Rohan Mehta

Childhood Poems

3/14/2023 • Rohan Mehta | Poetry

Poetry Is...

a goblet of glass,

    the honeysuckle-past,

souvenirs of spring,

    a Friday’s fluttering

whispers of a wishbone,

    a falcon of fog,

droplets of daytime,

    and on, and on, and on

the human heart,

    apostate of the mind’s machinations,

a scavenger’s sight:

    an eye of the imagination

Modernity's Prisoner

Take a moment; pry your eyes,

From the eyes of your screen.

Free yourself from the puppet strings,

You once handed out in keen.

You are the jailer and prisoner both,

Having chained yourself into submission.

Yet, you alone possess the key,

To reclaim your own volition.

The Phoenix Sun

The phoenix-sun, exhausted,

Relents to smoke and ash.

Welcomes the fires that forged her,

And dies within their grasp.

And of that death, a single ember,

Extant, under the moon's cold shade.

Alights by some unseen ignition,

And out of the darkness, is born the day.


Do we not all flirt with Death

    As we speed down giants' footpaths

In our sheeny beetle-steeds?

    Do we not mock his methods

As we dive to the depths of places

    Whose air we cannot breathe?

Do we not offend his instruments,

    By handing them out to

All men who so please?

    Do we not see Death, truly,

Until he brings us to our knees?


Awake, awake, calls the rooster's cry,

Tugging at the ear of the land,

Disrupting the slumbrous scene,

Of flora and fauna and man.

Awake, awake it calls again,

Barring off the paradise of dreams,

Awake, awake, and gather yourselves,

So I might return to sleep.

The Riddler

I seek to be private,

Alone and clever,

Enjoying the fruits of my latest endeavor.

My mask your eyes will not lift,

For shadow is shadow

And it does not shift.


Spring birdsongs dulcet

Thaw through the algid amber

Bringing all to life

Summer starshine bright

Pinpricks a sky dyed darkly

Stitching shapes of light

Autumn zephyrs cool

Deposit the dead and dying

Breathing fresh relief

Winter snowfall cold

Dances in downward descent

Putting all to sleep


The first breath is taken

    Not with the nose,

Nor the lips,

    Nor the lungs.

It breathes

    Not of air,

Nor of water,

    Nor of sun.

The first breath breathes

    In the blue of the sky,

For the first breath alone

    Is breathed by the eye.


In each of us there lies a voice –

    Silent sometimes, but often speaking –

Instructing our every thought and

    Informing our every opinion.

It sees, and it decides,

    Observes, and deducts,

Glances, and judges.

    Instructing and informing and

Shaping and molding and

    Tailoring that bespoke garment, Identity.

It draws from the senses,

    Raw, bland, and objective,

And from these alone, maps the mind, and

    Charts the character, and

Fashions the perception,

    Of every and all things.

From these sights and sounds,

    These scents and sensations,

These pangs and paroxysms,

    Completely flawed,

Intriguingly evil,

   Distinctly human,

Beings arise.