2 new poems by Kushal Poddar : Drinking with a Priest & Rabbit, Dance

Wine, Drink, Alcohol, Glasses, Glassware

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Drinking With a Priest

Later the priest moots,
"Some dying men stares at me,
holds their gaze as if 
by the power death has vested in them 
they can see through me and my faith
and how I think about something else,
perchance about tomorrow's lunch.
In the life's Venn diagram death is ∩,
and at that point being and beyond intersects.
A man can see or accept the truth of his
lifelong blindness."

The beers in front of us sucks the warmth
of the room. They taste acerbic. 
Through the orange translucency
we can see eachother, a little distorted.

I wish I could see the words compadre
expects to hear, but this is not that day.

Rabbit, Dance

No trace of the magician,
a shot glass of jazz
left full on the table,
I decide to convey the bad news
to the organisers

and shake my head;
the rabbit maze-running inside
won't fall out. 
I pick up the glass from the table.
Now I dance with the shadow,
a rabbit in me.
The grass of silence undulates.
The audience waiting out there
sounds like an orchestra of crickets
in the befouled greenroom.

3 new poems by Kushal Poddar : “Cabin Song” “Earlier””The O of the Sky”

Poetry Showcase from Kushal Poddar

A Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”

Check out Kushal’s new book through IceFloe Press.

Hiraeth Series #36 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series Poem #36


On Mondays the collector wakes up
one-day-only-paranoic to
all he has gathered so far -
each matchbox, brass button, 
fountain pen, old map and jazz vinyl.

He grabs his eyes and stare outside.
Downstairs I live in rent -
someone who collects open spaces
fitting for the hearts missing.
I would have stooped to pick those up,
but the process of it feels like
pulling out the magnets from an iron door 
The little plops make me shiver - those
noises of hiraeth. 

I hear the bloodshed in the collector's screams - 
"Nevermore nevermore." 
I should shout that he is not the only one.
Look through my open spaces.
Everything is on fire like some ants
underneath a child's magnifier.

Hiraeth Series Poems by Kushal Poddar 34 & 35

Hiraeth Series 34 & 35


Near the market’s end
one nibsmith toils on a pen
no longer in demand
or in use even by him.

There is no no-longer.

The shops seek an end
to this sickness going around.

As I pass the dim shop I hear
a distinct crack widening
the fractures in the barrel
and the section.

A gush of ink spurts out
from the shop,
and we are all written off
in a fraction of one breath.


A man in white
stuck in rain
orders the same tea
I call for in this
puny shanty,

and here we,
two strangers, sip,
dip some salty cookies
you find exclusively
in these roads
where rain blows both
hot and cold,
and kisses are forbidden
for the couple
sitting in the other bench.

The car designated to him
and ran by a chauffeur
in his company liveries
arrives, and he
walks his limited liability walk
toward nothingness.

Hiraeth Series Poems 31-33 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series Poems 28-30 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series poems 26,27 from Kushal Poddar

2 more poems from Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series poems 21-23 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar (poems 13-20)*updated 9/13

Poems 8-12 from “Hiraeth Series” by Kushal Poddar

A Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”

Hiraeth Series Poems 31-33 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series poems 31-33


The neighbor’s tree encroaches
the air space,
taps my shoulder tired bearing
the weight of my slumber.

This day will not be known as
‘The day our neighbor’s tree woke me up’.

I struggle to descend downstairs.
No sound greets me. It seems
either no one else lives here
or all has left for a celebration
I’ve forgotten.

This day will not be known as
‘The day our house emptied its belly’.

If I try not hard enough
this day will roll on and be
‘Any other day’.


Nothing noted today, for two days in a row I have nothing to report. I stare out at scrawls on the bank of the pond nearby and imagine the ducklings,

and oh yes, I have not seen the local fishmonger shove some sacks of Cocaine down the throats of the bloated belly fish .


“My son died from sea-sickness.”
What are you saying?
I shake my head in silence.
“Oh yes.” You say.
“A brain cells eating amoeba.”

I witness the absence
ravage the presence.
The misplaced memories topple
the shelves full of souvenirs
from one seaside far away.

A kite shrieks in a seagull voice.
The sky reverberates.

Hiraeth Series Poems 28-30 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series 28-30


One street light still lit,
the dusty clock face ticks
eight o'clock in the morning.

One fly prays amidst
my bread crumbs as if 
it is the epiphany, crack of ray
in this gloomy and cluttered day,

and on my table 
beside the cup and the plate,
beside the drained coffee and
the deconstructed loaf
sits a now formatted laptop.

I wonder if some cache memories
remain etched in the eternity.


Clouds roll the clpds of early light 
Everything, I feel, a bit clotted.

Even the breathing.
I ponder over the medical terms
for this ailment.

This is between
the drafts of my self-help book 
'Gain Humour, Ease Into Dying'.

Wind reveals some new shades of red
on the branches.
This tree, so typically tropical,
wears red for the new birth
and red for the death. 


The wires running by the Highway
slices the loaves of clouds.
Light is better today 
When I drive I prefer silence.

Hush, roadkill.
Do not talk backseat.
Turn off the music.

And yet why does my childhood
sit behind the wheel?
Honk. Honk.

Who are you in a red shirt
sweeping autumn?
I drive past you, and you wave
as if passing is one wave,
one of many tiny triangles.
Not one marks the shore.

Tired light drives the planet.