Poetry || Three Poems by Kushal Poddar
Folding Objects into some other Objects
Maker folds a paper house.
Lantern. Birds. Soft moon-glow door.
And I, callow in
origami, fold
my mind into a crumple.
A child may find a form there,
but she is the maker.
Unequal Music
Inside a small room,
one in his skull,
he plays the tune
they used to love,
and he moves his
tenement when
I build a town of grief.
She is dead, I say.
Shush yourself, he says,
we are slow-dancing.
In Front of The Fire Winter Lit
Yesterday I strolled home,
my hands wrapping my being,
darkness fresh on everything,
lean moon, traffic,
and I thought about you.
How are you at the advent of winter etc.
And then walked some more
thinking nothing.