promises on a brown leaf
The thing between the seasons, the changes,
the whoooosh sound of wind asking, the words
of a stream of some fumbling answers,
the misanthropist feline’s silence;
these things of uncertain sadness are
remembered while you placed the dinner;
for one of course. You have been skipping
eating after six since last year’s storm
which still rises ripples on the pool
behind your house. I devour the stew.
Country cousins of the crows cried at
a cat approaching near their nests.
These formless things when seasons change
haunt like a light fever and cold hands.
Aunt I will return soon. Promises.
=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)
the second monsoon
Résumé of rain; a daughter waits
for her gifts at day’s end; you call her
to come out, to have lunch; remind her
that it is too early for the dusk.
Inside her room with the seeds of teenage,
she is pressed against panes. Flashes, raindrops.
The moment burns like that lightning-struck tree.
An event of returning, a flight
of a pigeon; one waits; the other hopes.
The gray cat under the garage shade
has a feather stuck on its mouth.
Screams the girl; the daughter. The wind chimes
madly ring and ring all afternoon;
mother’s embrace squeezes the scared one
for all afternoon. Rain recommences.
Pa is returning from the lost days.
=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)
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Comments: 88
the second monsoon
An event of returning, a flight
of a pigeon; one waits; the other hopes.
The second poem perfectly captures the symbolic nature of the season.
the second monsoon
the second monsoon
Country cousins of the crows cried at
a cat approaching near their nests.
These formless things when seasons change
haunts like a light fever and cold hands.
Aunt I will return soon. Promises
Winds of refusal, creating distance. Did they invite the storm?
Featured in the Triple Name Club.
the second monsoon
I'm uncomfortable about the last lines in each separated and cannot see why you have done that; making it less fractured, less disconnected, would help each poem to gel, to feel together.
Please keep writing and posting!
Peace.
Thanks for posting to my group, Anythingwriting
I immediately liked the opening lines of the first one but then it became elusive, like trying to hold onto a wisp of smoke... my fault, not yours I'm sure.
-R.
The second is superior. The title well-chosen and you are a brave writer, a brave male writer, treading on the sacred ground of the female teen. In that setting there are landmines (storms) galore. The latter succeeded in taking hold of me. Perhaps I just need to read the first again; slower, paying more attention.
Thanks for sharing these.
(idea: you could email me a little background info on poem #1 up there)
Or is the poem really about what I just wrote? Poem knows.
Very inward looking poems both, Kushal. See my comment below. I hope it tells you how much I've been reading and thinking about what you write.
Poem 2: The girl's scream reflects the eeriness of the first poem.
Thank you for posting to The Surreal Circus.
wheels in turning,
A hand outstretched to set the sail,
A roving eye to the morning mail,
The gathering wind that knows no bounds,
All are found in the lost and found.
When passing only dams the eyes,
the spirit wanders far and near,
At morning's light we find the doors,
Grace finds the walls intact,
Survival of the Night.
soliloquy and sunset
soliloquy and sunset
soliloquy and sunset
You are one of those rare ones - to the manor born, so to speak. I can compose/sing/play like you write poetry - it comes to me as spontaneously as breathing. But this - the words, their moulding into such superb shapes and sounds to reflect the worlds we create inside - that happens to me only after immense and prolonged build-up - this comment itself is prime example.
I read a hundred poems of yours - and only then manage to leave a comment like this. I wish I could write one comment to capture the beauty, the power, the depth and insight of your poetry. The day I can do that, I'll call myself a writer - maybe.
remembered while you placed the dinner;
for one of course
Such a sad feeling, told so poetically...