An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, edited a magazine – ‘Words Surfacing’, authored seven volumes including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’. His works have been translated in ten languages.
Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Be Radha, She Wrote On The Back
In the blue light one can almost see the traces of semen and Radha on the heart's Stockholm floor. "Be Radha in your life next! You say, as a suspended hex, as if that sanctifies the act, cold tiles of your heart-locker where love is made to promise an end of freewill, as if this frees the captor and heals the captive and defines the four corners of yearning. In the blue light heart can be seen, a graph of the feeble and strong throbbing, signatures scribbled on the reverse side of a social contract (Do you recall the words of Butler?). "Be the wick", you curse the flame. Flesh burns some days, and some days it lives, but without a memory. You say, "You're Radha.", but it is not quite the truth, is it? *Imagine the Hindu myth of Radha and Krishna from a suffragette angle.
The one I desire, the woman within this flesh of mine, births a daughter inside my id, and we nurse her somewhere (no, I can provide you the specifics, in my skull-attic), and even with all my headstrong bones we remain afraid - these are the days of the daily news of rapes. I whisper in my ears - All are inside, demons and slayers, mirrors, stars and shards in the sand. My bleeding footprints shall be worshipped by me, a man with a woman on his chest.
Time Has It Hands On The Fire and The Frost
The bird, I imagine, asks how long the bard'll go on scrivening about those stolen kisses he missed as a young man. From the street beneath my verandah, a vagrant upturns his palms. Money? No, he shows his scald. Time has touched both the fire and the frost; does the man feel the veins swelled with the pride for his battle marks? Almost spring, the bipolar wind inoculates two minds I think with, and I think about the bird of the morning and the man without a home, and those two minds fight against the starry starry night and chasing crows inside. Time feeds two serpents. Some rumours of the summer lure you to open the curtains. A flyer flies in. Don't pick up. I scream. We didn't discover any vaccine for belief.