Poems of Lakshmi Kant Mukul

The Geography of Love on the Body of the Moon

In the waxing light of the moon
my touch arrives
at the tip of your toe—
like the first dew
resting quietly
on the ridge of a field.

On the second night,
I do not bring laughter
to your soles—
I sow instead
the rustle of paddy grains.
By the time I reach your ankles,
as the moon climbs
a mango branch,
my fingers begin to read
the tremor in you.
Behind your knees,
like hidden pond-water,
a cool fire burns.

On the fifth night—your thighs,
warm like mustard flowers in bloom—
I place my seasons there.
When I arrive at your navel,
as noon leans
into a village well,
I fill myself
with your depth.

Your waist—seventh night—
a turning of a bullock cart
where the road
suddenly becomes a song.
Eighth night—your chest,
like rain-soaked earth,
breathing out that raw,
intimate scent
at the slightest touch.

On the ninth night, in your underarms,
not ticklishness—
but the hidden laughter
of childhood.
On the tenth night—your throat,
I do not inscribe my name there,
I pass
like wind—
unclaimed, soft.
Eleventh—your cheeks,
like the tender skin of guava
where sweetness grows
without announcement.

Twelfth—your lips,
not ripe berries,
but the first drop of monsoon rain.
Thirteenth—your eyes,
I do not see only you—
the entire sky
descends there.
Fourteenth—your forehead,
like a ritual plate,
where even touch
becomes prayer.

And on the full moon night,
as my fingers move
through your hair,
I touch
the whole moon.
And when the moon begins to recede,
descending slowly,
I follow that rhythm—
like a river
leaving the mountains
for the plains.
So does love flow
through you.
Your body—
not a single place,
but an expanding village—
a living geography
where each corner
holds its own season,
its own sunlight.

I am a traveler
of that terrain—
each lunar phase
offering a new path.
In your touch,
I do not touch only the body—
I hear time moving.
As the moon wanes and grows,
so does our love—
shifting shape each night.

And in that changing form,
I love you
every time
as if for the first time.



You Are Steeped in Every Scent, Every Taste


I call out to you
the way dew calls the dawn—
in a voice so soft
it becomes light.
In that slowly opening brightness,
your name dissolves.
You are turmeric—
the yellow warmth
of a mother’s palm,
filling every wound
with memory.

You are cumin—
crackling on the fire,
the oldest language of the house,
where the fragrance of love
unfolds slowly.
You are mustard seeds—
tiny, contained—
yet bursting inside me
like uncountable desires.
You are coriander—
green, fresh,
like the first leaf of hope
rising in a field.

You are fennel—
the sweetness that lingers
after everything else is done.
You are fenugreek—
a touch bitter,
but in that bitterness
the balance of living.
You are cinnamon—
a slow flame,
the warmth of night
where the body’s music
begins to open.

You are clove—
small, deep,
like the endless ocean
hidden in your eyes.
You are black pepper—
sharp, waking,
breaking my stillness
again and again.
You are red chili—
fierce, blazing,
like the scorched earth
of a June afternoon.

You are cardamom—
a secret fragrance,
adding a new meaning
to every touch.
You are bay leaf—
a flavor that reveals itself slowly,
like the deep conversations
inside your silences.

You are mace—
lightly mysterious,
layered,
and I keep losing myself
within you.
You are nutmeg—
intoxicating, drowsy,
deepening my nights.
You are asafoetida—
pungent, essential,
without which
everything remains incomplete.

You are mustard fields—
spreading yellow
across the earth within me.
You are black salt—
the hidden spark
inside the ordinary,
giving every taste
a new identity.
You are ginger—
warm, piercing,
opening breath
on cold mornings.

You are garlic—
truth drawn
from the depth of soil,
giving every dish
the honesty of life.
You are carom seeds—
small reliefs,
making space for comfort
even inside pain.

And I—
a simple farmer,
slowly cooking
all your spices
in the clay pot of my life.
When you are near,
it feels like
after the first rain,
the earth exhales—
all spices rising at once
into the air.

Your body—
like bread on a hot griddle,
and in touching it
I understand
what hunger means.
Your soul—
like the fire of a hearth,
barely visible,
yet cooking everything.
In your laughter
there is jaggery and dry ginger—
sweet, sharp,
and lasting.

When your head rests
on my shoulder,
it feels like dew
settling over ripe fields—
slowly, very slowly.
Without you,
my life is bland porridge—
no color, no fragrance,
only a long waiting.
And when you arrive,
it is as if
the village square
fills with a festival of spices—
color, scent, touch everywhere.

With you,
I do not just love—
I taste life,
in every breath,
every pulse.
Within me,
you are an endless kitchen
where body and soul
melt together
into a single flavor.

Without you,
my life is a tasteless khichdi—
no salt, no love,
only a boiling emptiness.

©®Lakshmi Kant Mukul


Author Introduction:
Lakshmi Kant Mukul is an Indian writer, poet, critic, rural historian and serious scholar of folk culture, born on 08 January 1973 in a rural family in Maira village, District Rohtas, Bihar province, India. His literary journey began in 1993 as a Hindi poet and since then, he has published three books in Hindi and has been published in more than two dozen anthologies and hundreds of journals. Apart from Hindi, he also writes extensively in Urdu and Bhojpuri and also translates them into English himself.

His two published poetry collections are- "Lal Chonch Wale Panchhi" and "Ghis Raha Hai Dhan Ka Katora". His published book on rural and local history is- "Yatrion Ke Najriye Mein Shahabad".

He has received many awards for his work, including Aarambh Samman for his poetry writing in Hindi language, the prestigious Hindi Sevi Samman of Bihar Hindi Sahitya Sammelan.  His English poetry has been published in many international anthologies and translated into many languages.

The notable achievements of his literary career are - recognition as a farmer poet and expertise on the changes taking place in the rural environment in the global era.

Having studied law, he has adopted the modern style of farming.