Poetry Showcase: Kushal Poddar (May 2023)


"Hush." My father says.
"What are we listening to?"

A rare power cut shapes 
our shadows into formless Rorschach.
I cannot tell if mine
licks my toes or begins from those.

I cannot hear nothing.
The breeze bears the busy roads,
railway, piers, wharfs, 
children, books, gossips, crickets,
cemeteries and death
where all begins or ends. 

The Golden Beryl Ink

You find a bottle of shine,
thickened by time, 
almost gold, metal-solid, 
begs to be in use again. 

Love strikes with short texts 
these days, with acronyms and 
contracted phrases. 

The vial vies for your heart, 
and so you dip your father's nib in 
whatever left of the shimmering

and write a letter to your mother; 
it begins and ends with 'Dear'. 
If you free a tiger 
you can never predict
what midst your collective unconscious
may fall prey to the claws unleashed.  


The app device a translation
of what's scrivened on the stone.

The black and green steps drown
in the hyacinths. One dragonfly 
writes on a lotus leaf. 
Bubbles and ripples hold the hush. 

If you write truths using water
they become myths. I tell the insect.
And there is no right translation of the myths. 

The Forest In The Windowverse

"A forest, there!" My daughter says
often when we open a pane.
We have been to a forest, albeit this
is long after the after.

We cease to ask where and what,
open windows when she needs
the constant rain, cloud coloured beasts
and invisible microbes recycling summer, 
again, again, an easy cure for everything. 

She hears about a shooting.
Today we open the pane. She screams 
"An wildfire! Save them!"
I hold her, say, "We can save your forest
but we must uncover the root of the blaze."

Look Up Syndrome 

Someplace else belongs to the rain.
I look up at the sky and it says,
"Face the wall."
I have been thinking about the moment of end.
"Don't wander near the river, blaze, subway tracks
or a bottle of pills prescribed for a cure." 
I hear my mother, rest-in-peace. 

"There is a cure" I murmur, look up again 
until the Sun blinds me, binds my sight in 
some bubbles. This Spring I have been 
thinking about the wall, firing squad, 
holes, not just the rivers, inferno, rails or pills.
I look up again, try hard to imagine a cloud
that will be my childhood pet at first and then
take a piss on me. 

Bio: 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. 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

Buy a copy of Kushal's book with IceFloe Press below!

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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