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

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
  • Current Mood
    apathetic apathetic
  • Tags

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

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

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
  • Current Mood
    complacent complacent


(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.

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

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.

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
  • Current Mood
    complacent complacent
  • Tags

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