Poonam Chawla

Within me

Quiet flows the river

dark with secrets

deep in wisdom

And within my womb

grows a miracle

Like some sweet pain

It grows

And as a child

displays with bashful pride

a purpling bruise

I display

my rotundity.

#writer #theslowdisappearing #P.A.Chawla




When time past

drowns out time present

and memory roams free

When you share a glass

with the here and now

but drink from

the fount of gone

When in every face

you see

you see the face

you’d rather see

There is a choice to be made -

Dance to the rhythm of the wind

Or settle gently in the dust?

Smile at the cocky child you meet. And share with him a sugared treat

Or weep over

what might’ve should’ve could’ve been?




Winter Spring Summer Fall

Winter Fall Spring Summer



There is a choice to be made

Seasons to lose. Seasons to gain.



The First Snow

The first snow
like dandruff
or like wisdom
speckled on the face
of a patient
staring at
the whites of her eyes -
behind the mask.

Yes. Death is certain.
Certain as the cold breath of winter
she seems to say
her icy fingers
on his paper wrist.

But so are the buds
of spring
suggest the sway
of her round hips
as she dances away.

He knows all this
the patient
with the speckled face
looking first at the nurse
then at the first snow
that falls with a sigh
beneath his window





Time covers the distance
as the crow flies.
Memories take
a more circuitous route.
They do but
glimmer and fade like fireflies.

Take me back
to that moment –
the one right before
my expectations
were about to be met.

Take me back to that dream –
the one right before I knew
all dreams are pebbles
pinging in the well.

I miss
the longing
the ache
the loneliness
of creation.

“We are all just stories written in the minds of others”

P.A. Chawla



I read 49 books in 2018.
What I have learned is
I’m happiest on my east-facing blue chair,
Mama’s silk blanket folded on my lap
gifted to me on my wedding day — a day my seasons changed.
On occasion, I look up
from my Adelbayo or Ondaatje (or some other magical, mysterious name begging exploration)
to see the pear tree budding and flowering and letting go, just outside my window.
I can almost stroke her white flowers grazing the cool cheek of the pane.
And it is all I can do to say out loud
to Him
On behalf of all creators
“Thank you.”



Poonam Chawla

Poonam Chawla

P. A.Chawla writes literary fiction: The shenanigans of Time (2013) and Mumbai Mornings (2015). The Slow Disappearing (2021)