Ankur Mishra
Annukka Berg I
Vappu Jalonen I
Jani-Markus Heinola I
Marjatta Kivirinta I
Anastasia Laitila I
Mika-Petri Lauronen I
Virpi Lehmusketo I
Marjatta Leinonen I
Sami Maaranen I
Ankur Mishra I
Mishra in English I
Suresh Nautiyal I
Nautiyal in English I
Marko Saha I
Markku Soilu
EVERYTHING ENDS
Everything ends where you want it.
Road bumps and speed breakers get
in my nerves.
Traffic horns open up like shark's jaws
gnarling in wrath.
In-between lie the broken tombs,
which carry in their graves footprints.
of times and spaces in oblivion
I remain oblivious,
the seeker.
SNAP OUT
Radha's worship,
Krishna's lordship,
And the ring of fire rising with the
Clouds in the stream of sky-blue daffodils.
And suddenly I snap out of dreams
To grotesque, overwhelming drains,
In which I will drench and soak and drown
To reach the dark ozone layers of insanity.
Learning to forget, but how to forgive?
My nerves explode into
murshroom clouds
Of mutilated bodies and hollow-eyed mothers making
hollow-eyed sons drink milk
from their burned and ravaged breasts.
HOMELESS
I fell homeless yet again.
To glory in timeless pain.
Walking with a deranged soul,
Through suburbs,
Watching the pleading beggar's
Lepered skin
Scream,
I want to catch the Jet
Airways to the place of
Doom.
Right now.
DAWN PATROL
The thermal count is rising
In perpetual writhing.
The primordial ooze
And sanity on the loose.
Awakened in the morning
To more air pollution warnings.
Still we sleep-walk off to work
While our nervous system jerk.
Pretending not to notice
How history forbade us.
With the greenhouse effect
Our environment was wretched.
Now I can only laugh
As I read our epitaph.
We end our lives as moles
In the dark of a dawn patrol.
THE RISE OF THE PHOENIX
When the noon sun
Sinks beneath the halloween moon
Then the Phoenix rises.
Monstrous black-eyed hope.
Give me some dope.
BUTTERFLIES ON MY GRAVE
1.
Where are my words?
Who has stolen them?
You, them, us, or me myself?
I dig down deep to the roots of
The ocean and the purple haze
Of skies.
I am stuck in wanderlust.
Where ARE my words?
Begotten, forgotten,
Lost in the cacophony of traffic horns,
Gnarling in wrath,
Scatterung my brain to the very
Nerves, every nerve.
Where are my words?
I raise the sword with
Vengeance,
But find my shoelaces tied together.
I crawl, fall, rise, and awake
To my words.
I am struck by wanderlust.
Where ARE MY WORDS?
Ankur Mishra was an Indian student of history and an artist in many ways. He dies tragically at only 21 in the summer of 2001. He's had a post mortem collection of Hindi and English poetry released. His father has established Ankur Mishra Foundation to reward promising young poets.
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