Tag: Hiraeth Series

Hiraeth Series Poem #36

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.

Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal Poddar
 
Hiraeth Series Poems by Kushal Poddar 34 & 35

Hiraeth Series Poems 31-33 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series Poems 28-30 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series poems 26,27 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series 34 & 35

34

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.

35

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”

Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series poems 31-33

31

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’.

32

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 .

33

“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.

Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal Poddar

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

Hiraeth Series poems 21-23 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series 26-27

26

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.

Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal Poddar

A Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”

Poems 24 & 25 from Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar

24

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.

25

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 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”