Poetry 2025 First Prize, Chandrama Deshmukh

For Those Who Don’t Sleep at Night

There are things

that only reveal themselves

after midnight

like the faint scent of copper

in a memory,

or how grief,

when left undisturbed,

oxidises into silence.

Some nights

I don’t lie awake.

I conduct stillness

like mercury holds shape

without spilling,

like iron remembers

every hand that held it

too tightly.

This is not insomnia.

This is alchemy.

The nervous system

releasing its old alloys.

A quiet forge

where I become

less brittle,

more elemental.

I’ve stopped trying

to be daytime people

the kind who gleam

like polished silver.

I am rust,

I am residue,

I am what remains

when the fire goes out

but the warmth stays.

Don’t ask me

why I’m still up.

Ask instead

what it means

to carry questions

like carbon

invisible,

essential,

burning slow.

If you’re awake,

you are not alone.

There are others like us

upstream of sleep,

where gold is still soft,

and the night

doesn’t ask for answers.

Only presence.

Chandrama Deshmukh, Poetry 2022 Shortlist

Aai

My grandmother –
She lived a full life they say!
‘What is a full life?’ I wonder.
Does it mean being nice to people so they keep checking boxes in their good books?
Does it mean filling spaces left by others, mending broken hearts, 

making constant sacrifices to survive?
Does it mean waiting for something to move you, to rattle you,
to make you feel alive?

Or does it mean letting yourself loose, 

so the invisible puppet strings give an impression 

that you are doing a happy dance?

What is a full life after-all?
She was always brimming with spontaneity
that she curbed without hesitation,
because it was a norm.

She hated schedules, routines and repetitions, 

but unknowingly learnt the grid method
to draw perfect pictures,
focusing on one square at a time.

It’s ironic how she reminds me of rainbows 

and old brown blankets at the same time.
I still picture her soaking in the scorching sun 

looking at her hands like they were magic wands.

I still see her, eyes focused on the sewing machine, 

trying to darn her torn wings, 

patching it with pieces of ordinariness, so she doesn’t stand out.

This is my grandmother, who lived for 83 years 

but always made it look like 83 days.

Unlike me, her math was impeccable,
but she never bothered to delve into the inverse ratios life threw at her.

She kept knitting crochet shawls 

because even the sense of warmth comforted her.

My grandmother was without a past or future. 

All she had was present.
She scrubbed her feet rigorously
and never walked barefoot.
She always believed she’s not meant to walk,
she’s meant to fly.

Finally, she did fly!
No, I haven’t lost her. I never will.
She was a phoenix 

and I dread that imaginary bird for what it has to go through.

Everyone thought she was perfect. 

She hated perfection.

Rest in peace Aai. 

Or rather, dance in peace.

That suits you better!

Poetry 2018, Featured Poet, Chandrama Deshmukh

What’s The Plan?   

So what’s the plan?
Well, there’s no plan.
Wanderers, weirdoes, misfits,
we don’t plan, hell, we can’t do it.
It’s all already decided, we follow the flow
Oh no, it’s not exhausting.
It’s calming in fact.
Sleepless nights
Because we can’t bring ourselves
to snooze under the gorgeous moon.
We the charioteers of abstractions
that are broken yet beautiful.
We, the mad tribe, shudder
When a star falls
on an incomplete poem
And we, who paint with black coffee
For hours, seeking nothing.
No idea, no form.
This nothingness is our meaning
We are the meaning we seek.
What? How do we manage our time?
We don’t. It manages us.
The clock is one magnanimous abyss
With no bottom. We deep dive.
The layers melt one after the other
Our core is brutally exposed
The rough edges make us bleed.
But we go on breaking patterns
Rambling directionless.
With no plans, whatsoever.

Poetry 2018, Featured Poet, Chandrama Deshmukh

What’s The Plan?   

So what’s the plan?
Well, there’s no plan.
Wanderers, weirdoes, misfits,
we don’t plan, hell, we can’t do it.
It’s all already decided, we follow the flow
Oh no, it’s not exhausting.
It’s calming in fact.
Sleepless nights
Because we can’t bring ourselves
to snooze under the gorgeous moon.

We the charioteers of abstractions
that are broken yet beautiful.
We, the mad tribe, shudder
When a star falls
on an incomplete poem
And we, who paint with black coffee
For hours, seeking nothing.
No idea, no form.
This nothingness is our meaning
We are the meaning we seek.
What? How do we manage our time?
We don’t. It manages us.

The clock is one magnanimous abyss
With no bottom. We deep dive.
The layers melt one after the other
Our core is brutally exposed
The rough edges make us bleed.
But we go on breaking patterns
Rambling directionless.
With no plans, whatsoever.