Tag Archives: Kushal Poddar

Meeting An Estranged Son

by Kushal Poddar

Short messages of blue
enters the treetop.
Grilled cheese and nothing-
he wants. Water in
the tall glass alerts
every time some car
passes. Moon rises
atop the mill’s chute.
We see no stars these days.
I want him to want
some more. Grilled cheese. Next?
His fingers hide his palm.
You cannot just return
and make everything right.
He doesn’t say and says.
In a message, his mother
made him my look alike.
I watch the etching,
the curves, strokes, give it
an eight. A B Plus.
A maudlin grin.


To The One Holding The Cleaver

by Kushal Poddar

The fat street dog says
something good about
the butcher. All I hear,
a woof, has days, months
years of love streaming
upwards. The butcher
has blood on his apron.
Because this day I
have a banquet at home,
I see smileys, red.
And the goat head smiles.
The dog’s curly tail
too, smiles. The butcher’s
cleaver blinks a sunny day.

Night Telephone

by Kushal Poddar

The clarity of a call
burns a hole in my soul.
I turn and turn, find no
door to the bedroom
where the old telephone
wakes up from its sleep
once or twice in a year.
My feet are hooves from
slaughterhouse truths. I move
in a circle whose
corners slash me, chop me
into seceded desires.
No image. Nothing
except the telephone
in the bedroom where
a linen sea swells, ebbs
again and again.