Kushal Poddar

Kushal Poddar
How The Drunkard Gains Bodhi

The drunkard oscillates 
his snow globe head, 
and a blizzard begins; 
the man trapped within 
is an explorer today, 
not yesterday's trapeze artist, 
not the hero of a prepubescent tale 
from the day before.

How long has he been here?
The grass looks greener, taller,
grown up in sweeping circles;
rain has landscaped the field
in Davy's gray. 
What day the calendar would say
it is if he had one?
Sun makes him squint.

The squirrels have learned to win
over their fright. He can be
their toy, nut or an unwon pet.
Right now he is no one except those.

Feral Pink Plastic

On the both sides
flow the plastic walls
graffitied 'Faux feminism '
and 'Feral pink'.
The toy train runs through
the short long tunnel,
and it sounds the only thing
real in this house holding
its silence as if it is 
the sacred breath within 
its frayed lungs,
and although the burrow 
covers a long distance
it takes only two seconds to cross.
When the engine emerges
a young heart skips a beat. 

The trustworthy troublemaker 

The nighttime telephone
conveys a collect call
from the terrain of the troublemakers.

This one is your troublemaker,
trust him for turning up
again and again.

He talks about tears, being torn
apart, and you, about the garden.
The plastic gnome has a new moss suit.
The ants declare a premature rain.

You whisper, "What would I do
without these calls?"

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