The Way We Depart
We intrude the brick field
famed for the copulating
crickets and darkness.
The last cigarette draws
an ephemeral fire arch, orbit
of some celestial sigh.
Thus we depart. Friend's falling
failing the faith upon a wish-star.
The old houses where we lived
are already replaced with
the spikes of newer wistful edifices.
Winter
A herd of fat feisty sleep grazes cold.
Turn, toss, leap, fall on the morning's stone-bed.
The edges of consciousness pierces,
slashes plain through.
In the slaughter house of the day
I hang my shadow on the gambrel hooks
of a memory I cannot recall.
It is a carcass. It sleeps until I choose to consume it.
Hibernation
No one possesses this road this early.
The juxtaposition of ebony tar and light,
and the uneven patches where monsoon
dug its heels in welcome me as I lodge my claims.
In ten minutes I exhaust my energy to jog.
My shadow hibernates beside a boulder.
I have no power over this life I adore
because of these elongated winters,
caves of sleep, leaves of crackling, goodbyes
unfinished.
Fields
Fields turn brief beneath our running feet,
and the bridge, squares of formless green,
trees sketched by me when I was six.
If you ask me why we run we cannot tell.
There is a feeling. A trace of an urge.
Noon showers upon us, warm piss.
A hiss says that our ankles will be
dotted with fang-marks. We can comprehend
the serpent. Time winters here. We should not race.
An author, journalist, and father, Kushal Poddar, editor of 'Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being 'Postmarked Quarantine'. His works have been translated into eleven languages.
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoetTwitter-
https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
No comments:
Post a Comment