Its Time Has Not Come

This is not the poem I always wanted to write.
Its time has not come, not yet.
This one is on what I always wanted to write,
but never did. I wanted to write of shiuli flowers in bloom.
No, it’s not English, it rises from the soil: the name, not flower.

What about that strange sounding flower?
Nothing. It’s just a flower, white petals, saffron stalk.
In autumn nights, in the months before and after
the Mother’s puja, this flower fills dark nights
with the light of sweetness. That’s not enough.

There are flowers, bela, rajnigandha: white alright,
that bloom at night and smell as sweet. Yet,
this poem is not on them. They can’t fill time
with their fragrance. I can’t walk under their light
and suddenly get hit by a pleasant wave that goes
for over a meter, and few minutes or hours,
or points its fingers towards ‘a long time ago’. Right?
No? Not you? This flower may not be magic for you.

The poem I want to write bangs fingers clenched
in a fist at mind’s doors at workless nights, with a
leisurely walk under a shiuli tree, the ingredients
of the poem I always wanted to write for you.
Its time has not come, not yet.

About the Author

Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India and now in exile from his city. His work originates at the point of intersection between his psyche and his city. His work has now started appearing in journals and websites.