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.