—Poetry by Kushal Poddar, Kolkata,
W. Bengal, India
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
W. Bengal, India
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
THE RAILINGS
I have left the balcony's door open
again, not on purpose or as a ritual.
The timber panel lingers on the skin
of my hands. This is how my mind
would have felt if I could hold
it physically, but my hands
would have slackened the grip, slipped
and sank in the blue between
the memories' ruins.
Now I hear the noise of the void.
The late night opens and shuts.
The door breathes. My closed eyes
follow a graph of the summer wind.
Thunders rustle. Like the blind I see
the dark stars and my long-gone cousin
learning to smoke, leaning on
the decayed railings before his fall.
I have left the balcony's door open
again, not on purpose or as a ritual.
The timber panel lingers on the skin
of my hands. This is how my mind
would have felt if I could hold
it physically, but my hands
would have slackened the grip, slipped
and sank in the blue between
the memories' ruins.
Now I hear the noise of the void.
The late night opens and shuts.
The door breathes. My closed eyes
follow a graph of the summer wind.
Thunders rustle. Like the blind I see
the dark stars and my long-gone cousin
learning to smoke, leaning on
the decayed railings before his fall.
DEPRESSION JOURNAL
The man lying in the couch
feels the filigree of the light
on the dark wall as if
his index finger can grow
by a few feet and touch the texture.
Almost dawn. The overlay of the Sun
colours the yard. His daughter
shakes him again, "Wake up, dad."
He is awake; he doesn't stir.
On his eyes a handwritten note
from the mind's oceanside whispers—
"Gone to oblivion. Shall return."
The man lying in the couch
feels the filigree of the light
on the dark wall as if
his index finger can grow
by a few feet and touch the texture.
Almost dawn. The overlay of the Sun
colours the yard. His daughter
shakes him again, "Wake up, dad."
He is awake; he doesn't stir.
On his eyes a handwritten note
from the mind's oceanside whispers—
"Gone to oblivion. Shall return."
WHITE NOISES
I visit him
in his nursing home
room so white noisy
so calm
and report my whole life.
Every Sunday. And then I repeat.
Every Sunday
you go to your place of worship
confess your sin
in a muffled voice
and ask for the miracles.
And then you repeat.
I visit him
in his nursing home
room so white noisy
so calm
and report my whole life.
Every Sunday. And then I repeat.
Every Sunday
you go to your place of worship
confess your sin
in a muffled voice
and ask for the miracles.
And then you repeat.
DODO, COME TO MY WORLD
The neighbour who buys
fish entrails to feed
sudden-crows that flock onto
his flat roof
has too much soul for his body.
He grins when I nod in the morning
and complain about the heat,
"If it soars any more we'll cease to exist."
He whispers to the invisible,
"Dodo, come to my world. "
Some birds never go home when sun sets.
The neighbour who buys
fish entrails to feed
sudden-crows that flock onto
his flat roof
has too much soul for his body.
He grins when I nod in the morning
and complain about the heat,
"If it soars any more we'll cease to exist."
He whispers to the invisible,
"Dodo, come to my world. "
Some birds never go home when sun sets.
THE ECOSYSTEM OF BELIEF
On my palm the circles
of perforated clouds
highlight myths and illusions.
The future, I read, chokes
in the red smoke. It began
even before past was conceived.
I trowel in ripe soil at the base
of a rescue-plant. It is my support tree.
It is the excuse to live, read my hands,
yawn and stretch my summer arms.
The fingers reach for the sky, lies,
and the promises of a cleansing rain.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, before all, to make you see.
―Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kushal Poddar for today’s fine poetry!
On my palm the circles
of perforated clouds
highlight myths and illusions.
The future, I read, chokes
in the red smoke. It began
even before past was conceived.
I trowel in ripe soil at the base
of a rescue-plant. It is my support tree.
It is the excuse to live, read my hands,
yawn and stretch my summer arms.
The fingers reach for the sky, lies,
and the promises of a cleansing rain.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, before all, to make you see.
―Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kushal Poddar for today’s fine poetry!
Kushal Poddar
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
Honk, honk!
Sound of geese
in the road—
or is that the car
stuck behind them?
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
Honk, honk!
Sound of geese
in the road—
or is that the car
stuck behind them?