Its Time Has Not Come. by Rajnish Mishra

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.

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. He edits PPP Ezine.