Featuring Kushal Poddar (poetry & photos)

 

Buddha

A bird's chirping swirls out

from sleep's exoskeleton. 

Haze and halo greet the room. 

The bird seems to say, 'Sakura.' 

In this life I've never seen 

a cherry blossom, not in person,

albeit I know it is Spring.

My other lives 

are the garden ornaments, 

their hands hold invisible blessings.

Reflections

That year reflections, shadows

and shades grasped my heart.

I shivered seeing shapes and light,

not quite, the opposite of it and

what it co-creates with our flesh,

its interpretations of us.

This year following the halo of our

headlights on the pitch black path

I wonder if heart died after a long

convulsion. We throttle the gas.

Even the glory they cast on the big screen

doesn't make me feel anything.

The red car, premium retro drive-in revival,

home videos of my mother back at home

or your kisses all swirl, scatter and fall

like grey flakes.

Insane, Self

Insane, if you call me

I'll agree, not because 

of my soliloquies frequent 

in front of a ghost audience 

and not because provoked, 

I turn violent, 

because I repeat my old defeats. 

I shall answer, desire to know 

about your children and you will show

anger because you have blue 

and gray at heart regarding that.

Look at me watching my dirty water

trembling twin. Look at that toenail

born and reborn yellow between

flesh and reflection. 

A wind touches your head, glad

that madness is not airborne, 

you say, "Stay well." I see you go.

I shall see you go again.

A Grave Provocation

After a sudden friend's old death

we found it hard not to make love

every dusk, returning home mid-work

as if that could cure gunshots

and the memories not bled 

because death didn't delay

pushing through the cafe door.

Death could have been late, kept

the bullet for a day in May or thereafter

and found our by then best friend

sad with his love for both of us.

He might not have any solution,

startled and relieved, desired to ask death,

"Why are you so late?" The cafe

would have the same white out.

Every New Year Eve

The bridge, not built to descend

near the azure, ferryboat, 

a flash of scales and of feathers, 

but it bring us to the jetty. 

I cross it everyday but the bridge 

behaves thus only once in a year.

You ask me if I desire some caramel pop,

and as usual I want some savouries.

Only on this eve you become my father

and flowing.

Kushal Poddar the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe. 

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe