Three Poems by Kushal Poddar

 

Mirrorground Fair Narcissus

 

(To Steve Sassmann)

 

In the funhouse mirror, stuck

in those infinite births,

I see the distortions of me. 

 

Fairground grass eats my ankles,

so do

the ice follies and other narcissus.

 

I touch the glass; it gurgles, streams

a river of whisky;

under his distilled breath the ticket man

says that I can cross it

but for that charges will be extra.

 

This year too, I may not dare. 

 

 

The Village In The Shadow of A Windmill

 

The constant circle of the windmill

makes the goats' eyes eerie.

Those belong to the serpents. To the angels. 

 

My ex-workman uncle slips into sleep

in this laid off land. The windmill

irrigates the fields filled with the creepers.

The squeaks and whooshes stream over and in between.

 

The goats refill their mouth.

Sleep reloads its magazine, and I pick up

the pieces of my uncle.

Everytime someone says 'soul' I cringe. 

 

 

Look Up Syndrome 

 

Someplace else belongs to the rain.

I look up at the sky and it says,

"Face the wall."

I have been thinking about the moment of end.

"Don't wander near the river, blaze, subway tracks

or a bottle of pills prescribed for a cure." 

I hear my mother, rest-in-peace. 

 

"There is a cure" I murmur, look up again 

until the Sun blinds me, binds my sight in 

some bubbles. This Spring I have been 

thinking about the wall, firing squad, 

holes, not just the rivers, inferno, rails or pills.

I look up again, try hard to imagine a cloud

that will be my childhood pet at first and then

take a piss on me.

Kushal Poddar, the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages.

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe