I
If Derrida would deconstruct the subliminal literature of the humdrum of the days, evenings, and nights, perhaps he would say that do not believe what the poet writes but do find where he leaves a space. Poet Kushal Poddar synthesizes the daily routines, coffee, dreams, deaths, and hardworking laborers.
I
One deconstructed dandelion,
or one million,
panic-attacks the wind.
Sun, caught in the swirls, holds ?
on to a Falcon.
II
And then the moon tilts the scene, ?
now a bit dark, now a little sapped,
and slaps the girl jogging in pink tights
and all the leaves lost the fight alike.
Here is an iron fenced park. ?
Here are the tired parents leaning against
the black railings surrounding the water,
and there, their daughters fly from the dive-board.
Moonlight toils away shining the breeze,
trees, swans, lawns.
III
As she switches on ?
the ceiling fan
the metropolitan subsistence
rotates. ?
Thoughts trickle through
the sense’s sugar cube,
and blood turns green, absinthe.
Night drowns in its cirrhosis,
and yet dream awakens to the days coming.
Kushal Poddar is editor of Words Surfacing and an author of eight books, the latest being Postmarked Quarantine