Saturday 6 January 2024

Five Poems by Kushal Poddar

 



The Boy Left In The Attic

 

Some nights we don't hear

the boy in the attic, his feet

and his imaginary obstacle race

 

because we receive the call

from our son in the other land

where sun's already varnished 

the planks and the laths.

 

Perhaps we speak too loud 

for a short conversation. 

Perhaps the child soul in the attic

is the glee our son he left behind.

 

 

Winter Trapped In The Room

 

Glass stains the sun.

In this old paper room

wearing his yellowed robe

he personifies an essay on

'There was a time when

 

flowers kissed each other on screen

and we knew what the scene unfolded.

Electricity was born between our legs. '

 

He means it was a time,

not a better one nor a worse. Period.

 

 

The Social Contracts Made At A Mortuary

 

Waiting at the mortuary 

we weigh up the shadows, agree 

that most come with benign and brief lives. 

 

They burn attracted to the lights

albeit in some seasons they can leave 

a defoliated earth. 

 

You share the messages and platitude, 

and when you stopped laughing

your eyes are aqueous. A hug pours us 

 

into one long shadow cast by the dead.


 

The Orbit of The Tired Stalker

 

Moon swims behind you

in the night water. Lake's dark skin 

bares all its wrinkles. Turn.

Face the light.

 

The line star on the other side

stills the scene. First you breath fast,

and then you save them for the last

after you mouth a scream

 

at nothing, not at your celestial stalker

who, if you care to study, looks tired,

bereft of the passion behind its obsession

and follows you because its orbit is perdurable.

 

 

Weighing The Leaves

 

For now the fallen leaves are money.

Every year, during these months they will

appreciate that you have survived

the hurricanes, a visit from your father

who ceased to speak to you long before

he died, harvest itself, songs and dances

and stale groping by the inebriated strangers. 

 

Now you can ladle the leaves in your arms

and pile on the bright blue bag 

of the weighing machine. You can cash

them out or save them between the pages

of War and Peace you meant to read but know

that even this winter you will not peruse

beyond the first page where 'For Love, 

XXX are scribbled.







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, published across the globe. 

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe


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