13 The seller has included a river bubble wrapped - I realise soon I open it. City's defunct sirens announce Nine and the tide time at that exact moment. He has sent the item wrong as well. I wobble and somehow manage to hold the urn for ashes sent instead of the Floating Frame for photos I have ordained. I hear those sirens. My toes seek the land inside as if the outside is the the new in. 14 Silence bows it a few hundreds watermilfoil heads to the whim of the wind. My toes play with the moist grass, and you giggle. The abandoned mask in the mud draws our attention. We chant, "We can begin again. We can. We can't." The sentences sprint in a circle until they're devoid of any meaning. Imagine, from an enormous invisible bowl I draw some meanings from the lot swirling inside and try to match those with our queries. We do not really imagine. Our eyes map the water and weeds and the mask where ends the land. 15 My brother's grief follows him to his daybreak toilet and to our kitchen filled with claustrophobic aroma of coffee and bread. Atrophied, I know him, he grasps for anything that may haul him by his senses, anything like those scents, benevolent wrinkles in the dark cliffs of pain. The tune our mother has left free in this household roams shedding its tickling notes everywhere. We sneeze a song. I put words on the tune quite different from those of my brother's. 16 From the penumbral cave of one halted building a bunch of eyes stare at me still huffing and puffing from a close encounter with rain. I disappoint them - neither a man with money nor a dealer with crystals. I have heard people take home a pocketful of eyes and free them in a glass cage with cookie crumbs pollinated walls, and on the powerless nights watch them light up blinking good stories from a bad neighborhood. 17 Near and far from the incarcerator, and near and far from our brother good memories ambush the rotten ones. What are you burning to forget? Everything between the zilches. Now the one is gone. The code of the remembrance- zero, zero and zero. Did we remove all the metals from his heart? Late evening crows scratch the sky - that poorly polished firmament. 18 This the same water? Remember the time we went to stare at the eye of a spider's web too near the water and slithered into the current? We had water burn in our lungs and marks on our skin. Our flesh would remain wet for years to come, and even now when some psychotherapist shakes our heads water gushes out through our nostrils. Remember? Of course it is a rhetorical question. The gale of one spider blows strong and strange. Our parents asked, "What did you learn?" 'All is in the web' - would be the answer albeit silence seemed adequate. 19. Window leaves a dozen leaves on my rain damp bedsheet. I have nothing for a return gift. I begin to sing. The tunes are mostly unfixed. On a piece of barbed note I stumble and bleed memories. Tim's mother made us a rice platter, and that had a distinct rusty iron nail flavour. The blood still stains my toilet bowl. We sang a thanksgiving song that evening, were thankful to be able to leave our houses in a not so distant future. 20. Someone's left the fence gate ajar; the herd struggles to stream through as far as possible from the bell jar, from this ranch, rank and this rot. In the yellow ochre storm one single tree lassoes for breath. I state, "Fever runs amok, Doc Whenever I urinate love escapes my flesh - that fire, algid mold, rusty nails. "You transgress and trespass the territories of metaphors," Doc declares, "mix and match." A thermometer sparks like a cattle prod. The sun sets in the wilderness of the West. A Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series” Poems 8-12 from “Hiraeth Series” by Kushal Poddar
A Short Bio: An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, edited a magazine – ‘Words Surfacing’, authored eight volumes including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and ‘Postmarked Quarantine’. His works have been translated in eleven languages.