Kushal Poddar | 2 Poems

The First Blood

You will not realise
the first born, a river 
with two blind ends, 
spreads like a lake unless 
you fly high and see 
the body of truth with the drone-eyes.

He opens the door for the house.
Others have so many chores. 
He grins, welcomes the folks visiting
and drips his shoulders when
winter ebbs, and the gadabouts 
become only the feathers they leave. 

He is all our mistakes while fishing
for truths. Beneath his rippling skin
lies desires died and secrets jettisoned.
At night he gurgles, “In me
my father sleeps with a stone chained

to his neck.” You shiver. 
A swirl of fireflies ribbons 
the gift of darkness. 

You will not realise
the first born, a river 
with two blind ends, 
spreads like a lake unless 
you fly high and see 
the body of truth with the drone-eyes.

You Know These Are Questionable Truths

I told my friend Amit, 
I forget what I write.
Once a reader queried 
why I wrote some line
and I vivisected like a critic, 0.

That night we strolled into a fort 
for a drink with a stranger 
who would declare 
a no-man’s land between us, 
shoot-at-sight later. 

Did we? Perhaps I fake my life, 
live the lies, forget 
the creation and believe tales as truths. 

The author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages. 
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe