Lunch hour on the 30th
Sound of a cooker, middleclass home,
the month ends; well, almost. See a kite
stuck on the roof. Father has troubles
to keep his balance while retrieving
the wings on which he may fly. Don’t ask,
how far he may escape on the kite’s
pretence before we all brought him down.
Sound of a cooker, peace and war eats
together at this middleclass home.
© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)
Nausea
To Peter
There is always a spell on the bridges.
Rain on the wooden pelt, washed away
sounds flow down; ripples cross the canal;
meet me at the other end; seep in
the earth. Poplars are obscure in mist.
There is a spell on the bridges, always.
I can see, turning back, it fades and
obliterates the link, a cliché;
still it never fails to blur my eyes.
A cliché, but I can hear a sea
with the voice of my father asking
to be real for once. For once take
a raincoat without his reminder.
But without his reminder I cannot
cross a bridge and not feel the nausea.
© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)
recommend this
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 114
Thank you.
"The Courage That My Mother Had"
The courage that my mother had
Went with her, and is with her still:
Rock from New England quarried;
Now granite in a granite hill.
The golden brooch my mother wore
She left behind for me to wear;
I have no thing I treasure more:
Yet, it is something I could spare.
Oh, if instead she’d left to me
The thing she took into the grave!—
That courage like a rock, which she
Has no more need of, and I have.
My favorite poem of Millay's is "Renascence". It's long, but so worth the read.
If you'd like to see it, click HERE
my fav. of maya's is the caged bird.
Maya Angelou
The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
with me baby
in a field of roses;
Scarlet. Listen to the oak trees
whisper
into our ears love, "Never leave...
we need you both to live."
"Please stay."
a new poem ;)
what I was born with.
can't think of the name of the song.
Poplars are obscure in mist.
Much better than just trees.
fresh rose
cut glass container
kept on the table. (impromptu)
The lack of specification is a virtue here.
Sadness.
In the rain.
Like death.
is much better than A coat.
are you writing something new. I remember your poems which of course did little to satisfy you.
It is morning now.
Lunch Hour: See brudder, we even shared the same childhood. Or because I am vastly older, perhaps, you inherited my childhood. Either way we were brudders before we even met.
for a Lady, a Princess, and a Daisy
:+)
Featured in the Triple Name Club.
Nice work.
lunch hour on the 30th
Poem 2: This poem is really intriguing. Is it about someone separating from their family and violating a taboo?
Thanks for sharing with The Surreal Circus.
"a spell on the bridges"...a link from past to future that we can't return to the same as we left...or a voice from the past shouting "be careful!!"
Fly high and free kite.
Thanks for posting to my group, Anythingwriting
means the same thing in India as in the west
Salary is pre-spent with Landlord or Banker, its crass
many in the middle class are wage slaves, more or less...
and unlike Roman Slaves, can be discarded
when rich have their Global Financial Crisis
loyal salarymen's lives loyalty rewarded
sacrificed to Mammon not to Isis!