New Poems: Kushal Poddar

On A Slow Gloaming

To Rijurekh da

The thin light from the window

sniffs, recognises the smoky petrichor

rising from my mellow core.  

In the garden I buried my lies, fed by kitchen rot grows

a Pinocchio reed.

If you stare hard; eyes blur; 'I' dissolves 

freeing you to see more in one, how a reed holds 

some infinite reeds, possibilities, 

as if a lie can be true when its turn arrives.

On Our Seventh Anniversary

A frayed postman

wearing a threadbare flat cap

delivers a letter you posted

seven years ago.

I offer him a dream.

He chooses coffee instead.

He leaves; I open the envelope,

and grasshoppers

from the heartland green 

hops out of the creased within.

I remember - we've declared 

them to be the national beings

of our Republic of Mind.

You are asleep. I whisper,

"They are alive."

Cat's Tongue, House No. One Hundred And Ten

The lane makes a bottleneck.

We have a name for the narrow isthmus;

we forgot that; perhaps the lane's purpose

is to pour the world into the house at the end,

No. One hundred and ten.

I desire to apprehend if you still live there,

keep the books you borrowed from me

decades ago on an evening remembered

for hidden feelings, fog muffled streetlights

casting unstable shadows of us on my celadon wall.

My mother coughed and coughed as you depart.

I recall you bent, hands fisted, books in your tote.

You didn't acknowledge that you would not return, 

no one could. We stopped and watch a starling caught

in the orange cat's maw. The cat spoke 

with its mouth full. I didn't know the tongue.

The Ghost of Democracy

The children's parade

led by a white eyed man

whose wand tilter rotates

and performs as a guiding baton 

passes.

The morning lies thick on the skin.

Even the starlings in

the moist grass observe airy sombre.

Future nears the middle ground

where a leader will summon

the ghost of democracy and

the roads, streets and lanes will

shiver like a Ouija board.

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

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

Introducing Radhika Soni

 

 

The Chalice Of Love

Your kiss has washed away like soil in a flood,
Your tender words, distant rumbles of a retreating train;
The letters you wrote with a quill dipped in blood, 
Flutter like stray leaves against my window pane;
Your vows have retreated like an ebbing tide;
Our sunny grove stands shrouded in lament;
Your silhouette has faded with the eventide,
The chalice of love lies empty and spent.

Echoes of Departure

The swallows fly South when harsh winds blow
But I stay here, with nowhere to go;
Wish I could be windborne and free,
Or float like driftwood out to sea.

The vacant boughs of willows mourn
Lamenting love's brief sojourn;
The sun leaps and drowns in the west
While this sorrow lingers in my chest.

Like wisps of smoke my days dissipate,
While winter's viols patiently wait
For spring to melt their frosted strings,
So the strains may soar upon love's wings.

As the lights flicker in the darkening sky,
I pine and ponder, heave a sigh;
Why is parting long yet love so brief,
Dwelling forever in towers of grief?

Stop all the Clocks 

Stop all the clocks, stop all humdrum,
Silence the warblers, their song and hum;
Bid the sun to just stand by
And the moon to remain in the starless sky.

He was my dusk, he was my dawn,
Stop all the clocks, now he is gone;
Quiet the hymns, the evensong,
I thought love would last, but I was wrong.

Stop the earth, its constant spin,
Wring the brooks, subdue the din;
Draw the blackest drapes in the sky,
Tell every star to shut its eye.

Cover the hills in blackest shrouds,
Unleash the rain from the darkening clouds,
Scrape the rainbow, call truth a lie;
Prepare the coffin, let me die.

          

(Title and poem inspired by W.H. Auden's poem)

As Golden Tresses Feather Through 

As golden tresses feather through
And gently with the wind they swerve,
They kiss the earth as they bid adieu,
To the boughs that held their joy and verve.

The mist that's hung low since morn,
Rises and to the boughs it clings,
Like clouds' head resting all forlorn,
On hilltops where birds rest their wings.

Why somberly the eyes perceive
An auburn scene that autumn drew?
A beauty does the nature weave
As golden tresses feather through.

A Solitary Spring's Melody 

The Tulip tree has grown new leaves,
Springtime has kissed its boughs;
Snow has forfeited the slumbering lakes
As a rift in clouds' golden ray allows.

The moon a pendant now resplendent,
The winds murmur and saunter by;
The misty nights hasten and flee
As tiny boats on the ocean ply.

All of nature sprightly and joyous,
Bird songs reverb of the thrush and lark;
Spring has adorned each nook and crevice
Except my heart vacant and stark.

Bio:

Radhika Soni resides in India and writes Poetry to find harmony in life. She graduated with Honours in English and loves to read and write poetry. She is greatly influenced and inspired by the poetry of Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron, Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Frost, Pablo Neruda, W.H. Auden and William Butler Yeats to name a few. She loves nature walks and rises early to feel inspired with the morning star and create new rhymes. 

Shamik Banerjee: Six New Formalist Poems

Our Home's Roof: A Rondel

 

Fair Luna, paintress of the night,

Employs her brush with polished skill

Upon our quadrate roof to fill

It with the colours cream and white.

 

Men viewing from skyscrapers might

Deem it a pink sheet—such a thrill!

Fair Luna, paintress of the night,

Employs her brush with polished skill.

 

This roof looks pocked to naked sight;

Therefore, it takes the shielding spill

Of moon-made hues (like man's strong will

to paint his griefs with laughter bright).

Fair Luna, paintress of the night,

Employs her brush with polished skill.

 

 

The Pebble's Testimony 

My home and haunt are on this road,

Beneath the smoky clouds;

Each day, I meet the pleading feet

Of berserk, breakneck crowds.

 

Some loader put me in his van,

Left here amid the flanks

Devoid of scenes—the rural greens,

The rills, and riverbanks.

 

At day, this road becomes a place

Of gruff, harrassing blaring

With none to sing a hymn and bring

Relief from my despairing;

 

Although the public treads on here,

It's filled with lonliness—

A shrub and oak, my only folk,

Bring ease and merriness;

 

I chat with them throughout the day

About a balmy breeze;

Oh! how we long to be among

Wide orchards full of trees.

The surly cars run over me,

Displace me from the spot

(Far from my mates) to grits and slates

And there I lie distraught

 

Until midday when schoolboys come,

Make me their ball, kick! pace!

Then as they prance, I get the chance

To reach my former place.

 

When twilight's mantle slowly drops

And skies are turning brown,

That time, we three, relaxingly,

Behold this dimming town.

 

The early hours of the eve

We calmly spend at last,

But late at night there is a fright

When lorries trundle fast,

 

For once a reckless driver had

Collided with a whelp,

But did not care to aid it there

Or stop to call for help—

 

Poor soul, who tried to cross the road,

Was soon deprived of breath,

Remorseless, he set out to flee

And left it to its death.

 

Unwillingly, I had to watch

Its red, convulsive self;

I saw its strife to gain back life

But could not move myself:

 

Thenceforth, I've praised the sunlight more,

Begged it for longer days

For then at least, a helpless beast

Can ward off such a phase.

 

The Nocturnal's Sonnet 

 

Lone Glowworm, come! perchance with you and me

Might Somnus will forever be displeased,

Unlike the rest He amplects tenderly;

Come from your withe, we'll have our loneness eased.

Sit on my desk and watch the sophic moon

For years which has been bards' device of love,

Or scintillate your lantern to entune

With sparks sent by your kindred stars above.

With you I learned to not resent the ones

Who draw Sleep's breaths for I can watch the Dawn

Break from the clouds, and think: when closed has Sun's

Work and all from their duties have withdrawn,

Then you, the stars and moon illume the sky,

So, who will write Night's beauty if not I?

 

A Dispute

My noontime nap got wasted by the noise

From my old neighbour's room. Something had stirred

A clash between two men. One's grating voice

Was spewing spite. From what I overheard,

(Placing my ear upon the plaster's dent)

Their barney was about the housing rent.

 

Man 1: 

It cannot be 8000, twat! Rethink

and calculate again. Do not miscount!

I've loaned you many times for tharradrink

and Bhang. Have you forgotten now? Discount

their prices right away from my account!

 

Man 2: 

I am beholden to you and I swear

I'll liquidate the arrears. But, you see,

being a concierge, my only care

is to obey the landlord's orders. He

will listen to your grievances. Not me!

 

Man 1:

We both know he's a scrooge who'll not reduce

a dime. Why don't you talk to him instead?

You've been his true-blue chap for years. So use

this boon to speak for me! But, oh! you're fed

with fattening hauteur! Isn't that, bighead?

 

Man 2:

I might as well be brusque and rough like you,

But there's no gain in wrangling with a prole

Who's loutish and ill-bred. It's better to

Pass over such a sleaze than have my soul

Turn pungent from his plaguy folderol.

 

Man 1:

Keep spatting on. It's finks like you who turn

Their backs on pals. It's numbskulls like you whose

Contentions are feckless. Wish I could spurn

Your pleas for cash from me, or at least choose

To demean you those nights you'd come for booze.

 

Man 2:

My mother says, "In monetary matters,

Even your very kin and chums will show

Their true colours—won't mind if you're in tatters."

And you are just a renter here, so

I won't be startled if you turn my foe.

 

A pin-drop silence filled the air. I thought:

Years of friendship were wrecked for currency.

While readying for bedtime, my ears caught

Songs from his room......a shindig probably?

Curious, I peeked through his doorjamb's chinks:

A moment's feud was sorted over drinks.

 

 

Word  Meanings:

Tharra Drink: an Indian alcoholic drink

Bhang: Cannabis 

 

Thoughts on Marriage 

 

I've heard all say, 'Troth one whose beauty's mild-

The sweeter flowers are bethronged by bees,

O'er joy and rapture one who worthens peace

And assays not to have just jewels piled.

I'll look for one who perks up like a child

'Pon sighting Robins nesting on the trees,

Whose verve for beinghood does more increase

To have a line or two of verse compiled,

Who knows the trueness of tranquility

Does fruiten best when dwelled a simpler life,

That God alone and for His will should be

The cause and goal of every human strife,

That flesh is false and soul's the verity,

I'll lay 'fore her the ask to be my wife.

 

What Role Should We Assign to Mithoo?

 

One moment here, one moment there,

How fleetly you glide through the air!

Bird, tell me, what amuses you:

My home's decor, the outer view,

Or flower boxes everywhere;

My sweet Mithoo! My sweet Mithoo!

 

Sometimes upon my shoulder, or

Beside the frontyard's boulder, or

Atop the davenport, you stay

To entertain throughout the day

My little family of four.

O' Popinjay! O' Popinjay!

 

Should we build you a citadel?

A tiny, cozy, straw-made cell?

Or, crown you as our mighty tsar

And set your kingdom on the spar

Where you will always gladly dwell?

O' great sardar! O' great sardar!

 

Or, would you like to be the one

Who'd greet the first rays of the sun,

Flit through my bedroom every dawn

To cry out, "Wake up!" on and on?

Should this be finalized and done?

O' windborne fawn! O' windborne fawn!

 

But I think you should be a nice

Caroler who could fill our eyes

With joy and tears each day and night

By warbling notes both strong and light

Of love and loss and sad goodbyes.

Bird of Delight! Bird of Delight!

 

Compose! Compose that sweet refrain

Once vocalized by dear Lorraine;

When I'm in sorrow, sing to me

Her sweet hypnotic melody;

Although in vain, although in vain,

For now it will make sadness flee.

Bio: Shamik Banerjee is a young poet from India. When he is not writing, he can be found strolling the hills surrounding his homestead. Some of his poems are forthcoming in The Hoogly Review, The Metaphysical Review and Dreich, to name a few.