The Speechless

The gold pot once buried

Doesn't tread back the same path 

And hence the blood in my veins 

Won't flow back

If the clod in the front door 

Doesn't try to tell my story. 

It's winter, my body burns with fever. 

If I don't peep through the clouds, 

I won't be able to see you dead. 

If I don't touch the stars, I can't hold you back. 

Now if you ask to paint back the 400BC paintings...

I will not make a difference. 

I will make a thoughtful aspect like an ape with a book. 

There would be silence if the dumb sky doesn't decide to throw up. 

If you never got the pain. You haven't been full of hopes. 

It's winter but the trees haven't dried up. 

Yet, there's still a point in time.

If I don't decide to walk up to you,

I will be speechless. 

Green stain

A green stain on the uneven geography and

Rhetoric questions on love. 

La donna! is what he said

When I rushed out to drench. 

What is love? A pretty, pricky thing. 

Out in the sun you go, but the tan. 

With time you need fuel. With time you need words. 

Where will I get so much? What should be the tax?

This is a caesura. 

A doubt, an unexpected explanation. 

O what is love?

A stab of a knife or a cat on a hot tin roof?

The Hitchhiker Called Life

I was in an illusion of sound

The sound of Goddess, the sound of enormity. 

I waxed the caps of my child, he liked it. 

For everyone is going outdoors,

And why will mine stay behind?

Since when did we start missing roads?

Only when we were missing homes. 

And when was it that we missed the Moon?

Only when the Child actually holds the hand.

I packed my responsibilities in lunch boxes.

I even indulged in affairs,

You haven't seen Sun shine so bright.

Oh is it summer? Or the last season of pride?

Go and claim your places, positions and positivity

Since you never know when you stop getting loved. 

Risk the elements of life

Be a hitchhiker

For everyone stands on a tripod. 

You drew the rain by the window, I saw you. 

I was unpacking my child's bag

Trying to figure out what he lost,

Books, pens or an eraser?

If books, I will buy him more. 

If pens, I will gift him more.

If an eraser, I will snatch it more.

I see you erasing the drawing.

What do you wonder?

The rain in front of your window would fall straight?

Even the knights of my night stab me with knife

Nightmares seem hollow. 

I am Infinity and one. Did I quarrel less with numbers?

But the bitter illusion of life and it's sweet melodies of earth

Teach me loving is not easy; watch out for more. 

Because you are jittery. 

Neeraj's debut book!

Novel: Falling In Love

Storyline:

 He was witty. She was traditional. He was happy go lucky. She was adorable next door girl. He instantly fell in love with her. She cocooned her feelings. He wanted her. She refused him. Who wins? Why she refused him? Will they meet? Will he be able to sweep her from her feet? Are love stories really for forever? Does love happen only once? How far can someone go to get his love?

Come, be a part of this eternal saga, a journey. A journey of two souls falling for each other where you will find funny one-liners, punches and oodies of romance. If you have ever fallen in love, it’s your story, it’s our story. Relieve, cherish and be a part of those moments, once again!

Author: 

Neeraj Mishra is 2004 batch Hotel Management graduate from Institute of Hotel Management, which is one of the pioneer institutes of India. He is an hotelier turned banker turned writer. ‘Falling in Love’ is his debut novel and he hopes to write many more. He believes in the philosophy of, ‘When your passion turns into profession, your work becomes worship.’

He is currently working in Banking Industry. When he is not sanctioning loans or writing, he picks up his Royal Enfield and goes on long rides. He is a writer who cooks well. He enjoys traveling and is a complete foodie. You can contact him via:

authorneerajmishra@gmail.com                             

Review: 

When I talk of writing styles it depends solely upon the author’s capability to dig right into the roots of what he/she is writing or delivering to the readers. In this case, Neeraj Mishra’s book didn’t really set the bars high but was able to convince. His two main protagonists, Manav and Sriti were well described but lacked characterization in some way. The one-liners were indeed splendid and I had a nice time reading these lines. The opening scene was scripted nice which will definitely keep the reader held to this book. In simple words, the book being a not so interesting read had a captivating sense of humour. Moreover, it had a predictable ending.

Writing Style: 

Pure, simple and what we call day-to-day English was used which will be easy for any reader to easily finish it off fast. The story runs rapidly as well and thus I describe it as a fast-reader. The language used was undemanding and coherent. The book lacks proper editing and proof-reading. There are numerous grammatical errors which is sometimes disappointing. 
Rj Publishers must have better editors. 

Story:

In my opinion, Neeraj Mishra could have worked out more with the story. However, being a fast reader I must say it didn’t really appreciate and didn’t really disappoint me too. The story was average, a normal one with a climax indeed interesting. I hope readers pick this book up. They will surely enjoy it during their leisure time.

Ratings:

I thereby rate this book a 2.5 out of 5. 

Viola

It was a beautiful morning 
And the sun shone because it had to.
Intervals played with motions,
Harmonic as a viola
Sharp as a harp.

Today shadows played with her music stand
Viola clefs turned to a stretched version of their deceiting curves...
Out went a music full of semibreves,
Lonely, longing and lustful.

Fingers moved,
But homecoming was far from the syllabi
And my voice calling her was out of apathy.
Apathy or sympathy?
Footnotes on a musical returning with its taste.

It was a beautiful night
And the moon shone because it was supposed to.
Tonight intervals listened to motions
Harmonic as a listener
Sharp as a whisperer.

Finding Literature through Poems

When my book shelf broke into a speech one morning, I discovered I am a writer finding my space. My neck being held high up against the wall, the bookshelf spoke of imprisonment and infinite freedom and my faces moved with its whiplash, injuring my cheekbones. We all are reading something, be it poems or a prose, trying to understand what they connote, and of course living Literature by writing poems. When I try to look towards uniqueness it is always through stanzas which deal with a fair sense of strangeness providing an eerie feeling. Last year it was a sort of survey I dropped on my shoulders to go through poetry collections in the Kolkata pustakmela. Priorities were language which included incongruity and verses and that would resonate.

I found myself in a fuss when I entered stores. I couldn’t really make up my mind, what shall I read? What shall I buy? Whom shall I read? And then I entered the next store…

I must mention Kolkata has variety. The first few books I went through were Donne’s. I never knew much about writers and while just reading a short piece of his, I googled. What happened was I couldn’t move any further and the survey was called off immediately. John Donne’s metaphysical poetries were on topics like joys of lovemaking and humanities subservience to God. His energetic and rigorous uneven lines were characterized by complex witty vanity along with contrasts. The lines which reverberated were:

Now thou has loved me one whole day,
Tomorrow when you leav’st what wilt thou say?

Donne’s poem Woman’s Constancy is a quite dramatic monologue. It is full of questions and arguments and the basic meaning is quite clear from the very first lines. The wit of the poem did make it sometimes humorous. His poems made me question lyrics and he played a major role in modern development of notes. I realized when I searched, Donne’s poetry was written some four hundred years ago, inspiring not only Amit of Tagore’s The Last Poem but thousand others. A variety of amorous experiences could be related by me, though they were startlingly contradictory sometimes.

It is not my work to critically write anything on him. I don’t know him even a unit. What made me stop by him was the name A Valediction. Studying John Donne is a future decision but as of now questions after answers keeps on arising. Language was the finest discovery and amalgamation done, but poems? What are these? Just mere verses?

And then the one image of two people, that soul cannot be divided but only expanded and the triumph of love makes me wonder is this possible only through poems? Literature indeed can be only found through poems? Or as if I say for God’s sake just hold your tongue and let me love!

We are great Writers

We all are great writers
We write stories of genres
Everyday writers sleep on a cushion of thoughts
And a pillow of love between their legs
Sleeping in gymnastic positions
One hand on their chest
While the other writing a little short poem.

We claim to be writers
Writing short stories and novels
Turning truths to lies 
And lies to vulnerable lies. 
Not all poets are writers
But among the crowd we are of the same sex
We are poets and writers of course but unique in nature.

We are great story-makers and story-tellers
Prepared to invade pages with inks full of dishonest honesty and irresponsible words
Fifty percent is resplendent creativity 
While the rest is an insincere sight of words.
We are great artists too 
Quitting pages, linking words, memorizing figures 
And letting them down the pipe of the bin.

Oh eve, listen we are great writers of our time,
Indeed indecent and independent.
We are making nature, creating characters.
Writers lose weight
Writers gain weight.
Untimely death gets designed on our troubles
Yes we are writers and each a great muggle.