Wednesday, January 24, 2024

Insane, Self

 —Poetry and Photos by Kushal Poddar, 
Kolkata, W. Bengal, India

Insane, if you call me
I'll agree, not because
of my soliloquies frequent
in front of a ghost audience
and not because provoked,
I turn violent,
because I repeat my old defeats.
I shall answer, desire to know
about your children and you will show
anger because you have blue
and gray at heart regarding that.
Look at me watching my dirty water
trembling twin. Look at that toenail
born and reborn yellow between
flesh and reflection.
A wind touches your head, glad
that madness is not airborne,
you say, "Stay well." I see you go.
I shall see you go again.


He asks, "Did you enjoy?"
His eyes blade though her,
and she bleeds silence.

The pimp has nine toes,
a dance in his gait.
The girl has pox-bitten cheeks.

She makes a rat her pet.
The room comes with a porcelain set
no occupant ever used.

The tale of a cup of poisoned tea
shared with some client who
found a heart where legs meet
roams in the room like a vermin.


The examiner says, "Follow the light, please."
The man closes his, and a summer dress
flower garden replies to the wind by stirring.
It is left on a blackened wood chair.
Half of the house imagines its other half, gone half.
Half of everything works full-time. The wind burns.
The crepitation forms an 'O' around the sight
of another explosion nearby. He follows the light.
Which period of time is this? It matters little.
The halved room exists since someone discovered
how to light up a fire. 


After a sudden friend's old death
we found it hard not to make love
every dusk, returning home mid-work
as if that could cure gunshots
and the memories not bled
because death didn't delay
pushing through the café door.

Death could have been late, kept
the bullet for a day in May or thereafter
and found our by then best friend
sad with his love for both of us.
He might not have any solution,
startled and relieved, desired to ask death,
"Why are you so late?" The café
would have the same white out.


That year reflections, shadows
and shades grasped my heart.
I shivered seeing shapes and light,
not quite, the opposite of it and
what it co-creates with our flesh,
its interpretations of us.

This year following the halo of our
headlights on the pitch-black path
I wonder if heart died after a long
convulsion. We throttle the gas.
Even the glory they cast on the big screen
doesn't make me feel anything.
The red car, premium retro drive-in revival,
home videos of my mother back at home
or your kisses all swirl, scatter and fall
like grey flakes.


Today’s LittleNip:

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.

—Jean Cocteau


—Medusa, welcoming Kushal Poddar back to the Kitchen. Kushal first visited us in December of 2022.

Kushal Poddar

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