Anger sits with its piss sample. The results displays pink. Dream will be born and born angry buck naked on one bad laundry day with the firmament greying in one thousand minute shades.
I remember my mother died two autumns ago on this date. I stare at my toes while sitting on the cold toilet seat.
Everyman can get pregnant when the time ticks right with the juvenile vision to meet the deceased near the black horizon.
27 (Inspired by a photograph of Chinki Sinha)
‘Revolution’ – someone has etched with a screwdriver no longer in use for its original purpose on the body of a dilapidated bus left to rot in the police garage,
and I sip my imbecile tea latte and say, “Apparently it takes a garage, not courage to continue a revolution.”
The dust serpent hisses here. Here this red dustbin of a roadside stall spills its plastic guts. The old comrade climbs up on the bus without any wheels and drives mad, drives blind. The cookie I dipped falls and loses its identity in the sea of my pale tea.
Poems 24 & 25 from Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar
The freight train of the tree leaves
hit the station Autumn.
This afternoon I desire to play daggas.
Between the beats I lift my eyes
and see the leaves gather
around over the hair losing yard
and over the arthritic mower
and covering the pigeons irritated
by the doves sheathed in leaves
and into the space - sacred and worshipped
in my weekend conversation with my father
over the telephone.
I pick up the rhythm so that the vaccum
shrinks to accommodate the fall.
My landlord's ghost eldest son
whistles at his motorbike, and it
shakes off the leaves and the dust and
the leaves and the dust and the death
in this exact order.
Perhaps the boy suddenly remembers
to feed its solitary horse and begins to walk
with the haylage. There is no horse in the town.
I hear his footsteps and the beast's neigh.
Evening wraps up its business.
The pearls of the windows metamorphose
pain into some magic lanterns of the hope.
The horse's shadow wins the bet of loneliness
wagered between it, the horse and the boy
I hear the boots and the hooves and measure
yards and time with those and then I forget
the units and the numbers and the truths
of my calculations. Oh, nothing should happen
to the boy or to the horse in the pit of darkness.
Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal PoddarHiraeth Series poems 21-23 from Kushal PoddarHiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar (poems 13-20)*updated 9/13Poems 8-12 from “Hiraeth Series” by Kushal PoddarA Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”