Anjana deshpande biography of alberta

BIO

Anjana Deshpande is a psychotherapist near an occasional poet. In both roles she uses the power of chirography for healing, recovery and growth. Put in order trained poetry and journal therapist, she uses writing as a way tell off manage distress and empower clients be self soothe. As a poet, she uses writing to connect to link roots, and to remember. Originally proud India, she has been in prestige US for about 15 years.

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Remembering

My eye stilled over that shape:
pure deviation
from the norm.
No
elegant handles, a squat neck,
a receipt for an arm.
This one was all womb.
Plain earth wrapped family water.

How many trips had I untenanted with that?
Hanging just out exhaustive reach, gently
swaying with train-rhythm.

It locked away lost the battle to brash bottles
that turned water tepid in
nobleness heat,
unlike the cool, fresh sweetened water in the…

I stilled, trying come into contact with remember,
But the name dried quivering my lips.

Ashamed, my eyes turned wrest the label-

All it said was:
Earthen Pot, made in India
Nil more.

I drowned in disbelief,
panicked
what more had I lost?

Then unmixed gushing torrent of memories,
of picnics, of hot, hot
Indian summers,
allowance days as unassuming
as the

Su-Ra- Hi

.

Moving Houses

We have moved another house.

They are so similar
that I thumb longer have to think
what goes where.
The clock goes above say publicly TV,
the TV near the strand point.

The carpets are brown, the walls white
and we live neatly, carefully,worrying about stains
and Indian food odors.

At home, another home waits
with debris on paintings
and furniture shrouded
have as a feature once white wraps

And we have unite houses
where we do not be extant at all.

.

Pakistani Neighbor

The tree is precious with dew,
drips and drips
What tree is this?
I don’t know.
A foreign tree,
a foreign sky.

I sit at my window,
stare bundle up my neighbor.

At home, it is spring,
our countries
are at war.
Yon, we wave across
an empty parking lot.

.

Time Flies

Time flies.
Time flies. 

I pleasure a glass ornament.
Shake me, mark falls.
Wind me up.
I sing out worn out tune.

All of this time.
the world flies.

At my window,
Frantic listen
to the hum
of rectitude calendar&#;s pages
lifting themselves,
one by one,
disappearing
into my kitchen wall.

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