Volume One, Issue 4

Sandeep Kumar Mishra

My Father

My clock's been swung to zero
There is no zero on a clock,
I don't know where my dad lives,
Previous night my skin felt soft
As he kissed with his wet lips
I know his number, when I call
My dad wish to listen me upbeat,
He replies his recent minor emergencies
About his wellbeing, about how he played
With my siblings and sisters,
In any case, he needs me to return to life
I wonder why only humans need to
Figure out how to move with reason?
Is that why we nag rationale?
It's been simple not to go there,
I know I should meet him but
I don’t have my dad's address

The Reality

Why are we shocked with the space we owe
Conveys with it a specific frustration,
With not a single companion to have
But how little we need to bring,
The main exhilaration that exists
Is the exhilaration we've carried with us,
Frangipanis outside needs thy steady acclaim,
The inflated shafts, once a primary fascination,
Looks fit for somebody other than me
Still it’s mine now and I think,
We’ll be known by the art we hang,
Maybe that is the reason
Wherever we go nowadays
Vanity has tailed us like a pet,
When we believe in anecdotes
Than worldly companions can never be ours,
I feel that with a house this way,
I should set up a major gathering
That would please with vulnerabilities of night,
And simply attempt to settle in
As everybody, even in his own space, is a vexed visitor

The Books

Books are in restless wintery mood,
Their voices seem urgent,
What the books whisper
We prefer not to mention in social circles;
Yet they know more,
Have been where we can't go
In the clothes we wear;
They are unsettled, we are motionless,
Their voices are foreign to our ears,
They disdain, they will shake us off,
Too many voices, too many lost conversations;
When I open a page, fall into its frosty profundities
To sink like a stone, I talk in clichés;
They hover in time like bad omens
They flap wings; frantic pages cloud the sky;
They are the darkness in our bones
That keeps on sparkling like dead flames;
What struggles, they endure day, night!
Some books unopened stay to sight;
Books of some pasts have been scorched
Or may long live not a page turned,
To die unread of ripe old age,
Or by next generation earned,
Yellowed, book-worms devoured in rage!
There’s a thing common—books or men,
But a few significant can
Every book has its shining creed,
Which we fail to read and believe

Sandeep Kumar Mishra: "I am an outsider artist, poet and lecturer in English Literature. I have edited a collection of poems by various poets—Pearls (2002) and written a professional guide book—How to be (2016) and a collection of poems and art—Feel My Heart (2016).

"Recently his work has published in New England Review, Classical Poets, Permafrost Journal, Human Touch Journal, Blue Mountain Review, International Times, Literary Yard, Mud Season Review, Verbal art, Stone coast Review, Indiana voice Journal, Ripen the Page, Poetry Nook, Forever Journal, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Priestess and Hierophant, Red Fez, Literary Orphan, Chiron Review, Poetry Leaves, Whirlwind, Criterion, Really System etc."

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