Apples we’ve devoured
A little fire, a smoke coiling out of
the autumn, a short walk to the market
and a packet of apples for kitchen;
wonder whether the apples taste the same.
Sparse are the thoughts nowadays. Think nothing.
Think nothing like your spouse has been thinking
while the home grows slightly Laodicean.
Whistle of nothing says the apples are done.
A little fire, a smoke coiling out of
the kitchen, tell their own stories. You are
baking a pie and reading the next line
on a white page of a new cooking book.
Fire plays with you irrespective of your
hairline, irrespective of the deep pains.
=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)
bitter taste of sugar
Hide, the pillowcase envelopes you
latter the memory of faint smell
of oil and staleness shall stay with you.
Wind chimes’ shadows ring; you can’t stop them.
A sparrow hops on the windowsill.
Clouds carrying oriental dreams
fall on a patch where the neighbor’s
evil boy coexists with the seer
who draws still life. “Why are your flowers
you paint disturb me?” “Because there is
a war’s going on at the arid lands.”
How can you understand him better
than that crew cut boy? Mother’s searching.
Tell her you realize everything.
=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission
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Comments: 92
everything has a story to tell.
on a town gossip
The second piece makes me think of the fact that in a millisecond the teacher and student switch places.
BITTER TASTE OF SUGAR...you write of relationships, of art and wars and then the mention of a sparrow hopping on a window sill and it all comes to life.
Life really is all of it - everything. All of us, wars, children, elderly, secrets, but best of all, friends -- people who still care even if they don't understand. We must always count on changes, some good, others not. You're teaching me right now and everytime I read your work.
Pretty Dawn does the same thing, as well as a lot of others here that I'm proud to call 'friends'.
Featured in Poets, New and Old.
with thanks,
Mar~
but your home is only "slightly Laodicean"
A little fire , a short walk, apples may not taste as good,
A creeping sense of discontent, more than just the food.
I'm not sure I understand what everything means
But's clear as bitter sugar that nothing's what it seems
Featured in the Triple Name Club.
on a town gossip
on a town gossip
The second poem is so powerfully impressionistic, but so real; thus, masterful. There are some grammatical tics, though:
who draws still life. “Why are your flowers
you paint disturb me?” “Because there is
a war’s going on at the arid lands.”
The first line could read: "Why do the flowers you paint disturb me?"
And the line “Because there is a war’s going on at the arid lands” should be fixed to read: “Because there is a war going on in the arid lands.”
These are the finest poems I've read in a long time.
on a town gossip
on a town gossip
Poem 2: I think this one has good bones but, like Andrea, I'm confused about the way you've phrased things.
Thank you for posting to The Surreal Circus.
on a town gossip
on a town gossip
on a town gossip
on a town gossip
Thanks for posting to my group, Anythingwriting
on a town gossip
on a town gossip
on a town gossip
on a town gossip
Think nothing.
Think nothing like your spouse has been thinking
while the home grows slightly Laodicean.
reminds me that i have a small pile of stuff (about two or three feet high) i would like to burn up in my fire pit out back before winter sets in
on a town gossip
killing some truths