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Reading A War Novel

I sigh, and mark the word
where I end the day’s reading.
The book spins a tale of war.
The word I cannot cross today
is ‘House’.
‘A good place,’
I murmur, ‘to moor, balance,
and stretch.’
‘A good place,’ I think, ‘until they
turn it into a rubble.’

The day monsoon hits befalls today.
I look for the signs of rain.
The clouds must have taken a wrong turn.

The Voyagers

The wind creates origami birds
out of the leaves.
The pirouetting pirogue ferries us
downstream. Here we flow
down the full and thin river autumn.

Whirl past the faint odors of the houses,
bell peppers, fish in oil,
rice nice red and swell sweating flesh,
and freshly made love.

We have no pier to tie us up,
no place to rest, repose and restart.
We pass, an apparition formed
by the fog of souls
voyaging on adrenaline, a tale to tell
after a month full of rum.

A Clothesline Goes Through The Cloud

My neighbour’s clothesline slices a cloud,
and my window studies the blood
on its grimy glass. The DNA of the rain
reveals a fourth smoking and three part acid.

An atmospheric kitten leaps upon my lap.
I feed it the news, keep it up to the speed.
Today again I shall spend a thousand lives
all ending in the same possibility.

And The Sea

On the days I see sky colourless
over a stagnant water,
sometimes, not always, I desire
to put a full tide stream
in my mouth and blow up my brain.

‘Old man,’ you will say, ‘you have
the Hemingway syndrome.’

If so, not always. Most of the days
I row my boat. The sky wears its clouds
like medals from the last battle.

ABOUT THE ARTIST: KUSHAL PODDAR

An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, editor of ‘Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being ‘Postmarked Quarantine’. His works have been translated in eleven languages.

Find and follow him at: amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe