Flight Skill of the Starlings

 Flock of Starlings

—Poetry by Kushal Poddar, Kolkata, W. Bengal, India
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

A FLOCK OF DECEASED AVIANS

A flock of deceased avians
flies out of habit in the phosphorus sky
during the defensive air strike.

You could have chosen a worse
situation to aver your love, but not many.
You feel—it is either this or being erased
without the memories' traces.

What do memories do sans any
physical avenue to convey or a storage
to stay? Do they counter-blast
in another realm where the energies
we have are orphaned live?

 

 

 

 

I SMELL A RAT

We have an agreement not to smell
the house, but I do. I sniff the rot,
vomit, repeat, as if by some forbidden design.

The other night I imagined balancing
on a narrow strip of dusty flowers, alive
albeit born old, the kind they use
to make a road divider feel pretty.

The odour is not so mild. It slaps
your senses if you let it so, but we
agreed to ignore, and I erase my sign on
that agreement. The smell shapes a rat.

It makes you imagine the poisoned meatballs.
I feel like bees' knees for death.
You whisper that's why we need
those terms on the treaties with life,
conscience, comfort and demise.

 

 

 

AT THE APOLITICAL GATHERING

The procession ends near
the five-streets crossing.
They talk, shout, and then
after the slogans slow down
the leaders orate, make Tim
sweat, and nervously he shakes
his head. Soon the listeners
not one with the piazza and mass
can hear the words they fight against.
The dark and white words, erased
by one and stressed by another,
the smoke you need, comrade, and
the world doesn't ashen the sky.
The slate holds the flight skill
of the starlings. Tim shakes his head.
They will understand the grey
between the amber and the onyx.
They should stop talking. Some songs
will be great. I grin, open a random line
from the newspaper, and begin singing.

 

 

 

FEVERISH CONCERNS

In this depth some moments
gasp, sink senseless, but then
on the floor of the fever I find
the remnants of sunken memories.
Those ships have sailed. I scream.
You hear a cricket, a wind leaving
my mouth.
On the mast
of my hearing an incessant starling
counts time. The bed of my dreams
soaks sweat. The raising sea level
concerns my conscience. The saline bed
rustles, "Are you worthy of your salt?"

 

 

 

 

21-GUN SALUTES AND
HEMINGWAY SYNDROME

August smothers the voice,
rain and only rain has the right
to colonize the colloquy.

Between twenty-one-gun salutes
for a colonel no one knows about
and one in my mouth, invisible though—
I do not own one, rain types on the roof,
'The constitution of a brainless reign.'

You begin a sentence with, "My country
may not be" and I thwart you, gurgle,
"Never be apologetic about the beauty
of your beloved" through my muzzle-
muffled orifice.

 

 

 

 

COME, SEE WITH ME

The sight is only a part of seeing.
A blind knows the other.
If you see a blind man,
hold his hand and ask,

said my uncle. Before he lost
his vision he withered,
and one day I went for
his hand to stir him awake;
he crumbled into whits.

This night when they set
their dogs after our candlelight
peace, our canvas shoes marching,
I close my eyes to see my uncle
writing a poster with his ashes,
'I UNDERSTAND.'

 

 

 

DRIVING BACK FROM NATURE

We drive back
the way we went,
crossed the treeline, pedestals,
steeples and the graveyard.

Near the last of the dense foliage
I need a toilet break.
You drum the steering wheel softly.

We shall drive back as soon I finish.
I hold on to my last drops.
The urine mist, dew drops on
the blades of green, plays Lacrimosa,
Mozart, chorus. I linger on the moment.
We shall drive back then.

 

 

 

 

IMMUNITY

In the pediatric ward
those faded toys for her oblivion
and her ever-smiling doctor,

the invisible needle
and a momentary pinch,
an innocent shriek, and then
a sticker and a toffee,
all to make her feel special, and these

she recalls on her wedding day
one Spring, almost too hot to marry.

As her parent, I raise a glass
and sip the hope that this
will immunize her for the life,
for the grief.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.

—Dante Alighieri

____________________

—Medusa, welcoming Kushal Poddar back to the Kitchen with his fine poems today!

 

Please let me know if you can read the tiny poem on the orange photo above. I can't make it out, but I liked the picture so well I decided to post it anyway.

 

 

 

 

A reminder that another MoSt
summer workshop meets today
in Modesto, 1pm; and the
Words for Wynter fundraiser
takes place starting at 2pm
at the Sacramento Poetry Center.
For info about these and other
future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

SnakePal’s friend, the starling