The Heart on the Pavement
To Nabina
Ours is a country of poets who pen about war.
One bard told me once that nobody reads them.
I haven't yet, and I remember him because
on the pavement lies the heart of the rain
removed from the firmament, pierced
with the shards and shrapnel of some yellow flowers.
A long intestine of the clouds hangs loose
in the blue. The pariah of the lane barks and howls.
I cast some crumbs at it. I have been carrying those
for long. Those have gone stale. The dog refuses.
A squadron of pigeons startle me. I turn and see
the heart's evaporated. I breathe the heart.
I open my mouth and let it flow inside.
Reconstruction of the Clouds
The aged insane man scrapes algae
from the burgundy and dark wall.
Alone he knows how to eat those.
The morning raid by the Sun blasted
the clouds. Their scattered bodies on the asphalt
will reflect you if you lean and inspect them.
You say that you didn't do anything.
The old man scoops and collects the rain water.
Alone he knows how to survive that dirty drink.
Perhaps in his self the elements unify.
Perhaps if you ask he will say that even
before the world was made its reconstruction began.
Lovemaking During An Air Raid
Our bodies glow as we hold love
during an air raid. I try to shroud it,
but our defence systems were down,
and at the height of an ecstasy those
were destroyed. Something explodes
outside and within. Later you light up the room.
From distance our paper wrapped pane
must look like the mouth of a cigarette.
Light flickers and summons darkness.
In the black our finger see each other's ruins;
our hands rescue the shadows and reconstruct.
A Report From The Ground
A murder of crows investigates
the death in the ground.
The news wings around, and more join.
Until they know more the crows won't
eat anything here. We did when we
gathered around your son too shocked
to mourn, to bewail. You lay on the floor
in the adjacent room. Although the odor
offended our senses we opened a plastic jar
because it was afternoon and your son
had nothing in him. We offered him
the biscuits, sweet and with sesame seeds.
We all munched some. Our hands on
your son's shoulders must have felt cold
because he shivered. Even in the drizzle
a crow, still on the sill, stared through the window.
Whispering From The Funeral
A generation of our family passes on
one by one. The funerals gather us,
and we nibble sad sweetness. The old tales
keep us entertained. We scatter again
promising to keep in touch. The silence
between us seems to observe the mourning
at last. Once during a long drive I see
those birds on the wires running along high
and vow to call you all, albeit I never do;
instead a call comes, and we foregather
in the fragile vase of the funeral
as a bouquet of whispering.
The Street
The street child beats the stray dog,
feeds it the biscuits he eats. They stretch
and fall asleep in the pavement.
Some black ants makes them stir. Sleep leaps away, far. They stop moving,
and again sleep licks their brains.
My today, to forget an inherent sadness,
is full of them. I watch the city live
the life of lights. The boy runs errands
for the night shops. I watch the dog
mark its territory, wind gush through
the subway's mouth.
Kushal Poddar is 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.
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