Between the aperitifs she asks-
Do you really know Franz?
What is he like?
I look outside.
A righteous white line moves straight.
Moves up. Moves down.
Moves back until it forms a landscape.
The small dots of bird returning in a wrong time,
a fox making that short noise really long.
A small ice plough unzipping the land's behind.
The flesh smells of dead grass.
Life is Franz, I say
about a man I do not know well.
Personal Sacred Texts
The sacred texts are always personal.
The chipped syllables of a poem to the lover.
A magnet holding a B+ essay.
A letter to the mother who holds the paper
on her eyelids and smells it.
The hieroglyphics on the public urinal's wall.
Some digits scribbled on the glossy margin
over the updates on royal blood.
We forget who may pick up the phone
if we use those numbers,
and like a sacred text we do not use them,
or in our memory they change their sequence.
The betrayal of those walls chokes her.
She scurries all around the place.
Room after room. Blames the walls.
An upturned stream flows toward the table’s corner,
falls drop by drop on the bare floor.
The smell of medicine is not curative.
We breathe with her. Heavy and hard.
Sailing through the hostile water.
We conjure some darkness.
She sits midst it. A dark figure in the dark.
Then she snaps at us for dimming the light.
We hurt each other
with all our might restrained
inside our friendly banters
and then laugh until the tears come.
The streets shove and push.
They move toward nowhere.
The autumn already bent the sun.
This feeling is what the drunkards feel.
Not those sad ones.
And we know them well.
We left them outside this day
where they occupy the pavements supine.
The sun yellows their faces.
Their lids fail more and more to hold in the intoxication
as the day advances
and we, here in good company,
proceed toward the dreaded good bye.
The sun sets over the dishwasher,
yellow package of one drop wonder.
Some wires slice the yolk.
The neighbor's kitchen window listens
to the mountainside FM.
Here we are. We never were.
Copyright © 2013 Kushal Poddar
||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’, and his forthcoming book is ‘Five Poets’.