Atmosphere I and II


I meet one kid carrying the beats
in her tiny device, swaying and jogging,
and we cross. “Goodnight”, We greet.

The atmosphere is mainly moon, hence
lunatic; treetops bathe in third world baby-feed,
look pale, chalky, skimmed; screaming when the wind
irritates the stillness between the summer and the rain.

We have been jogging for years and eons, never and zen,
her music spilling a few notes on the verdant quiescence.
We halloo sometimes; other nights we reign the silence.

Atmosphere I I

A morning cicada turns 
my daylight into the deep night.
Dim pane, sighs fall from the sky,
and I listen them hitting
the corrugated tin.

I see a sinful singular bird in red boots
dancing through the Sunday 
and all these sundry ways of dying a bit 
as if it is the most romantic notion.

My eyelids demolish the universe now and then,
rebirth it anew. Only morning and yet
I have the flesh of one survived years in 
a secret prisoner camp. I try to whistle
one escape plan that can never succeed.



Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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