We have directions Of a lost map That leads nowhere A miraged universe An omnipresent pause.
Someone once told me You are your own prison And since then I see birds everywhere Sleep-walking Chasing delusions Shrinking into coherence.
I tore my map wrote poems on it And made paper-boats That glow in moonlight
Now My existence whirls In an abandoned dance And the ink-stained wings Are drawing Their own astral map.
Chandrama Deshmukh is an author, poet, playwright, theatre artist, storyteller, screenplay writer and performance artist. She has four books of poems published. A Teaspoon Of Stars and Moonlit Monochrome in English and two books in her mother-tongue Marathi. Chandrama has done close to 100 poetry performances in Bangalore and continues to play her role in giving this art-form the appreciation it deserves. To Chandrama, poetry is the streak of silver lining amidst the chaos of life. The moon is her muse.
this isn’t the rain we asked for it runs like lava down leeward rocks, seizes the cities, it looks like smoke sizzles on pavement like hot grease but might it still wed weeds to soil might corn still marry earth & sky in late july could it still caress valleys soak hollers dress mountains in a technicolor coat of wild- flowers temper flames that torch the mountainsides could the children still grow healthy & tall soft-skinned & singing to open acrid sky this isn’t the rain we asked for but it is the rain we’ve made love to dropped to one knee bound ourselves for life this could be a celebration windborn praise songs crawling toward mountaintops bodies dancing by moonlight bring your pots to the bonfire let us boil what drips off eaves- troughs into our gaping mouths