The Short Life of The Spring
In its kingdom of shadows sits the cat.
When the car will start and roll away
it will be a pauper.
This moment is sacred. This moment is rich
with all its quiet.
In the sugarcane juice spilled from the cup
of an old man runs the youth of the Spring,
its alysm and inbetweenness.
The Jewel of A Lone Tobacco Stick
In a jewellery market
near where I live
an old thief
guards the nighttime quiet.
A tobacco stick, hand rolled,
tilted against his lower lip,
The dog that knows him
before he retired with a limp
barks out of habit.
‘Old’, a keyword in this place,
browns away on a wooden plaque
on some shop front.
Its font has come back into fashion.
Today I am a table or a knife
or the onion beneath its strife.
I have no words, no drama, no hurt.
You can keep your elbows on me,
or I can draw a thin line on you
or forge you benign tears.
I can harvest moulds.
The sky drags penumbra across the sky.
Quiet clouds the thoughts.
The aquarium and the cat morph into
the cat and the aquarium.
I am the table, knife, blood on the floor.
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
Image created on Stable Diffusion 2- 1