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.

Earthquake by Kushal Poddar

On the day of earthquake

my habitat, a table

with two round pale patches

where I seek support for my thoughts

and my chair that wobbles anyway

shook and reminded me

I would meet you in three hours

for the first time, and you were

in a car leaving a place

you would base for the last time.

..

Later that year feelings would

seek refuge and the blue baby of heart

would die crossing the bodies.

..

Today earth shakes again.

I feel nothing, dream about a space

where nothing stands to crumble,

fall down or die.

..

Paris, Having. A Blast There by Kushal Poddar

Gravels rise from my body.
Stones. Dirt. Bullets ricocheted.
And parts of my flesh. This being.
..
Lights burn and flash everywhere
and they highlight the darkness.
Sound rise shattered in echoes.
..
I want to find you in this chaos.
I do not. I know, already
too late. I hope it is not.
..
What is the score of the game?
Where did you make room for
the refugee? I wonder.
..
I wonder would you have undone me
now that we traveled to Paris?
Would you reveal the password for your heart?
..
It matters not.
..
Kushal Poddar is 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 and collaborated with photographers for an exhibition at Venice and with performers for several audio publications.
He is presently living 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. He authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio) and “A Place For Your Ghost Animals” (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs). The forthcoming book is  “understanding the neighbourhood‘.

Visit: https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/

Don’t Pity This Homeless by Kushal Poddar

I shake off my home.
Hair shed, spring twisted
spine of a couch, glass
with traces of rain.

All fall around my feet.

The feat will be to
toddle towards
the following nothing
and build a home

on the platform, play

my armpits and sing
to live some more.
Some more. Some more.
O la la, some more.

Been To Jos, Nigeria by Kushal Poddar

A girl sells solace
midst the ruin of mosque,
oh and fresh water.

Nothing exists beyond
this moment. No home,
no world, not even
the following blast,
breaking news. Lust. Love.
No home where one
opens her thirst
to her man. No home
where her unborn
plays with others’ unborn.

A girl. My girl. One
they will pluck to death
soon enough. I buy
some peace from her,
water too, I cannot
drink until sun drowns.

Walking In An Introverted Way by Kushal Poddar

We walked to the death of the things;
a blind wall, glass, the beyond
can be seen, a third person
walking away from the point
of oblivion. A beggar
who says all the wrong prayers
appears. I have something
I drop in his bowl. Who can
imagine the noise moon makes
in an enamelled pit, dark sky?

Cornflour water gruel by Kushal Poddar

I grew up on cornflour
water gruel believing
it, milk and honey
because she said so.
Nothing appeased the nation
of my flesh, blood and mind
than a simple faith.
Nothing seemed more promising
than waiting on the porch
for silhouette to feel
my toe ends while my mother
hums a song so rich
that I can imagine
life in a pool house,
swimming in simmering
milk and honey sunset.

Spilled Out by Kushal Poddar

I whisper ‘Oil’
near the fishhouse.
The birds look molten.

You are off the hook,
I tell White. My friend
never liked black.

We don’t discuss this.
Now I hate black.
When one bird chirps

a sound bubble plops.
Does it say Oil?
I never liked oil.

My mother would force
it on my hair.
A sign of genteel.

A feather catches fire.
A world. An evening.
You’re off the hook white.

It dangles askew
from the corner of sky.

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At the Center, a Woman by Kushal Podar

Now she, a tree
swaying in beats
and bits of light
flickering all over;

now she, a mom
too afraid to push
her son out in the world;

now she, a stream.
I drop a wish coin
in her vortex navel

and run out of them.
I elapse all now.
Now a no. Now no word.

Exists no depth. No height.
If she were not here
I wouldn’t be.

From The X of The Earth Day Show by Kushal Poddar

Near the tubs of trees
brought in and lugged away
and a thousand handbills,
Earth Day printed on them,
for three coughing sweepers,
near two reporters
comparing their notes
on what the Governor said
the plastic-whisperers
separate the thin from
the thick midst the debris.
They lift their chins when
I approach, lower them
again, not curious.

Lampedusa by Kushal Poddar

I do not know those who
have an island in
their lungs, bubbles for
their last breath. I hear not
about the flurry
of people who almost
arrived and did not.

 
That too, not to 
a journey’s end, but 
to a mere halt, I never
go anywhere, do not know
the art of living 
as a patch of rust, as
a crumb of sea biscuit,
as one who died when
he left his home and yet
kept dreaming long life.