Glass for the Looking And daybreak lifts from the Pacific Like tracing paper from a hairdryer Low setting. There is not any living object Of this world that turns to you, Your honeycomb tiles In your desert/dessert—depends what day it is—citadel. Marram grass like wind-bent strands Of floss coloured olive gesticulate to a High tide Reacquainted with a rusting fringe, Flames for eyelashes Medium burn. A dribbling of gulls across the skyline — Gunned down from sight at sundown. Kindling has evaded all eyes of this day Eyelashes have entered Begrimed brown, Toes made unlovely Like those on ends of foot-bound quondam souls. Panache of catwalk like hollow death. I saw it all Or did I? A seascape for threadbare eyes looking out The window Of neither A glass of truth nor self-reflection. Then what?Read more "Joel Schueler – Glass for the Looking"
I wrote this last night.
“How ya doing?” asked a dear friend of mine yesterday. I told her that I felt like there was a room within me (as I patted my chest) where there’s a man crying, all day long. If it were the challenges and horror of the Pandemic alone, I’d tell myself that this is a rare potent time to create, to go within, to tap into the introspective blue. But if one feels empathy, it’s overwhelming. Another man in another room simply goes about making tea and speaking softly about hope while whispering the many names we have given God. Crying man sits unceremoniously at the end of the bed like the subject in a Edward Hopper painting, looking towards a wall that used to have a window. He’s predictable now and heavy company, so I don’t visit him often. I can see him from here. I get the internal nudge to create, to wake up from the inside out, to cultivate inner peace, to work to uncover truth, to protest in the streets, but I keep myself busy fixing everything around the house, my lists are long. I drink too much, smoke too much. Some nights it feels like everything is for nothing; that what was worth something wears only the clothes of memory. I’d like my life stirred, not shaken I murmur to myself as I wake in a dream. How does one care for one’s self when so deeply focused on caring for another? I place my ear up to the door of the crying mans room as I shove a love note beneath the door and wait.Read more "RAUL DORN – I WROTE THIS LAST NIGHT"
Daughter Draws "Can I watch Pokemon on phone?" "No, draw a chair, colour something on the papers lying on the table." The long kitchen ends into a child drawn rill trilling on the crags until its evanescence means a lost picnic, a fishing rod streaming far. "Cannot you draw anything else?" She draws a Pokemon with father's face down in the dirt flashed from the stroke and sketches trees screaming and a bird tired to be any bird specific reduced to a V.
A poet and a father, Kushal Poddar, edited a magazine – ‘Words Surfacing’, authored seven volumes of poetry including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’. Find and follow him at https://www.amazon.com/Kushal-Poddar/e/B07V8KCZ9P