MOHIT MITRA Poet Haibun

THE GRACE PERIOD

I. Storm
The tempest is begotten not in rage, but in ordinance and patient restraint. Ere ever it assaults the trembling shore, it winds itself upon its own power, as though counsel yet might stay calamity. Thunder is meditation, rain a sentence adjourned; the storm teaches not the art of fury, but the perilous mastery of withholding beyond mercy.
Poem
 The storm doth wheel ere it presume to fall,
 Its fury bound within delay’s dark thrall.
 What shatters earth is patience overwrought,
 A fist withheld till mercy cometh naught.

II. Neuron
No thought leaps forth complete; the nerve suspends its spark, granting the flesh a slender reprieve. Within this narrow interstice, consequence assembles, and the self is for a moment absolved of its own momentum. Choice is but injury deferred, a wound that lingers long enough to utter sense ere it strikes.
Poem
 No thought takes fire; the nerve entreats for stay,
 Betwixt the spark and act doth fate hold sway.
 Choice is the wound that bleedeth not outright,
 But waits for sense ere it descend in might.

III. Star
A star endures not by dominion, but by contention. Gravity importunes descent; light replies only by delay, consuming itself that the end may yet be stayed. Each flare is a purchased reprieve, each ray a plea that time defer the debt of what must be.
Poem
 The star spends fire that it may yet remain,
 By lavish waste it parleyeth with bane.
 Light cries “Not yet” to gravitation’s plea,
 And time is struck from ash unwillingly.

IV. Wound
Pain is not the wound, but the answer delivered too swiftly. Trauma begins where the interval is violated, where the body is forced to conclude before it may demur. Healing restores delay; it plants silence betwixt memory and blood, and teacheth the past to speak with chastened tongue.
Poem
 Pain is the answer hastened past its hour,
 Trauma, the pause despoiled by sudden power.
 To heal is grant the flesh its stayed reply,
 Where breath keeps ward betwixt wound and the why.

Coda
We endure unresolved; each breath a stay, a subtle art by which the world persists. Existence endures not by certainty, but by the trembling mercy of not yet, and in that interval all things continue.
Final Poem
 Between assent and ash we keep the seam,
 Delay, the craft whereby all beings dream.
 So long as breath may hesitate and bide,
 The end itself must learn to stand aside.

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