Three Poems by Kushal Poddar

 

On A Slow Gloaming

To Rijurekh da

The thin light from the window

sniffs, recognises the smoky petrichor

rising from my mellow core.  

In the garden I buried my lies, fed by kitchen rot grows

a Pinocchio reed.

If you stare hard; eyes blur; 'I' dissolves 

freeing you to see more in one, how a reed holds 

some infinite reeds, possibilities, 

as if a lie can be true when its turn arrives.

The Black Milk

 

My mother's beige suitcase

opened when she's gone

shows nothing.

 

Outside, a leafless tree 

holds the echo of the world.

Nothingness smells of mothball.

I have my hands full with it,

 

and I begin to understand

what it feels to be a mother.

Late that night, I swell up 

with umbre milk. It flows, drowns

the streets and the urchins,

drunk on the liquid, float up

in the sky. No fanfare 

waits for this parade.

Leftovers

To David Lewis 

The rubber tube that breathes life

into the tired tire of my rusty bicycle

has patches on itself. A call 

comes from the crow. It is the time 

when the girl throws the leftovers 

from her upstairs window. Sun reclines.

The fire tipped trees ferry 

the whispering of desire.

Leftovers are life. Life is leftovers.

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