Art by Kushal Poddar
Rugged Velvet
We find the amethyst
on the backseat of the bus.
We lost it there one
humid night ago.
Why didn't anyone find it, take it?
Why don't you show any surprise?
At home a rustling in my pocket
becomes a bee, dead, rugged
and raw like a crystal.
Instead of the usual blue
tonight blooms a pink neon dot
on the mind's strip
Mood wears a translucent bedsheet.
Without reason I fall
in love with you again.
Beyond and Inside
One dead mirror opens a line
of conversation with pain.
Life has taught us when we
should comprehend and when
should say, "I don't understand your tongue."
A tiny DNA diamond in my hand,
I see my blood becoming a prism.
I won't tell you these vapid things.
A sacred cloud covers the summer Sun.
A Book of Unborn Revolt
Two protagonists ensue
the search for the end of the book,
and realise - they were born
on the page three hundred and sixty six.
The book has only three hundred
and sixty five pages.
Their searching must return to root again.
Absence of absence sprawls in their coop.
In the words' cages silence guards the thoughts.
One of those two will say, "Let's take back
the thoughts." The book is all about that
unborn revolt.
Hourglass
I hold your Macbeth hand,
cross the road. One moment
we leave for another.
Your symptoms prove to be contagious,
and yet this very hand held
my father's skull, unburied,
promised - No greed.
On the other side in a live-kill kiosk
inside a chicken coop huddled together
and confined, a country and a creed
blinks and writhes.
You use your last chord of innocence,
"Why these birds? What makes them different
from the ones in the firmament,
from those cooing freely on the pavement?"
"Greed." I say, "besides, freedom doesn't exist."
"I agree." Says someone passing by; he is
a shadow. He holds an hourglass.
He holds a scythe.
You Know, You Should Keep This Untitled
The fallen leaves draw a conclusion
I hesitate to reach. A growing sapling amidst
the bricks does.
Some conclusions I cannot reach
are in the whistling of the crazy nomad
who has coiled his addicted sleep
on the concrete below our building.
Sometimes I comprehend, see the clouds
in the mirror and the shine in my eyes once they rain.
Kushal Poddar - The author of A White Cane For The Blind Lane' and 'How To Burn Memories Using a Pocket Torch' has ten books to his credit. He is a journalist, father of a four-year-old, illustrator, and an editor. His works have been translated into twelve languages and published across the globe.
These are mastery in ink. They crystallise images and shine a light into the mind. Thanks, Kushal!
ReplyDeleteI've read your poems,and they wonder me, although I do'nt understand everything, but that's the mystery of your poems.
ReplyDeleteI've read your poems, and they wonder me, although I can't understand everything, but that's the mystery of your writings: great.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful and probing poetry.
ReplyDelete