Loops
A white and glossy thing
sends a signal to my myopic eyes.
The wind sways the sheet
of codes hanging on my
neighbour's clothesline.
The midday waiting for the rain rolls into
late afternoon waiting.
From the first floor boudoir
I see and do not - a pair of shears
hidden in the green,
some shrapnel of bad mood
spilled through the bad wood
of an old drawer.
I try to decipher, and you smile,
"No. No. No. Not all the codes
convey a meaning."
The Dry Spell
It hasn't been raining since it had.
I sound vague? You haven't stared at
the spearhead of a midday road.
You haven't tried to track rain and heard
the summer roar.
Everything set for the rain - that cup of tea,
those books and music, social media posts,
bad mood, sudden sex, uprooted sadness
that breathes on and perishes at the same time -
all hold a bowl.
No noise, tune, ting - the bowl remains
an arch of aching. It waits.
Nothing is nothingness; even a dry spell
gets wet with our sweating.
Halo- rainbow around my sins
(To Robert Frede Kenter)
A halo-rainbow surrounds my sins,
its glow almost motherly callous
and concerned as if she stands in
our longevous balcony and see
us playing soccer in the street
without watching us, and hence we
can be the truants from good behaviour,
moral language.
I blink. I cannot remember a rainbow
in my life let alone a halo around the sun.
I murmur, "Forgive me for leading
a monochrome life." Cold breeze
feels for my pulses, touches my neck.
"Am I alive?" I desire to ask and decides not to.
The grass smells of a memory falling
from a great height, from the parapet of Eden.
The air thronged with the particles
reminds me of how the crows circle and scream
when one of them falls. Light has fallen.
It is sundown soon. I can call you Rob
and say, "Slainté Mhaith." or hear
the sobbing water of a lake nearby.
The Obscene Gesture of A Milestone
Although the lines these lanes draw
meet at the eternity
We do not see that while parallel-driving.
Then, our ignorance holds more truths
than some knowledge and a theory.
We pass a few grazing cows, drills,
a mill without a single operating hand
and some trees withered and waiting.
As we drive the first rain hits
our car roofs as if
clouds have borne
the long-term wait's weight until
We drive past a certain milestone.
Shouldn't it state the distance to eternity?
Instead, one digit almost erased
expresses an obscenity.
Where The Nuclear Power Plant Melted Down
I hear the footsteps, do not turn, murmur,
"There, they say, roams a wolf, lone,
near the core, in the epicentre."
" I know. " Says the wolf.
I steal a peek and lower my eyes.
The beast of this radioactive zone
looks like a deformed reincarnation
of my old man. I close my eyes.
If you gaze at the wolf long enough
the wolf will leave a trace of it inside you.
Ashes still fly when wind so desires.
My hazmat suit makes me a traveller
in space sent in a sleep capsule,
and now that I have seen and reported
about the ruin they no longer need my existence.
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
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