do you care to read these?A Poem by poddar kushalHer red tricycle Sunshine leaps from the pebbles To the porch. It touched the newspaper It touched the nails It creeps up the arm to the heart. A warm feeling gushes through the veins It opens your mouth. Smile spreads. You call the little rider On her red tricycle. Village boy came to city, found loveHe saw the sharp and metals. Beautiful, poignant and murderous. They teeth of the city is as hungry As his homeland’s stomachs Between her teeth Went a long and dark lane Tortuously down to more darkness. He closed her eyes. Eves used to see something More organic. He lifted his lips with eyes closed The meeting sparked black lights A kiss to the satanic lips. A genesis of desire and chaos And, It added one more death To the city life. empty A gust of wind Carried the empty plastic Down the alley of mind, An alley as dusty as the plastic. The rustic light upon the ground, The emptiness rolled and rolled To the 3rd lamppost to the left, Where it found A stud of gum to stick. An empty plastic A dusty passage Out of focus eyes, lights flickers. How far had you come civilization? No one was there on the porch. A dog barked No body had fed it. An empty plastic Is all, which is alive? Mind tried to find a body To reside. Years and years had passed to gather More years to differ and sever An empty plastic A dusty passage How far had you come civilization? A homecoming
She is coming back with a heavy heart, Heart tends to be hard Otherwise it hurts easily. Easily it drenches the soul’ The way now sky and clouds are making her wet. The way to home Long and too long.. She has forgotten to take an umbrella. She is coming back to a cold hearth A house with shattered windows Nameplate says it as “whispering willows”. A rain like this makes the door jammed.. She knows she has been sacked She knows now she should have Admitted to the proposal. She is not too sure Then again she would not happen to be sacked. She, the confused, is coming home at last. Where is the power? Words fall short before a rising sun. They are nothing to the gust of rays, Giddy they lower their heads On the green grass. That squanders the gathers of dews. At the fall of the words, the birds fly Amid a sky that even does not look at the words. Then why? Then why? Then why they hurt the heart? Where their power lies? The boy never understands, Only a splash of red spreads upon life. Freedoms and shackles She has not read any for ages No. Dear Sir, not even your poems. She used to nonetheless. Pluck a day of her life: Scatters of office, Lurid re marks of frustrated colleagues Who goes home to dull and pale grate, Who enjoys a few fingers to touch, And, whose touch she deplores. Pluck a day of her life To find ill payment And, rejected rejoices. Which is not in relation to money. No, honey. Not to day . How many times she has to say! She looked out at the sky Not to the clouds, not to the birds, Just to see whether it is fit To wash a few cloths. Of course, world is worldly clods. Pluck a day of her life She has no respite But it is nice, She has freedom Within her mind. A question of love and death. Love and pain are two sisters, spinsters, living together. Invitee, you are a bachelor, at a loss Whose attention You must return. Pain has shown the embroidery. (Called life) Her hand so nimble upon a piece of cloth! The perverse pleasure of picking at blood! Love has given you a cup of tea. (Fresh from the garden of freedom) With you small talks she has of the day. It is so comfortable, you think, Only a bit dull. “The pleasure is all mine “ You have said on the face of it. At a loss whose attention you must return You returned to death Where there is none.
© 2008 poddar kushal
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poddar kushalkolkata, India, IndiaAboutlife and trying to earn bread made me an advocate. mad at my own stressful self, turned to writing. poems mainly. but, there are several short stories published in my mother toungue 'bengali'.i live i.. more..Writing
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