Sandeep Kumar Mishra




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




a black line



My gallery has ended


In upper part of my body

A cognitive bell rings

From a dial-up connection of live wires;

The modem is working JUST

To repeatedly provide the facsimile of

Barren and bald paths;

Inner lumbering of daily freight

Coiling, clutching upward;

There is no vivacity

The vital force has parasited

How I inhale life?

My days and nights are bolted

Inside a brain cell,

My voice has held back;

Now it lays a plan to brawl my soul;

Residing in my own skull

It dictates notes imitating my tone,

If I could disintegrate my recall;

As my shadow has left me

There remains Just I, me and myself,

None is willing to be with me

Why is my brain, a black hole?

How could it not be a universe?

I have a constellation of migraine, tablets

Syringe, backache and insomnia,

Dream has become a dead pattern,

As worn out as fossil led glow;

Everything has become identical

Except the weight of consequence

That has variations of endurance;

As I go through perdition

My imbalance will be rectified,

And after allotted time

My gallery will end,

Then you can hang my art

And me on the wall




a black line



The Death of the Seas


My mental wire renders

Images of worn out routes,

After a short circuit happened

In the pathways of daily burdens;

My diseased body quiver with its weight

The hard stitch rubbles skin snatchers;

Leeched of life force

I have little energy to breath;

The voice I hear is not my own,

They dictate notes in familiar tone

 But full of foreign phrases,

Which they disguise as invitation;

I wish I could dissolve from memory

Or hide in my skull cave;

But it is not wise to stifle;

Then an unlearned laughter came

A spring emerging into sun rays

A river emerges from the death of the seas

There are two ways to live a life

I can pursue the difficult one




a black line



I Painted an Ocean      


I painted an ocean

But forgot the shore

There were no ships

When I took a close look,

It was my isolation

Sailing like the sea waves;

I searched alone for centuries

To add the travelers

In my voyage,

Still, singular I stand

On this mortal deck;

Need an island to anchor

When I call on a radio

It becomes silent monologue outward,

The reply comes from the resounding inside;

With every tsunami from the bosom of the core

I feel like conulariid without pearls;

Although I have vastness of Dead Sea

But no light house of life fervor




a black line



A Rainbow Memory


When my hollow present blows

The dying embers in the heart grate

A fond childish Cinders glows up;

The frozen black memory melts past colors,

A sparkle of rainbow recollections,

As I walk up on our trodden pavement

I saw a slash of sea between houses;

Thy red dress like a bright red boat

Sink in golden sand, blue fishing nets

Brown fort walls, green lichen beach;

My soul speaks, my lips moves

A frequency of meetings, a wave of hugs;

As I net to catch these moments

Like A street urchin’s yellow fists

Holding the rainbow in his tiny grasp




a black line


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