Indian Poetry by Kushal Poddar.
Today, Yareah magazine has the honor of sharing poems by Kushal Poddar. Indian poetry, with all the powerful colors and feelings of that immense lands. Enjoy them.
The news about the power situation
ends in mid-sentence.
Silence turns its head, tensed.
I begin the first of our long miscommunications.
We come out and fail to connect the Great Bear.
We learn to live with these unbearable disappointments anyway.
I smell the flower whose name you cannot recollect
and name it Silhouette
for shades inseminated those
though their pollen spread over the moon.
You say something about your dandruff problem in winter.
Since we know no other game you shake your head,
and I blow those white flakes toward the landscape.
They create a good snowfall simulation.
Imagine swirling in it.
Imagine something without any life being full of it.
The annals of my family,
stained by coffee and tannined,
rolls out its tongue
over the terrains of holding your mind
in small cups of unslept moments
dearly in need of siesta.
I remember how my feet fall asleep
on the couch smells of those years
being in a roomful of sitting pigeons,
and how you lift me on your latent palms,
carry me to our other room.
I know you will keep your sleep distant,
fidget with my father
and prepare our tomorrow.
The wire cuts my underfeet pink.
This- I feel most
I sense the omnipresence of steel,
whose strength lies in its callousness.
At distance simmers the apparition of a bird.
At distance the apparition of hallucination
and I surrender one foot at a time to the wire.
What I do not feel has a Godlike effect on me.
It demands a blind leap
and does not care if I do.
Those Leftovers From Tomorrow
My father before an open window
and an empty dish
the leftovers from tomorrow shall fill.
Some lively sparrow needleworks on the ledge.
Somewhere inside our house’s entrails
my mother, incessant over a saying
she made long ago, keeps whispering-
Tomorrow you will thank today.
I named that sparrow once.
Now I do not know if the same bird hops
this morning before my father
who sometimes forgets my name
and call me- feather- a light feather,
rootless over the time and need.
There go my eyes
through the Bougainvillea
and the burning bushes
toward the house I dream
living for years
before the life infested this planet.