Quietus "Hush." My father says. "What are we listening to?" "Nothing." 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. Dragonfly 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!
Category: Kushal Poddar
Poetry Showcase: Kushal Poddar (April 2023)
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.
An Ode to Nothing On the road the morning besoms hum Horatian odes to the leaves and blossoms fallen. The night passed belonged to a storm. An ant leads and follows, the marching of one. I know what these remind and I cannot recall. A car stalls at the red; no other vehicle rolls from that side or from this, but the signal stays static. The First Blood You will not realise the first born, a river with two blind ends, spreads like a lake unless you fly high and see the body of truth with the drone-eyes. He opens the door for the house. Others have so many chores. He grins, welcomes the folks visiting and drips his shoulders when winter ebbs, and the gadabouts become only the feathers they leave. He is all our mistakes while fishing for truths. Beneath his rippling skin lies desires died and secrets jettisoned. At night he gurgles, "In me my father sleeps with a stone chained to his neck." You shiver. A swirl of fireflies ribbons the gift of darkness. You Know These Are Questionable Truths I told my friend Amit, I forget what I write. Once a reader queried why I wrote some line and I vivisected like a critic, 0. P That night we strolled into a fort for a drink with a stranger who would declare a no-man's land between us, shoot-at-sight later. Did we? Perhaps I fake my life, live the lies, forget the creation and believe tales as truths. Downslope The odd couple jogging disappears beyond the bend. Now is a stir in the air. Here is a giggle lost amidst the rain washed grass on its thin white wings. A drunkard unzips his stupor, throws the emptiness just to watch morning reflection in a thousand shards.
Poetry Showcase: Kushal Poddar (March 2023)
photo from pixabay
The Complex Quantum of the Magnetic Fields
Some salesmen smokes in the market. The chickens are still alive. The shops release the stretching cats from their shrouds. Rigor mortis has set in some mice, some writhing. Megaphones slur. Words travel in paddle-carts. Work has been cancelled by the union demanding more works. Our favourite mad man turns, yawns, farts. The flight of the pigeons thunderclaps the complex quantum of the magnetic fields into the sky. An Address Bleeds On The Door Once more I've come to the door, scored a photo, asked the mystery behind- "What is it that keeps pulling me in?" The numbers on the woodwork, hand-painted, bleed a lot, and I wait as if its wound would heal, the address would instill a jiffy etched in the air like a capricious feather. Knock on the skull; if I have ever here as a resident, as the one behind, that I had been unlocked into infinity. My father, all gone, whispers to my mother, all gone, that I have grown to be nothing they imagine, but it matters no longer. Apparition A single see-through crow in the morning meadow, I feel the sugar drainage, sway a bit, hallucinate. One crow multiply; the crow inside the crow comes out. The town uncrates its memory boxes around us. This is the oldest part, made of superego. My teacher walks towards the river. His suicide note floats like a duck feather in the mote. I can eat a candy and stable my vision, but why! Thousands thoughts fly and unfold summer. Sky is only beginning to gather itself. Almost Sometimes, for example: while letting my eyes bleed over the sunshine the roof and railing of our house sketch, I fall in love with Almost. Otherwise, at night, I rush to awakening and visit the room I have sent Almost to sleep. I stare at the window-framed nighttime meadow. Wind neighs near the bedpost. It becomes aware of my presence and shatters into a million racing towards the darker end. Almost sleeps. It looks like a letter crumpled and cast inside the waste basket of the dreams. The White Fish In the Ceramic Pond Some say that the fin is the only thing that breaches the worlds' semipermeable membrane, and that the fish is a ghost. I train my daughter to balance on her toes and to throw a fistful of fish-food. I say, "Here none fishes. We feed the echoes of the land." We see the white shadow ricochets midst the ceramic pond. Almost winter plays our chords. Here comes the fish. There it disappears. We utter the words we designed to send to my mother. The alphabet swirls and sinks. A few bubbles break near the bank of reality. The Climate A handcart collects empty egg cartons from the shops in the serpentine lanes. The summer sun lies on the zigzag of the boxes. The tracks look chalked as if it has snowed. Nothing, not even the tropical trees cast any shadow. Perhaps we all died as one, and our apparition has no reflection. The unnecessity of Setting Any Ideal Shadows on the margins, reading the book on your life has hit a bar of lull in this afternoon. I don't mark the books as if I am a holder of the volume in a circle of 'Pass me the pages'. If I had to scriven a footnote I would have written the clouds and the panes perfecting those flipped reflections of the lone reed surviving your vermin's garden. I would add, "I often think, if we worship Meaninglessness as God, as necessity, and as the Sundays in our lives our rituals might be similar to tending a zen garden. The perfection of our method has the aim no greater than to perfect ourselves during this brief and random stay on earth. Imagine what you would have said to that! I lower my eyes; the book has hit the floor; my fingers still on it, inside its bosom are callous about the detachment. Bio: An author, journalist, and a father, Kushal Poddar, editor of 'Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being 'Postmarked Quarantine'. His works have been translated into eleven languages. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
New poem “Kerouac” by Kushal Poddar
The jazz hand of the signal mesmerizes the railway road. Here desires to be There. A blue becomes my face. My tired car punctures the time. A hiss bleeds out in the air. I am tired everyday. I am the everyday. The last roll of the toilet paper holds the tale of my life, and the anecdotes of a pandemic sleep syndrome. I call my friend died last month's first Sunday. He whispers, "Hear the local train pass. It plays the wind like God. The music is God." Bio - An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, works as a journalist. He authored eight books and has been translated into eleven languages across the globe. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
2 new poems by Kushal Poddar : Gardening with My Daughter & BY the Pricking of Our Thumbs
Gardening with My Daughter
Sun rays erect a wall behind us, and on that canvas I and my daughter paint an orchard. The bonsai town sprawls around. Our garden is the giant. I have seeds on my palm. Our voices explaining soil and sun sink the traffic of the toy cars left beyond for this moment. By The Pricking Of Our Thumbs The peril, as miniscule as nothing, came home, this one, the red brickwork, and you carried it in your intestine. Grandfather, I know what it means to know not to know, why the leaves crack to dust at the slightest rubbing of fingers, and ageing stops, dark darkens, the howling wind shepherds the clouds away. One shakes his head at those failing premonitions, and at the success of the prickings of our thumbs. In one phrase, I too, not know. We live through the history, naive. Our deaths mark pandemics. Or war. "Choose your perils." No supreme being offers. Bio - An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, works as a journalist. He authored eight books and has been translated into eleven languages across the globe. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet