Poetry: Kushal Poddar

The Memories' Bridge

I count the utility poles.

Their shadows divide the bridge.

Their tips buried in messages

clouds exchange.

I tick them one by one.

The car crosses. This much close 

we can go, this far.

I do not know her 

who leaped from the bridge.

We still call it 'Suicidr Viaduct '.

Today it rains on its bent back. 

Tomorrow it rained.

Yesterday never arrives. 

"Please leave a message.

I cut the call, scribe a name

on my foggy mind, line through the same.

***

A Layman's Lexicon

"Madness is a socialist word."

My mother whispers.

I know. I know how it levels

all those depressed, bipolar,

schizophrenic people, 

Dionysus, Muses, Eros and 

my grandfather suffering

from PTSD since the event 

we do not talk about.

Madness embraces the mess.

The mass. The journey and the end. 

She turns and says, "We will need

a shovel." All afternoon we dig

our minds and by the time moon awakens

we have buried all our memories."

A mass burial you may call it 

although every event is one. 

Everything happened to everyone

seems same, immaterial

for the ensuing night.

***

The Confused Truths

The song stuck in my mind/head

was never recorded.

Somewhere it originated; perhaps

while standing with my palms sweating, 

heart scattered between its beats,

perplexed in front of the heaps

of choices arrayed in a supermarket row,

failing to differentiate one brand from another,

the truths still within their expiry date from

the beliefs staled. I fail to maintain a scale,

fail the lyrics unscribed before finalization.

You say I speak a lot about the song,

write about it in letters. I also chronicle

winter sun, walking downslope, geese 

flocking over watery silhouette although 

I have not visited such oblivions. 

Hence logic pardons me from

the murder I talk about often. 

***

The Reading 

The poet arrives wearing

the Armani his father borrowed

from his friend in the decade 

of shunning suits for flowers.

The poet has nothing underneath.

A hot day, summer, he

sweats pride, amused that 

no one knows his bare soul,

but he cannot utter  'Soul' 

without a squirm.

***
 

Bio: Kushal Poddar, the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages. 

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

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Setu, May 2023