2 poems about the Pandemic in India by Kushal Poddar

Dove, Roof, Sunrise, Shadow, Nature

A dove through the window
dares the elongating shadow
of the bed. No one lies on it.
I weep. You gave me one calendar
where dates were tear-drop shaped.
They all fall until I ambulate through 
the December of my ethos.
I shut the window and draw the curtains;
this obliterates the dove. The Psalm 23:4 is open.
This anger in my forehead is born from some fear,
I hear you say and wonder if your voice
has always been like this, a lingering finish
of tanin on the back of my language's end. 
A little brittle. A bit thin. The rest of my tongue spreads
an empty billet. Summer trills in sync sound outside.
Time is one jump cut ahead of eclipse of rays.

Out of Body Experience For The Neon Signs

The doors of the man living nextdoor
have transparent bodies and they let me see -
he fumbles for the smoke sticks 
kept in box above the armoire hushed since 
he has been quitting all his bad habits,
and he steps into the faux garden stranded in 
some matching potholes. Night wind stirs their leaves.
The man pretends to smoke and inhale.
Welcome to the city, a neon sign somewhere
blinks a few blind eyes as if those can see themselves.


Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal Poddar

A Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


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