Home Planet News Online

     The Literary Review

Page 36

                                                                                                                                                                           Swipe left        Swipe down

Tarnished Brass

In the tarnished brass
God's proposals are kept.
We unearth them much later —
my grandmother has given up the ghost;
the family settlement has gathered sediments;
autumn roils every plant outside the cold-frame;
we unlock the attic forged to be a private
temple where my grandmother left crumbs of her time;
down the wainscot a stream of water ululates;
a fat lizard stares at us; all argent has turned emerald;
in a brass container God's proposals are kept;
grandmother has left all of her flesh;
family settlement has struck peace;
autumn leaves scurry a chant across the terrace.
We do not know how to handle this past
where future returns every now and then.

  Kushal Poddar__

Party Tricks

A girl from the party
picks up the retro telephone decor


They hear the sonic bubble
fail at bathymetry;
she hears the fin and the reef.
Outside, sharks slowly harry the streets.
A chauffeur waiting for his lady
vanishes leaving a pool of blood
after a fight over the words of the cards.


The girl fails to reach what is non-existent,
and they laugh as if at this moment
ocean doesn't aegir through them.

  Kushal Poddar __

                  © William Corner Clarke: CCI02092015_2

One For The Autumn

'Hello', greets the boy I startled,
pale face, scrawny, 'I'll be your new
neighborly serial killer.'

'Yes.' I nod, 'welcome to the putrescence.'
Moon climbs to the Friday large in its week first.
I nurse some coffee inches before the midnight,

and the kid still on the tip of the tiny playground's slide
stares at the round haze of light; sleep eludes us both
in the dim although we perform peepiness throughout the day..

'I go by Autumn,' the boy says.
I hold the breath of my mug, moon
rises to its argent best amidst the smog.

'I just buried my best knife.' he says.
We know the grief it may birth.
Haven't we been slow-carving
this precinct's heart out?

  Kushal Poddar__

From My Letter To Bakhtin

Mother kept her eyes unbloomed one day;
I read Sandman's dialogue from a stool besides her bed;
mother's arm displayed years sans sun;
our street cat felt loquacious sitting near our pane.

Tomorrow, mother will open her eyes;
the sudden movement will propel the feline to leap;
today, I read the death of Morpheus.

In the chronotope someone flashes in his loo.

  Kushal Poddar__