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 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seen him for long time and never feel a need or pain of it He is counting his time, his legacy some published books and unpublished manuscripts lying in a store almirah, The long gap between us stops me to take those few steps, It seems a long journey Upbringing and luck shapes our life, my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 the child of my father Do I Belong Here? I hold the soil from my roots in my hand I have carried with me here in this country every day, As I lay my impregnable longing against room's wall, I hear my helplessness like weeping at dawn, As my soul wrinkles with the motherland, I parted with my parents, wife and kids in the country of skin No one leaves home unless your home is a floating nest on the river Nile of industrial waste, You find yourself among the mining crocs or drought alligators, When you swim across the seven seas of population put yourself in a boat of hope thinking the strange salty water is safer than the familiar sweet land, You have a shadow of blood in your veins but an empty belly and the anthem under your breath, the miles travelled means something more than a journey My heart is full of stories of my streets, I carry black scars from wars of white greed, Dust of my family carbonized in dry mushroom clouds, I carry parental house along the vertebra, pink dreams in my eyes When the night liquidates the day as a sinful cloud plasters its sun, everything seems shiny for me- Migraine flash in my left brain- Shiny open eyes when I fail to sleep- The shine of stones in my kidneys- Two shiny pearls on the cheeks- The word “motherland” over the galaxy of stars and the Moon behind the clouds called “migration” I don't know if I am an Australian or not? May be just a rudiment who is deposited in this area by a migratory trade river and thus left open in the “unwaged sun” and the “taxed rain” Australia welcomes hundreds of faith’s manacles, with closed eyes to what is happening in Germany and UK I live in the Sahara or floating on the Dead sea an expanse of concrete cities, a sea of neo-brotherhood without any emotions, a forbidding area lost in a desert of doubt, I was not allowed to attend the funeral of my mother last year They call it humanitarian visa processing based on fixed values Farewell my motherland, Farewell my ancestors, Farewell my dream of new life! I’ve transcribed all my dreams into poems, not into realities that reconcile my exile from home, stretched them into poetic lines, The streets where I grew up is punctuated with electric poles, I have imagined myself surviving by transforming 2 flowers into the bread I have never eaten, I am a brown floret spring out of your mind from the womb of a black history birthed from white memory This is how it feels to live and move in two worlds at once. I came here to outlive the ghosts of martyrs, beyond the hatreds of nationalism, How the basic joys of being give us the kinder face of humanity But I am marginalized to the point of disappearance Barred as a shade of skin, a tone of speech, Kicked by the mighty, detested by the commoner Now I know humanity is Janus faced- Half devil-half human, White faced black truth I will not recommend it even to political foes or religious friends We Are Third World Self acclaimed first world labelled us as third world in their so called socioeconomic indexes and other “modernity is the real development” indices, because we don't do dinner parties but dream of a well fed day Our children study on the floor of old public school, Know the other world only by the greenery and figures hung on its pale walls, Wishing to run on the velvet grass instead of rag picking every morning, as children leave old toys, you have abandoned us Here a teenager recognises outline of a dark futuristic structure in a pattern of present dots of daily burdens, In the tragic repetitions of a homeland song, he dreams of a young entrepreneurship but a termite death hollows out his roots of endeavour You say to our men “Keep It In Your Pants!" and women, "Lock Your Knees!" but here sex is the only amusement, For a three minutes of relief we are ready to embrace this immorality, Although some taxable souls fashion to run charity, the poor wears tattered clothes, Rich wear them to look different, There is an agreement between the people sitting in the car and poor begging for some help Devalued lives full of shadows of slaves, as poverty live without evacuation, Caught in web of the foreign aid spiders, we prop up this capitalising protuberance and force feed the bourgeois class, Our propaganda has become just to see, sigh and cry Blindfolded by civil war, a source of political life and death, We fail to understand the kind of battlefield we are in and our weapons to deal withzzz always shouting for freedom of expression, Never tried to know the difference between our skin and our lips A divided country that sighs and cries for debt relief, Brainwashed by anti-propaganda, As leaders becoming millionaires every second and the people poorer every minute, The land filled with milk and honey, still cries "no money" Self styled media with fake morality, Aiming for PR and controversy interview a petty thought repeatedly to make it a philosophy, Their voice spreads pure venom in gentle dress, in the name of so called minority, Every news is labelled with religious stamp, They highlight the immoral as a face of nation, belittle the good-intentions Sex and violence is a new form of entertainment, Here big lawyers and corporations openly influence in the demo-crazy capitals to gain huge profits, Is this injustice with poverty and suffering not a clear indication of false thoughts that argue over a third world at this juncture? - Ashes of a Suicide As we played curse of tongues so long, I go alone on worn out routes with lonely societal road after so many accidents in pathways of daily burdens They injected “delusion of negation” in my identity veins, I although never had “flash flood of emotions”, I want to live even by eating char-grilled inner self Now a black hole, I decided to be one with this constellation of migraine, tablets, syringe, backache and insomnia that had emerged around I tied my wife's red “sari” around my disconnected neck, a reflection of my smiling daughter was in the mirrored almirah Devil instinct drown into the deep vastness of human frailty against earthly emotions, an inner tide hit me down unconscious How angry I was for not being among the dead? That kind of energy I needed to stay alive and I understood that An ocean emerges from the death of the river
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 “Indian Achievers Award-21”,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.