My Father
My father never wasted time in taking his kids in his lap or playing with them, he was busy in breaking mirrors, hitting the doors or his head against a wall or slapping his children or abusing everyone when helplessness trapped him in the web of poverty, illness and unfulfilled desires Orthodox and religionist in him taught us all superstitions, and made him a sage devoid of social life, and me, almost an atheist, He taught us good values without letting us in his room We had seen him write poems, We were not part of his universe, The world may be familiar with his work, but we haven't read his books as we have developed immunity to it, As a good teacher, he changed many schools and as an honest person, he rarely attended any social gatherings or function, He didn't tell us our history or geography, Oblivious of siblings, locked in a closed family circle, ignorant of our community, we live at the borders of our social circle now When I see any kid, I wish to be with my father, Talk, learn and serve him but still I lack a bond, I haven't seen him for long time and never feel a need or pain of it He is counting his time, his legacy some published books and unpublished manuscripts lying in a store almirah, The long gap between us stops me to take those few steps, It seems a long journey Upbringing and luck shapes our life, my father was child of his misfortune and I am child of my father Body Orchard (Youth) I taste these pears and peaches with my whole body, as graceful as the first floret of springtime in a garden, We watched for the first time a tropic moon descend pine- orange into our yard, I kissed your raspberry cheek and tasted inviting mango juice on unbound rosy lips “Sangam” of red roses and white lilies flow in East- Asian almond cool aquamarine eyes, A sharp nose pyramid a moon ring shine, Long Thailandish slender neck and Brazilian bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, in your diamond apple body orchard shaded under Indian long silky spirited locks The plum tree in your garden is now bursting into flower with the promise that snowy flower buds give birth to ripe lilac plums this autumn when you turn sweet sixteen Garden fig is a glittering moist four-petalled flower, After I strip off the blossom with my lips, heavy with dotted green and red fruit, marking each interlude with musical drops The blackberries would ripen-a purple-green, Like a bottle of old wine, its pulp was sugary, sun's blood in it leaving good stains upon the tongue and desire for more pickings Body Orchard (Older Days) I have wild free-born cranberries, but my garden doesn't have the forbidden fruit For the true are cherry red and golden mango, I have memories of yellow daffodils and oranges blended with the burn of colorless lemon tears, basked in honey rays, dreamed in pomegranate sunsets of lime hills and dulce roses Years of sweet citrus lived in golden hours My yellow heart pining for red fusion, to shake the fruit that never falls, I am alone without the temptation of apple, Limbs entwined in a sweet embrace I kissed season's hot tangerine lips The colors of my country are spread here with clear blue sky, sun, breeze, dew and peace, I can see big juicy melon being sliced up and divided between a bunch of shiny kids, Fruit is for sharing, with friends, family and neighbors even if your neighbors are bears or cows I would not live to see the leaves fall yet moment of delight in the shared fruit would live on I am not inclined to romanticize my toils in the orchard, as the aches and pains of this grove are mines only Pebbles Time smooths rainbow hardness of tree basalt, vermilion jasper, silvery granite and pale feldspar with the help of humdrum but patient jeweller of tides Volcano-born, earthquake-quarried, heat-cracked, wind-carved, death shapes compact among the rocks It drifts light as a fractured bone When the tide uncovers it blinks among the smashed shells, Upset by gulls, bleached by salt and sun the broken crockery of living things An eagle surveys from the upland, unsympathetic to the burdens I have carried here, The sea would not hug me,so I sit, hollow as driftwood, jumbled as pebbles Bio: Sandeep Kumar Mishra is a Bestseller author of poetry Collection "One Heart- Many Breaks-2020", An outsider artist, a poet and a lecturer ,he is guest poetry editor at Indian Poetry Review .He has received IPR Annual Poetry Award-2020 and Literary Titan Book Award-2020.He was shortlisted for "2021 International Book Awards", "Indies Today Book of the Year Award 2020" and "Joy Bale Boone Poetry Prize 2021" and "Oprelle Rise up Poetry Prize 2021".He was also "The Story Mirror Author of the Year" nominee-2019. More information - https://www.sandeepkumarmishra.com/
Fevers of the Mind 