They call me passionless, in my head, half-alive half-dead.
I lack sorely (what do they call it?): inspiration:
Those drops of blood that the heart brings on page.
My poems are hard as stone, artificial.
I bring no flowers of hell with me,
No, that’s not all, no fires of heaven bring I.
The visionary glance is not mine.
Love, longing, thorns of life, not mine,
Nor envy’s green flush, shame’s blush scarlet, fear’s pallor:
They have almost been done to death.
Of what do I write then?
Can I take a prophetic stance on Self or Man,
Doubt or Faith (all inventoried subjects) Nature or Nation?
Crawling in mud, or flights sublime on wings of passion?
Rajnish Mishra has a PhD in English literature and he has been active in the areas of teaching, research and writing for nearly a decade now. He has published more than a dozen books, and has edited six books. His love for his city and his awareness of its effects on his psycho-social development ledhim to start his own blog: rajnishmishravns.wordpress.com in 2011. The blog features both his academic writing
and his writing on his city: the City of Light, Varanasi. Blog URL: