—Poetry by Kushal Poddar, Kolkata,
W. Bengal, India
—Photos by Kushal Poddar
WINTER SANCTUARY
A herd of fat feisty sleep grazes cold.
Turn, toss, leap, fall on the morning's stone-bed.
The edge of consciousness pierces,
slashes plain through.
In the slaughter house of the day
I hang my shadow on the gambrel hooks
of a memory I cannot recall.
It is a carcass. It sleeps until I choose to consume it.
___________________________
HIBERNATION COMFORT
No one possesses this road this early.
The juxtaposition of ebony tar and light,
and the uneven patches where monsoon
dug its heels in welcome me as I lodge my claims.
In ten minutes I exhaust my energy to jog.
My shadow hibernates beside a boulder.
I have no power over this life I adore
because of these elongated winters,
caves of sleep, leaves of crackling, goodbyes
unfinished.
A herd of fat feisty sleep grazes cold.
Turn, toss, leap, fall on the morning's stone-bed.
The edge of consciousness pierces,
slashes plain through.
In the slaughter house of the day
I hang my shadow on the gambrel hooks
of a memory I cannot recall.
It is a carcass. It sleeps until I choose to consume it.
___________________________
HIBERNATION COMFORT
No one possesses this road this early.
The juxtaposition of ebony tar and light,
and the uneven patches where monsoon
dug its heels in welcome me as I lodge my claims.
In ten minutes I exhaust my energy to jog.
My shadow hibernates beside a boulder.
I have no power over this life I adore
because of these elongated winters,
caves of sleep, leaves of crackling, goodbyes
unfinished.
—Photo by Kushal Poddar
THE BULLY
The bully leads the pack.
Either lead the savage
or be a prey.
Today, they corner the light
in the darkest corner behind
the school building.
Light leashes a stilted scream,
and takes the beating.
Seventh grade, stammering, and tics.
The teacher's pity is a cyanide pill.
The bully bleeds. The bully leads.
His light needs some cotton beneath
his nose. His shadow retreats—
noisy, as if the game has ended
in the evening's playfield.
___________________
FIELDS WHERE WE BELONG
Fields turn brief beneath our running feet,
and the bridge, squares of formless green,
trees sketched by me when I was six.
If you ask me why we run, we cannot tell.
There is a feeling. A trace of an urge.
Noon showers upon us, warm piss.
A hiss says that our ankles will be
dotted with fang-marks. We can comprehend
the serpent. Time winters here. We should not race.
—Photo by Kushal Poddar
THE WAY WE DEPART
We intrude the brick field
famed for the copulating
crickets and darkness.
The last cigarette draws
an ephemeral fire arch, orbit
of some celestial sigh.
Thus we depart. Friend's falling
failing the faith upon a wish-star.
The old houses where we lived
are already replaced with
the spikes of newer wistful edifices.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Poetry empowers the simplest of lives to confront the most extreme sorrows with courage, and motivates the mightiest of offices to humbly heed lessons in compassion.
―Aberjhani, Splendid Literarium: A Treasury of Stories, Aphorisms, Poems, and Essays
____________________
Today we welcome newcomer Kushal Poddar from India! He is an author, journalist, father, and editor of Words Surfacing who has authored eight books, the latest being Postmarked Quarantine. His works have been translated into eleven languages. Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet/. Again, welcome to the Kitchen, Kushal, and don’t be a stranger!
Tonight is Sac. Poetry Center’s annual fundraiser, starting at 6pm at Mimi Miller’s house in Sacramento, featuring poetry, music, a raffle and hors d’oeuvres. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
___________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
of crackling..."
