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Mar. 20th, 2009

An Evening *Love

An Evening love
========================
Her eyes resemble the cloistered garden, sprinkled
and ready to be played with; a garden seen
through the windows, slightly distorted by panes.
He softly drops in it; dares to pick the black rose
though the notice screams: plucking is prohibited!

Her iris spreads and blooms; engulfs and consumes
him entirely; he cannot pick the flower
he just drown himself in her prayers instead.
Like fragrance, intensely it permeates through air.
It is peace. It is God. He whispers. God is
distant love.
“I shall meet you right after the vespers.” He says.
The birds are coming back into their recess.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar

Feb. 14th, 2009

Hues Of Love

Hues of love
=================
She was not wearing red
at that point of time when we met.
He had been listening
to the meanings, colors denote
and watching for a red rose
that he might pluck from neighbor’s patch.
He was wearing blue dreams,-
faded and could be taken
as his good old denim.
He ruffled his hair, adjusted;
the way a lover
was supposed to look,- in love, lost.

She wasn’t waiting for him.
The boy was barely in his teen.
The red bus stopped, took her
for a ride according to ticket.

The boy waited for the day next.
He would be there, dawdling in dream.

=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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Feb. 7th, 2009

The surreal circus

The Surreal Circus

The manager conjures rainbows,
summons them to sprawl, spread, create
an ethereal canopy
over the audience, now tense;
waiting for the trapeze artists
tired, aged under the lovely
made up faces and glossy dresses.

We fly thus, days in and days out.
The blending colors of screaming
moments at the emotional high
are around us embracing time.
The lean lions with glassy eyes
open the jaws to let us enter
our dutiful heads inside.
© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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Jan. 21st, 2009

White Butterfly

White Butterfly
(To Diana)
A white butterfly flies over these concretes
searching for honey dreams, midst the catacombs,
the dark alleys, bins, dust, wastes, rubbishes…

I open my eyes, see the white flame there,
right before me, burning in a soft whisper.
I open my eyes to see the magnetic piece.
It sits on my putrid finger, suddenly
my body is alive, once more, producing
ambrosia for pure butterflies.
© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar

Jan. 17th, 2009

A collage called life

A collage
=======================
“Open the window.”
“You may catch something.”

There descends a bird on the sill
chirping about a colored tale,-
the sick mom and a tired son
with a plastic arm to pick life
won’t see and now aren’t listening…
bird flies to the other houses.

“Shall I read the news?”
“What is the use, boy?”
“I’ll then check the mails.”

The insipid mails have white covers
and crème and light brown, even red.
The shuffling of mails is always
a game he plays with hopes and rays
with a tilted cynic bitterness.

“Nope! Surprise, surprise!
It has not come today.”
“Tell me when it does.”

The roaming cold sighs settle on
the winter garden of negligence.
The worker father has embraced death
and the son is a certified
handicapped with the job letter
still is a dream frequently seen
and waited till the empty cans
refused to be filled on their own.

“Now take care, mom.”
“Are you going to
gather foods my son?”
“Let’s see uncle
this time. His turn.”

He wears his armor, takes his shield.
Gathering foods and to be fed
need the armors and shields these days.

“Come back tomorrow
little yellow bird.
Tomorrow the letter
may bring warm spring.”
The mother whispers and the air
carries the message to the birds.
© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar

Dec. 27th, 2008

Math

Math
(to me, Kushal Poddar)
The crooning wood-pigeons break the thread
to announce by their void silence
that someone is coming. The boy hops in.
his summer vacation of failing
arithmetic and geometry
is lost amid green hedges and bushes.
With eyes shut and earth is the movements
imprinted in red drape, he dreams
of the world in terms of millions
of digits, forms, complex equations.
A gray kite sits on the raftered roof
of a distant memory. Suddenly
the boy finds that he is solving life.
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Dec. 14th, 2008

Night Cop's Radio

Night cop’s radio
=======================
All of a sudden she seeps out of his mind.
He reminds himself of the utter helplessness.
She, a flower so delicate and his fingers
never dare to pluck her, only the air-touch.
His desperate lungs grab for air. The night
enters with nippy fragrances. It opens
his inner wounds and bruises afresh. City night.
He is just a cop. A cop. It is his night turn.
His back is resting on his van. A cigar
is dangling from the corner of his dry lips.
The mist rises out of the open gutters.
The feasting mice do not care anymore
of the cautions or men around. Running about.
He thinks of her as she would have been shrieking,
screaming scared at the sights,- mice, tramps, pimps
hobos with tuberculosis, thieves and thick mists.
He is just a night cop with a dream of a girl.
And then his radio mumbles, “Riot at 5th.”
A sigh is released. He adjusts his cap. Shall he live…?
© 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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Dec. 9th, 2008

Neighbor's Rock garden

My neighbor’s rock garden
_________________________________________
My weary body smells of fatigue.
It manages to rise from deep, from subway,
the silent whistle of the train has passed
somewhere inside the honeycomb of city.

I come to my home.
At the threshold I stop.
As usual, I place this day of my life
at the rock garden of my neighbor.
Slowly it changes its form.
Now that it is off my life, mind, physic
I enjoy the beauty
of the new piece of rock
added to their garden.
My gift.

Nov. 22nd, 2008

Untimely Santa

Untimely Santa

====
Let’s play Santa with the backyard children.
It is early fall with ashes and golds.
Touch the heads with hazel hairs, careless
tussle with them, offer sweets to the street
with patches of sunshine, brown and all crispy.
After all an autumn Sunday with a nip of chill
is coming in trough the window.
After all this is the month of birthdays.
After all it is your birthday.
After all everybody else have things to forget
and at this age you can not forget past, memories.
Only present becomes blur.
He wears a light sweater
with the enduring impressions
of hands long gone.
Ha, repetitions of images and phrases are life.
Let’s play Santa with them
who have trained themselves
to disbelieve every man, every woman,
every pervert and every sane.
Let’s play autumn with an ol’man
boys of backyards. © 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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Nov. 9th, 2008

Lotus and venom

, lotus pond
The breeze has come out of a bath
in this lotus pond. The petals
colored pale pink, red or crimson
stare at me. Somewhere deep, the snake
playfully rolls, embraces the stems.
I touch the flower, praise its poise,
pick it up and become drunk
by its poison rendered by an
old snake. It hisses. It says,”Ha!
What is a splendor without a bit
venom that I may emit?” Blue
I am now, a small sacrifice
before the world of beauty.
© 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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Nov. 2nd, 2008

The third Flight

The flight of the phoenix
-------------------
Part 3- they Kill
-
(Still they slay with the swords of races, casts or colors.)-

A blue flower, wild born hovers
over the petite face of her.
A muddy creek remains unstirred
still-life besides them. Quite painting.

She may wake up any time now
and walk away in her nice rhythm.
Except she has to cross the bridge.
The bridge of death and life. Heaven!
She knows how much difficult it
can be to cross a bridge, a hedge,
a boundary, a border or
some virtual limit men draw,
cairns of race, cast or colors.

The other body is of her
love, the one who had been clutching
the air, trying to call her
before senses gave away. Hung.

The sky is wistful. It does not
belong to earth or the men would have
separated it in segments
and flagged with colors, races, casts…
© 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar

Nov. 1st, 2008

The Flight Of The Phoenix (Part2)

The flight of the phoenix
-------------------
(the part-2, characters)


The sky in a trance meets the earth
in this hour of waking up.
She wakes up to gather water,
to bathe before too many eyes
lick honey at the public tap.
The tap for water opens its soul.
It springs to life and soused is her
morning. One discreet boy, the only
other presence, pretends not to see.

Radha, with her covert eyes glances
at some vague dreams, distant paths and
a man, man enough. Water giggles.
The boy picks up his flute to douse
the universe with a fountain
of tunes unmatched. World can be so
illustrative, if they, the mates
wear off the morning and defeat
destiny.

© 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar

What happened to them! The next part will tell the story of love and first blood.
While traveling I disguised myself as a resident of the places I traveled. It had been hard for I had the marks of being a Bengali all over, so adopted a story of someone trying his luck at their provinces for job and a place to stay. It brought out results quite different. Those parts are safe and smooth like anywhere in the world if you have money and you are tourists, they respect tourists. But I wanted to know what a tourist won’t.
Curious for more…

Oct. 31st, 2008

The Flight of the Phoenix

While traveling I disguised myself as a resident of the places I traveled. It had been hard for I had the marks of being a Bengali all over, so adopted a story of someone trying his luck at their provinces for job and a place to stay. It brought out results quite different. Those parts are safe and smooth like anywhere in the world if you have money and you are tourists, they respect tourists. But I wanted to know what a tourist won’t.
Curious for more…
The flight of the phoenix
----------------------------------
(the part-1, beginning)
--------------------------------------
A fusion of sounds roams to and fro,-
upon the pavilion of people,
this is the station,- the crispy voice
of the announcer has just claimed that the
train is late by an hour. Swarming
frustrations buzz around a waiting room.
Heat. Sweat. A slowly leaning head of
an alien girl upon a shoulder
she thinks will support her forever.

Hallucination is like the rails
seem to meet at the end, over them
night is sitting, gossiping with sparrows.
An hour may decide a relationship.


© 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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Oct. 19th, 2008

the uncertain travelers

The uncertain travelers
------------------------------
A fresh road with nomadic leaves
lies ahead of the travelers, still uncertain a bit.
Journey thus begins.

The spendthrift sun
in this vacuum of evening
is making him shiver, wintry.
The road to hills
is bending to the blended mists.
He can taste the fear as he licks his lips.

He is frightened not for self,
he does not fear of loneliness.
He has with him, her to take care.

Together they search
for any sign to begin,
the chariot to ride …
“It is their life they have to embark on.”
A dry wind is saying.

He tries to stop the passing cars
for a lift. A whistle and smokes rise
from the ancient rail at a wink of green,
signaled by a lean and coughing gourd.
The station grows vast and lonely again.

A freight car stops.
They hike into, just then some
white clouds deluge the scene beyond.

A distant chime rings.
© 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
Well I am off to a small vacation through the state of M.P. in India. I hope to bring much more of fresh writings once I return on 1st November.
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Oct. 14th, 2008

Water for her

Water for her life
------------------------)
Walking with millions
of fragments of sun
under the feet, young and tired
towards a mirage of peace
shimmering over the sand dunes.
She has to walk for water everyday
through the year and years of a life
in a village with a white shrine.
She will be there
in the profound stretch of forlorn afternoon,
offering water to god she trusts.
Please bring his letter!
What it may be like living in a city,
in a slam. (He is coming home
after a sweating day
at the waterfront
tedious labor is still on his dusky limbs,
on his face, eyes, mouths, wet and dirty hair…)
Please take me with you this time.
She begs in her scripts.
She begs before a god
who is looking at
the erosion of sun at the shrine’s yard.
© 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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Oct. 2nd, 2008

Shaken but not down

Shaken but not down
=======================
Pale souls seek personal caves,
for today is the day of sun.
A Saturday crowd is on their
way to shake off a memory.
They have come home early.
Now at the parks, paths, malls, movies
and wherever their family
has asked they are playing. With the kids.
With the life. With the thoughts. With the
locks of their love. Now they know how
transitory life is. Specially
as the sound of the Friday bomb
is still ringing in the country.
© 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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Sep. 28th, 2008

waiting:A tale

Waiting: a tale
==================
Rain is a stranger here.
A few drops, desultory
and lost fall to be soaked by
arid earth. Mottles of dust
rise. A mirage of a winged
angel sitting on the rails
quiver. Forsaken rails to
no station. That means they are
mobile forever. They change
existences, characters,
destinations, passengers.
The angel always sits in
a wait for screaming and shouting
children to come for a game
of rails and trains. Their own
timetables have stopped to become
unchanged, unbothered, dead
eternally. Barred from being
adult ever. They will be
flocking in any time soon
The mirage of an angel waits.
Somebody has to wait for
them who have become nobodies.
Ask an angel, she knows what
it is like. Time has made angels
nobodies too.
© 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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Sep. 18th, 2008

Then he was within

Then he was within -------------------
( to Kimberly and Bhawana and Janet)
---------------------------------------
The house used to quiver
whenever a train passed it.
The red eyed lantern became
green alike her face. “Don’t bite
your lips. Don’t bite the lips.”
She was not seeing the face
of the silhouette woman .
So he, still a child in womb
had no memory of a
woman, elderly, eager
to help with the birth. To her
it might be another one.
Still she was eager. A man
barred from the entry was in
his half duty sitting by
his teleprinter. Next train
was at 10 o’ clock. By then
an old man with shaking hands
should cut the cord. Like a drop of
rain he came. Fresh and playful. © 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar

Sep. 10th, 2008

Date line:9/11

Dateline: 9/11
=
I loved to watch birds.
[Flying kingdom of it shines
on a cloudless sky.]
I loved airplane all the same.

The long office hours,
dull drones used to make
my sleepy eyes
shifting through a sky,
searching for an opening
to fly with the birds…

[A day is a day
until something happens.]

I, an useless man
was looking at the window,
close to the sky.
Someone say about a file.
My habitual hands
shifted with a mechanical speed
over some dead tree pulps.
Papers surrounded
me once more.
I wished for a wing, again.

“Look buddy! A jet.”
I had not seen one flying so close.
I of course would not see one again.
[A flight,
Majestic
Regal
King-size
Death.]
It was coming to me,
into me,
the burst
the blast.
[As to why,
I don’t know the answer still today.]

I can see my girl from here
in black, mourning through
million nights and more.
Ah! Sky is so light
and my speed is in light-years.
Beneath lies the earth,
a dark mound oozing sepia blood.
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Sep. 9th, 2008

Skeleton

Skeleton
===================================
Why should she keep the door open!
Sultry wind surreptitiously
enters in the room with a couch
full of slumber. Mid afternoon
cloud has passed over the west side
window. Its jarred view could have
been seen a few minutes ago,
through the broken pane. The wind stares.
A male gaze it is. The beauty
sleeps. The fairytales have prescribed deep
deep sleep of the soul. She doesn’t stir.
The atmosphere plays with her
dark tresses. The lips, the tiredness…

Somewhere a returning crow calls out.
Shaken, she wakes up. Startlingly
a sense of being molested
whips inside. She can not fathom
the source. Her boyfriend is no longer
alive or the blame would have been
upon him. Many a times it
had been so. Before she rebelled.
A fear rises in her. She
runs to check the skeleton in
her cupboard. The crow is crying…

Sep. 7th, 2008

Cherry red

cherry red
----------------
[Cherry red is her backyard.
Flowers and fruits.
Bottles filled with preserves.
An old goose pecking at
some wasted fruits.
Look at its red web-feet,
look at the cherry red smears
on ol’ frosted glass window.
The smears speak of a day passed.
The echoes of its tune
blend into the sounds
of soft conversations.]

Dream these things
whenever you pick up
a blind space in a history book
a small row of a few black stains of ink,
depicting a period between two battles.

Sep. 2nd, 2008

On the spot of the blast

On the spot of the blast


She cannot cry. Inside her head still a little
girl is playing with her. Keeps on playing.
She cannot feel the warmth of blood or the
dirty red of it oozing down her face.
So unripe and fresh it still is. The face.
They shake her. But cannot shake this world
into a shape. They will take her to the
medics. “ She isn’t talking her sweet nothings.”
She says to her husband. There is no reply
too. On the stretcher he lies, ripped apart.

Sep. 1st, 2008

Easel of a writer

Easel of a writer


Move quill, there are few more
paragraphs to create.
A patch of lazy ray
Has high lightened the leaf.

Turquoise blue is his ink.
Always a swim in dream….
A few patches of it
on a hand whose life-line
is a winter-time creek.
Withered leaves float, silent.

The writer’s trembling grip
spills more than he takes in
every weary sips of
his balmy poison, drinks.
An old prescription lies
unattended, lonely.

This memoir may linger.
Unfinished. A yellow
bird on the window sill
tweets for a while then flies.
“I am joining. Don’t go
so soon.” Hallucinations
grows into the writing,
mist on the memoir.

{A lazy light has fallen over a piece of paper.
Who can say, this may be the history itself?
Or the making of it.}

Aug. 25th, 2008

mists in your eyes

Mist

Morning mist on hills
Seems things doesn’t exist if,
I have not seen them.

MistII

The place you have not
searched yet is the place it is,
the mist of belief.

Mist in eyes

The walls conjure
the souls of memory on
your every touches.

Return

The returns to home
many a times end in soul.
It is so distant!

Aug. 23rd, 2008

Frozen expression

Frozen expression
=
He stands there and will be standing so
for eternity. Watching them two leaving.
Listening to losing love and sounds of soft grass
being trampled by a pair of angry woman’s feet
and a pair of tiny ones following.
He suddenly realizes they have gone.
Obliterated. He still is standing there as it is.
Frozen, cemented, stony.
Expressions of agony immortalized.
His eyes are shedding tears.
A bird ventures. Another one sits on him.
They are tired from their journey.
They take a bath dipping in the water of soul.
He soaks all the tiredness from the universe.

Aug. 22nd, 2008

A tablet of bread: faith

A tablet of bread: faith
==============================
He touches the illumination. God!
It sure burns. It burns inside. Burns outward.
Learning is a slow combustion that hurts.
Elucidates, purifies and sets ablaze.

The men who do not comprehend and those
who do, choose to leave the unworldly boy
or to stand beside as true disciples…
he seems not to know. Fancy, if he cares.
Knowledge has made him realize the truth that
“truth” dies in interpretation. Ha, faith!
No you go. All of you, all who want to
belong to his discipline. He will rather
play with children in a green neighbourhood.
By the truth, according to him “world is
a playfield.”

He writes his disciplines on a tablet
made of a bread and let birds eat
away the world according to them

Aug. 21st, 2008

open door

Open door
==================
The quivering fingers touch timidly,
tentatively, carefully the closed door.
It is like a membrane, semi liquid.
It sucks you in and let you out in the
other side. One way please. So don’t try to
return. The other side is a misty
palace of meaningless truths.
The other side is a breathing water
to swim and float till eternity eats you.
See the side of earth
you have come from,
see it in disconnection, slight hallucination.
Open the door let me return
cries the sleep cries the dream…
The door only let you in.

Aug. 20th, 2008

The old mill

The old mill, Sudbury
(To V.Josephson's painting)

Tired as he is, he will go on.
The destination is coming
nearer each time he defies
his fatigue. Aching feet tells to
take a bit of time beside the path,
under that summerful tree and
dream of his home, his own old mill
at Sudbury. His travels through
distant corners has gifted him
exotic colors in his dreams.
He can see the soft grass about
his house. The sound of red wheel pumping
water echoes. Fruits have been processed,
preserved and labeled. A slumber
has returned to its nest, in the eyes
of his mother. He can see the
mother’s hand printed china and
flowers brought by neighborhood girl.
Tired as he is he can dream
a thousand shades on those petals.
A bird is calling. This side of
consciousness or the other? He
wonders and still dreams.
The old mill, Sudbury, his own
home or is it just a painting!

Aug. 19th, 2008

Anger, he and she

Anger, he and she
She cannot fathom, why you become an easy
prey of anger. Perhaps it is the dark blood that
runs through human veins and arteries over
the times and the changes. She seizes your raised fist
and run. Runs through the lanes, alleys, houses, ages.
When one tide ebbs, there is the next one; ready to
ambush. Childhood subsides. She is still with the rogue,
you. Her secret houses. Her pitiful endeavor
to build a home around four walls one slanting
roof and the resident fear of losing all
someday soon. The anger is his other lady.

She knows someday she will be the one to destroy
anger and her love both, in a single angry stroke.

Anger,he and she

Anger, he and she
========================
She cannot fathom, why you become an easy
prey of anger. Perhaps it is the dark blood that
runs through human veins and arteries over
the times and the changes. She seizes your raised fist
and run. Runs through the lanes, alleys, houses, ages.
When one tide ebbs, there is the next one; ready to
ambush. Childhood subsides. She is still with the rogue,
you. Her secret houses. Her pitiful endeavor
to build a home around four walls one slanting
roof and the resident fear of losing all
someday soon. The anger is his other lady.

She knows someday she will be the one to destroy
anger and her love both, in a single angry stroke.
-

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