond ten.
Nowadays, in her times, it ends at seven, or six, maybe.
She knows, for instance, when to look away form the screen.
She also knows the laws of attraction.
She knows that girls and boys are…, um, different.
They talk, those children her age, among themselves.
They know much more than I think they do.
I can now feel how He must have felt,
when He had seen that innocence lost
in the eyes of the first man,
his pride, his child.
Published at: http://www.praxismagonline.com/innocence-lost-by-rajnish-mishra/
Sugar apple green, yellow sometimes. Which shade of green?
Dark or light, artificial or small-painted-clay-toy green?
Which shade of yellow? Sunlight seen through a thin webbed peepal leaf
with most of its green gone, and just the veins and a film of leaf.
The shade of taste?
How does it taste?
I remember small grains rub against my tongue.
Correct me if I am wrong. I can taste it on my tongue,
that creamy sweet custard and the tighter flesh around the small,
black stones. Before all that comes my grandmother frail, small,
she used to keep sugar apples for me, along with it the other offerings
to Lord Vishnu roasted flour, slices of guava and banana, and sweets.
I’d get them all and with them, the sacred thread and a betel leaf,
a one rupee coin and a smile that tasted of blessings for me.
Published at: https://redriverreview.wordpress.com/2019/07/30/sugar-apple-by-rajnish-mishra/
rajnishmishravns 