Rajnish Mishra

Let not life's love
Breathe its last -
Ever.
Keep our love's flame
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A poet I'm not, not always, not every day.
Reluctant and rare my poems come to me,
At times, not even welcome, to me.
One knock I hear, faint yet clear.
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Myths of yester-years, epics of tomorrow;
With the day intervening,
The bridge that sings
Of past - days, places and people:
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Ah, death!
So interesting!
No.
Sad, quite tragic, in fact
...

It's long past twelve,
A June afternoon,
No monkeys, nor dogs any
Dare roam around or walk,
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Stories all by compulsion,
Are set at some location.
So, ours in Kashi begins.
He was before too,
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Angry river rises rows of steps, breaks bounds.
Wild wind blows, slaps water, makes sounds:
Lapping, fluid, disturbing, disturbed sounds.
Silence then breaks. Whirling waves no more tame,
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The air I breathe in, and space in thirteen dimensions, you
Fill my waking thoughts and dreams, day and night.

That question resurfaced, the question of intense passions
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Mourn for the departed glory.
For poems that left earth
Unheard, unsung.
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Wisdom they call it: that drying
Of fonts of feelings, and more,
That dying of heart, tender heart,
Of knowing but feeling no more.
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No poet is poetic
Even half their life.
(Don't push me hard
For data verification) .
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Thoughts flow out from mind,
Make me breathless.
Torrent gushes out.
From the past come memories,
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Line stipulated for the poem of life
Pages strewn all around
Collect them but fail I
To collate. To a land unknown
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Mourn for the departed glory,
For poems that left earth
Unheard, unsung.
...

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