"Here Comes That Season" & "After The Fiesta Ends" by Kushal Poddar

Here Comes That Season 

The stones heat up for a brief period.

Their cold heart, beginning to add

another layer made of leaves, surface

even before emerges the evening.

The birds invite sleep on the emptying 

boughs. Not all will wake up. Some songs

will be silent. The water streaming nearby

gurgles and spits out a writhing fish.

The dark slumber flies across the moon face.

A slowed-down rodent creates a feeble noise

in our kitchen. The noise bloats up, bursts.

Our wares and glass shiver and settle.

After The Fiesta Ends

I have no inkling to whom and what,

albeit I bid adieu to something, whisper,

"Ave."

During the first few days once the fiesta ends

slow mornings fly in, chirp, and five different 

chords I can hear, miss innumerable ones.

At one point of time the chirrups continue 

albeit within a jelly-flood of silence.

I cannot fathom those anymore, hear the blue.

I dive from the edge of our balcony.

On the Hemingway days I drown, fall

through the bubbles of thoughts and white noise,

reach the bottom and meet the cacophony.

Bow those are one, soft, viscid.

On the other days I soar, fly too close to the Sun.

Although Kushal Poddar has authored ten books, the latest being 'A White Can For The Blind Lane', and his works have been translated into twelve languages, and he has been a sub-editor of Outlook magazine and the editor of Words Surfacing, and he does some illustrations and sketches for various magazines if you ask him, he will say that he gardens a growing up daughter.