I had read a poem, years ago
about the joy of stolen apples,
infatuating smells of apples hidden in the shirt,
pleasure of an act illicit over the fruit legit.
My mind picks up those lines today-
probably, during a house cleaning,
and sees a parallel in an ancient lore of lovers-
a fair and a dark,
each entrenched in separate social slots
forbidding any such alliance,
and yet their love story has been sung with raptures for ages-
an affair transcending the inhibitions of societal expectations
and plunging into an amorous relationship,
which would be a disaster even in the current times-
an affair between
one- ordinary, socially bound with fetters of morality
and the other-ensconced at the epitome of all norms:
“the moon and six pence”.
Fool, that I am,
I am trying to wake up late to see:
perfection is breaking the tether
of ordinary living and
reaching out or in
for the present imperfect,
that only is the absolute perfect.
The cost is high, the pain, maybe, immeasurable,
lacerations of the righteous uprights gruesome,
and all this, for attainment of a temporal relationship,
or perhaps for just the arrival of one where one has always been
or possibly just waking up for the experience that is only personal!
It must be worth it,
not to worry about the norms,
for fetters will there always be,
and that experiencing may become a lore
to be sung in ballads after eons,
rejuvenating all
like the nitrogen of the dead plants in the soil
enriching the soil for the new.
Unusual trios, it may seem,
commonality, hardly will you deem,
except the first letter in the name,
but that’s nothing to start a poem.
First, a drink we grew up drinking warm
second, we watched in theatres, now at home,
third, a game, that also has changed its form,
let’s see if we find something common to affirm.
From the history we sure can wrest,
all three came to the east from the west,
then all three got spiced up in the east,
and circled back to the west with a twist.
Went in, the first, as tea and came out as chai,
with milk and sugar, had a few faces turn wry,
now the same at Starbucks, to ask, none is shy,
how it has changed now, and I wonder, why.
Eastern movies, came with song and dance,
like opera moved from stage to films by chance,
then, I saw a couple of figure-skaters’ prance,
how their act, a Hindi movie song, did enhance.
Cricket, the English played for days five,
when they brought it to the east in their hive,
theirs were the rules but the game did thrive,
now shortened, five days have games five.
Churning is what everything goes through,
little changes to the three changed their hue,
small things they’re, still a sample of the crew,
changes there must be to keep the world anew.
| About the author |
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| Biswajit Mishra, born in Odisha, India, writes poems predominantly in English and sporadically in his native language Odia. His poems’ subjects are varied and include nature, animals, plants, spiritual concepts, families, travel experiences. His poems’ subjects are varied and include nature, animals, plants, spiritual concepts, families, travel experiences. Some of his poems have been written live-onlocation during his travels or walks. Biswajit has recently completed a solo driving trip of 4,500 kms camping on his way to Yellowknife in Northern Canada where the Northern lights, that he saw for the first time, inspired him to write the first on-the-location poem the category of which he calls live poems. Recently, some of his poems were published in the September 2022 issue of the “Year of the Poet” and “Indian Periodical”. Biswajit currently lives in Calgary, Canada with his wife Bharati, having lived in India and Kenya in the past. |