Volume 4 Issue 2, June 2020
Special Issue for Indian Poetry

Apoorva Deshpande

Timely Quirks


Ticking clock slows down,
I look in the mirror and find a clown.
Passing time dancing around,
Watching the minute hand go round.

Time crawls and time creeps,
Sometimes it gallops and leaps,
I fasten it to my wrist,
I am beholden to its turns and twists.

Like a river in drought and then in spate,
Like a river it pretends to be a mate,
I drown in time’s icy depths,
To time, I surrender my breath.


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The world is a piece of coal,
dressed as a diamond,
with a contoured face,
and a branded case.

It doesn’t realise,
that contained in its belly,
fire lies dormant,
like a sleeping giant,
waiting to bite,
waiting to burn bright.

If only the world,
decided to dress down,
let the pretensions drown,
the world could be a real star
unlike a diamond.


Music in the fog


Numbness my friend
The old familiar trend
I struggle to feel
a beginning or an end.

This curse I carry
where the world is bleak,
you walk in and out
atop a treacherous creek.

Lacking for sensation,
without joy or grief,
I lie prone in the fog
where nobody ever sings.

Silence reigns supreme.
Even the leaves don’t rustle.
Darkness against my eyes,
and the voice is muzzled.

My nerves are cold
like the glaciers slow.
No tingling rushes.
No sparks flow.

Your music notes somehow
Cut through the fog and sound.
My heart moves in tandem,
hope still abound.



Bullet in my brain!


He came riding on a glossy stallion
and promised to bring my wishes true.

He asked me, “You tell me my wish.
Is it simple and sweet and little?”

“Do you desire a toy train,
or on the palm of my hand a little windmill?”

“Or are your wishes bigger than these?
“Love or lust or envy or hate?”

“Tell me, tell me those too!
I promise, I really really do.
I will try my best to bring them true!”

“Do you wish for beautiful music?
Do you wish for it to rain?”

I said, “My wishes are even bigger.
Are you certain your promise remains?”

He nodded and urged and coaxed and said,
“Ask what you will, whatever the heart retains.”

I said, “Give me a new life, new story, new end.”

When he remained mute, “Or just a bullet in my brain!”




About the poet

Apoorva Deshpande is an architect by profession. She is a poet only few times a year. She struggles to find words as she struggles to find life. Her poems have not been published anywhere except on her blog. However, her other academic writing has been published in online journals and conferences etc.

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Published by The Alternative.