Spring Sprawls Across the Fence of the Reality 


The river and the wind bring Spring in your house;

the leaves and the gravel announce a stranger;

your curtains rise and fall; one cuckoo blurs 

the boundary of singularity; you turn in your bed;

on your South side lies your lover whom you have gybed 

towards sleep; all of his flesh and his mind 

at its puerility's height hold the railing of a ship leaving

the port of reality. Those leaves talk with the stranger.

So much exist outside one's perception,

love outside your windows, 

patience across the fence of waiting. 

You stream on the bed, reflections of the stars on your chest.

You breathe, and it rains in the city.


Have You Seen That Patch of Green


The wind within

bleeds on the blades of my dreams.


This is the patch of the wild blooms 

I carry, held between


the house I desire

and the one I own.



Today summer liquifies 

the red. The prayers sway.


An arrow of the birds free 

in the cage of my mind's geosphere flies. 


Waiting


The clock unwinds silence; 

in the embrace of our pillows

we sleep off twelve gongs;

snow swirls to settle on 

our tropical forty degree Celsius land;

a singular apparition 

holds its crow mien and fettle.


The mango tree writhes underneath

its unaccustomed white sheath.

Patience waits outside, leaves 

its footprints on the snow

although in the morning we see nothing

except some wet roads, cars, 

greenery and feathers, nothing that

can make us believe in the myths. 





The String


Why the road and the pavements look wet?

Rain remains absent in this plain for awhile.

Do we sweat this much? Oh so wet!


The kite whisperer friend lets it be

a white stingray in the almost-white blue.

"Report back; bring back the messages of the clouds."


The news from the sky sounds fake; we misread it.

"If you misinterpret something fake," hope says,

"what you perceive might be true."


The boys reels and pulls the string.

Sometimes the thin line cuts the skin.

The asphalt glistens. Do we bleed that much? 

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