Tijuana Couple, by Kushal Poddar

A couple in Tijuana
snowballs depression.
Their daughter just flies over
the furthest tower,
over the border.
The thing about the pigeons is
they have old man hidden
in their voice and they look like babies.
A snowball in Tijuana
exchanges two kinds of mindlessness.
Kushal Poddar has been featured amongst the poets for the month December by Tupelo Press, Vine Leaves Literary Journal’s Best of 2014. He presently lives at Kolkata and is the editor of the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’. He authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), “A Place For Your Ghost Animals” (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), “Understanding The Neighborhood” (BRP, Australia), “Scratches Within” (Barbara Maat, Florida), “Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems”  (BRP, Australia) and “Eternity Restoration Project, New And Selected Poems” (Hawakal Publishers, India)

A Tale of No City, by Kushal Poddar

You began feeding them,
thrice a day at first,
and they had their wilderness,
tiny nails, teeth more or less. 

Once a day then. Boredom
caught the morning sun.
The flooded streets laid eggs of dry patch.
Sam’s mom complained
about the animals living in your yard.

You began fading,
and they did not comprehend
the magic that spells waning away.
As if to be God one must
appear to disappear, build
someone’s fortune and draw a circle of fate. 

They begged, meowed,
crawled and leapt inside your house.
You shooed them, told them
not to make love or even if they did
not to birth rights. 

And one day you found kittens,
eyes still unopened,
under your bed, your old shirt
forging their camp.
They cheered at you, wondered 

why you would not wave happy hands,
after all you gave them once,
but because you gave you can take as well.
You started a fence around you,
in your house, on your bed.

Kushal Poddar presently lives in Kolkata and edited the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’ and authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), “A Place For Your Ghost Animals” (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), “Understanding The Neighborhood” (BRP, Australia), “Scratches Within (Florida, USA)” and “Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems(BRP, Australia)”.

Immortals, by Kushal Poddar

People here have forgotten to die.
Their tiny village sleeps
through the meteor showers
and late night chemical slip,
blasts and those blisters
that appear to eat flesh.
They live through murders, rape.
People sleep. Wake. Rake their gardens,
and as prescribed by Zen,
they undo their heavy work.
I meet people all the time,
forget their names,
and they do not mind.
They live through my id.

While his guitar by Kushal Poddar

We light a frail candle.

Waves. Canopy. Phosphorus.

His strings garrotte 

the darkness.

A dying blaze traverses 

the nighttime firmament,

and you fix a wish

with your finger tip

calloused from working on me.

Music. Bonfire.

Everything is as unbroken 

as everything ground

again and again and once more.

Bombers In The North Korean Sky by Kushal Poddar

You rubbed off a name from my wall.
I strip a tissue from your brain.

Today rain mocks time’s movement.
Sleep mocks coma.

Here I scratch a street.
There your Bible salesman seeks a door.

North of all music,
cold, my umbrella huddles with yours and listens

to a dying jazzman’s cigarette-hand.
You remove blue from my song.

I operate on the rest of the notes.
Sleep hiccups- good day,

and we dream- every soldier sings.
Every singer battles within.

Kill-gay Day by Kushal Poddar

Do you love
do you love?

Today is a kill-day.
Today they summon
your birth parents
and say, “You failed,
and we shall erase
your mistake.” 

Do you love, babe?
Or do you love?

Hide your feelings
somewhere in the water.
Tell the morning wood
about your absolute dreams.

Today they shall obliterate
what they don’t comprehend.

Leaving, Entering by Kushal Poddar

Half of your flipped truck

reclines within the border.

I watch sun lift

the hem of the barbwire skirt,

sniff at your merchandise.

We shall be late to

clear the vigilantes, bro.

We shall spend cold

in the cave of night all darkness, waiting.

You light up the pipe of talk.

Peace, I say to the circling eagle.

The Alien by Kushal Poddar

While you close your door 

and open your window 

to keep an eye on me I shape-shift 

into a pair of pruning scissors 

or a tool to mend your broken outside. 

An outsider, I am. My stars witnessed 

a harsher landscape. 

Evening brings in them here again. 

I stare at them. Those windows of the Infinity. 

Doors are closed black. You sent 

your white spaceship to knock at those. 

I wonder if they will strip search 

the shaft for the bomb 

called humanity.

Midsummer Violence by Kushal Poddar

In the dream about a blonde
and a cafe coiled
on a cobblestone corner
he dreams about an unstable gun,
serpentine, wobbling, hissing in his hand,
only a press on its trigger making it hard,
stiff, quiet, warm.
In this dream red bougainvilleas
bloom over the clouds, and blood
on the street.
People screams to wake him up.
The muzzle of blast turns
towards his temple.

If I Die Held Down In A General Mart by Kushal Poddar

Sorry I let you down.
You cannot
keep me caged anymore.
I should stay beneath you
some more, alive.

Sorry, I’ll die of fear.

My hands uncurl, release
the last of my longing,
and it rolls down the long aisles
towards the racks
you array your
almost expired items on sale.

They confuse me
with ranges and picks.
Which one I should die for?
Which one you should say I stole?
My mother always says,
someday I’ll make a fatal choice.

Sorry, I don’t know what I want.

Lahore, today by Kushal Poddar

The last time I saw your eyes
they turned mirror, and I read
blaze from the right to left.

Another day to kiss the rubble.
The blasts bubbled.
Those died the other day already stood up.

Some still dusted their being.
I should knock your door again,
listen to your spoon
playing two cups of tea for me, us.

The Fingers From The Site of Bomb Blast by Kushal Poddar

There must be one man
who gathers fingers
scattered after a blast,
pours them into a pail
at the basement
of his brick house,
cleans them and waits
until they move their poles
to point at one direction,
only they never do that.
They level at each other
and rot away.

Countries And State Of Being by Kushal Poddar

The blank wall behind
my headboard
opens its lotus petals

while countries close
their doors and windows.
This is noontime, writes
Sammy from West.

How can I answer him
from this state of being?
I turn and fences peel apart.
I stroll and trees pull me within,
and shells curl away
into nothing, into silence,
blank, throbbing black.

State Run by Kushal Poddar

After the suicide attack,
settles the dust. Dust seems
gained some weight. Night did.

Something remains
in silence of the crickets,
blinded pane, the corner
of the bed that goes
through the bay of the wall,
painted chrome.
It does something to me.

Some things I cannot say.
I can say, I  am one now.
You may see me now.
You may not in the next.

I cannot tell you what
I cannot tell to my mother
when she called.
They thought I shall kill my madness
and kept me in a state run asylum
for the weekend
so that I may not.


Kushal Poddar, widely published in several countries, prestigious anthologies included Men In The Company of Women, Penn International MK etc, Van Gogh’s Ear, been featured amongst the poets for the month December by Tupelo Press, Vine Leaves Literary Journal’s Best of 2014 and in various radio programs in Canada and USA presently lives at Kolkata and writing poetry, fictions and scripts for short films when not engaged in his day job as a lawyer in the High Court At Calcutta and an English Language Trainer in various universities. He is editor of the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’ He authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), “A Place For Your Ghost Animals” (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), and “Understanding The Neighborhood” (BRP, Australia).

Freedom Bird by Kushal Poddar

And one of the birds
lift a wing,
shows me the radar ring
And I want to love her to oblivion.
Let’s sing a tree song.
Let’s see an intense wrong
and bleed like sap so tasty
on your flour morning.
I want her to love before
and I want her to lose the scanner
and there is a forest somewhere
for our endangered freedom.