The staircase swirls down deep
right into the id,
and I realise I am red
from this vertigo prone voyeurism,
this watching my brother down there
kissing the new house-help.
I cannot help it. I stare. I stare.
My brother's daughter has
emptied out our dwelling
to his ex for the weekend.
Summer and noontime,
heat wears frills, and has an Alice-fall.
I try to reach out, fail.
War & Peace
The way I can draw a Christmas tree
with three arrowheads and a straight spine,
or draw blood by removing two sharp angles
from the top, I offer you peace;
our lovemaking can be altered
by annulling Good from the flesh of Intention.
The household, a planet self-contained,
exists and ceases to with the rise and fall
of our curtains. I wonder at the manner
night hides other worlds, and their screaming
passion and hatred in the arsenals.
The solitaire of the noise our leaking faucet makes
cuts the silence into thin slices.
I can relate to the bonding of the wind
and the leaves. Now it is a dance. Now, the fall.
Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal Poddar2 new poems by Kushal Poddar : Drinking with a Priest & Rabbit, DanceA Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”
“David scrivens sparks and flickers, and if you, the reader, add your wind of imagination to those the result will be a constant fire, passionate and bright. His poetry is the song of passion, cultured from both inner and outer worlds.”
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
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.
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 PoddarA Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”
Check out Kushal’s new book through IceFloe Press.
My grandmother's how to cook hunger
is safe in some government locker.
She used to begin with kneading the air.
Rest I cannot remember.
The great great grand kitten of her last pet
mewls hollowness in her withered kitchen garden.
I open the window, take a spoonful,
listen to the ting of the spoon hitting
the base of the bowl.
Somewhere, the last year
still holds on to the hinges,
and one drunken overcoat
misses the hook on the wall,
and its fall sounds soft -
one last leaf leaving the calendar.
The barren square inches
of holographic past haunts
near the midnight.
Some clock slurs a tick and a tock.
You already mislaid the new calendar.
My call from the morning sphere
hits a echoing blind alley.
Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal PoddarPoetry Showcase from Kushal PoddarPoem by Kushal Poddar : The Smile Craft (for Merritt Waldon)