When you grow up and tell me
things, grown-up things, in the language
and thoughts of grown-ups.
When you won’t speak
for the fun of it and act
your then age.
How will I feel?
How much shall I miss
the little you my child!
I actually stop typing,
as I’ve heard you playing
and babbling joyfully
in the other room.
I must first play
with you, long,
long before you
don’t want to play
with your old father
The flying cage
I saw a flying iron cage, yes, the bars
were round as I saw the silhouette and there was an iron
desk in it and a chair of iron to sit on.
All the things were patterned as grills, so
I could see through them from my terrace as the cage flew
high in the sky. The night was dark around
the cage and I had no time to check whether any moon
gave its light anywhere. I had no time,
as I was busy calling my children from downstairs
to come watch that quaint thing with me. No, it was not
magic, the orange glow that showed the cage
to me below came from the fire from under
the balloon that lifted it. No, my children did not
join me to witness the spectacle and to make it complete as,
the man that sat at the desk just opened the door
of the cage
It’s not easy to write.
First, there’s that light,
piercing pain somewhere between my right
ear and eye. It goes away for some time but
returns stubbornly. Then, there’s that doubt,
rather, there are two of them. My wife was not
well this morning. Was it just
common cold, or there’s something to worry about?
I need some documents to start
a process, and have applied for the same. Will I get it?
Shall my will be done? Yet I make myself sit to write,
happy that I’m free for the moment
and no one needs me for some time. I write
because I can. I write
for my dream. I write
as I hope. I live, so I write.
(Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India and now in exile from his city. His work originates at the point of intersection between his psyche and his city. He edits PPP Ezine.)
The Beautiful Space-