Kushal Poddar

The Square House Is A Circle In Reality 

The square house circles us.

Nietzsche hangs up a painting 

titled ‘Fearless’ on some wall.

I see a different beast in it

every day. This time the painting 

portrays a jaguar and a lady sitting 

on a wooden table, defiants to

the tea decorum. It is a square-circle

house. I open a door to step outside 

and find me in a room with myself 

looking at me, and his eyes show surprise.

Dance 

I dance tribal, not 

the real one, the beats 

and steps a moviegoer 

desires to see

while kissing, spilling 

popcorna over the knees

of his companion.

I dance with my sleep.

Dream sits on the aisle,

the sole spectator, came only

because the family won’t trust me

with sleep in her best white 

and a scent that’s stuck since 

my childhood. Dream will 

have the last dance with me,

a consolation for her, albeit 

it may overstay in my mind.

Jeet Kune Do

I load the reel and play,

play and rewind my father’s 

favourite Bruce Lee movie.

A few drops of wine I have 

spilled on the floor in his name

evaporate. I stand naked

between the projector and the wall.

Not lust, not protest, nakedness 

should never need any reason.

My back wears a film of injustice,

fists raised against it, unreal colour,

and my back wears the melancholic echo 

of the mock Jeet Kune Do I perform alone,

not that mellow sadness master the art of reasons.