This week our guest Kushal Poddar debuts from India.
The baseball bat climbs
A bottle rolls its emptiness
on the floor.
An overload flickers the light.
On the roof your lover waits
amongst the lint and paper, dust and dead pigeons.
They share the same mystery.
What lays inside means everything
and you cannot beat a good batter.
Between the arguments my grandmother asks,
Why are we here, tell me again?
Reminding her that her husband died hurts
and so does not reviving her wound.
You pushed the doorframe yesterday,
blamed them on shrinking the entry.
You try to grab them as you fall.
Today, an uncertain day for any stability.
Your hand slips down, body falls into a heap.
You see it. A pile of circles and creases.
If one can imagine an island in clouds,
he can see it here as well.
Your head, an eye in the island, watches the sky for help.
The doorframe shot up the way ancestors’ dreamt they would.
The Estate OF Anger
In our house
we swap one hot iron from hand to hand.
One koi pond, rock garden,
Buddha made of cold stone-
during monsoon it turns green.
And we hide our burnt skins,
place tea with a little ting.
Rain swells the woods, shrinks the space,
hand to hand we run the anger-
as if they have something ruled against.
A native of Kolkata, India, Kushal Poddar (1977- ) writes poetries, fictions and scripts for television mini-series and is published worldwide. He is the author of “All Our Fictional Dreams”.