પ્રેમ શું કર્યો એણે

The following poem in Gujarati by Tushar Mehta won the third prize of INR 10,000 in Wingword Poetry Competition 2025 (Regional Category).

પ્રેમ શું કર્યો એણે અને એ ચર્ચામાં ચડતો થઈ ગયો, બોલ્યા વિના જ એ જાણે બધે પડઘો થઈ ગયો,
ન
પ્રેમ ન હતો કાચો તોય સાબિત કરવામાં એ અડધો થઈ ગયો,
બોલ્યા વિના જ એ જાણે બધે પડઘો થઈ ગયો, સમજાવી,પટાવી,મનાવી એણે બહુ બધી એની લાગણીઓને,
સમજાવી,પટાવી, મનાવી એણે બહુ બધી એની લાગણીઓને,
દીવાની જેમ પ્રગટાવી,સવાર સાંજ એની લાગણીઓને,
પહોંચ્યો પણ નહીં એનો પ્રકાશ સજની સુધી,અને એ દીવાની જેમ બળતો થઈ ગયો,
પ્રેમ શું કર્યો એણે અને એ ચર્ચામાં ચડતો થઈ ગયો, લાગણીઓના એ દીવડા શું નડ્યા હશે એની સજનીને, લાગણીઓના એ દીવડા શું નડ્યા હશે એની સજનીને, પલક બંધ કરી અને કેમ ફેલાવ્યું હશે અંધારું એની સજની એ?
ઉજાસ લાવવા એની જિંદગીમાં એ બળીને ભડકો થઈ ગયો,
પ્રેમ શું કર્યો એણે અને એ ચર્ચામાં ચડતો થઈ ગયો. મૃગજળ જેવો સજનીનો પ્રેમ છતાય દોડ્યા જ કર્યું એણે,
મૃગજળ જેવો સજનીનો પ્રેમ છતાય દોડ્યા જ કર્યું એણે,
ધીમું ઝેર હતું એ જે અમીરસ સમજીને પીધા કર્યું એણે,
ક્યારેક તો મળશે સજની એને એ સપનું સીવ્યા કર્યું એણે,
નીલકંઠ તો બન્યો નહીં એ અને છેલ્લા શ્વાસ ગણતો થઈ ગયો,
પ્રેમ શું કર્યો એણે અને એ ચર્ચામાં ચડતો થઈ ગયો. થાક્યું એનું મન અને થાક્યા પગ,એને દોડતા પણ ના આવડ્યું,
થાક્યું એનું મન અને થાક્યા પગ,એને દોડતા પણ ના આવડ્યું,
સાંજે સાત અને તૂટે તેર એને જોડતા પણ ના આવ્યું, સફળતાના શિખરે પહોંચવા જ આવ્યો હતો અને ત્યાં તો એ પડતો થઈ ગયો,
પ્રેમ શું કર્યો એણે અને એ ચર્ચામાં ચડતો થઈ ગયો.
પહોંચશે એનો પ્રેમ મુકામ સુધી,પહોંચશે એનો પ્રેમ મુકામ સુધી,
હતો વિશ્વાસ જશે અંજામ સુધી, સપના અને હકીકતનો જાણે ઝઘડો થઈ ગયો,
બોલ્યા વિના જ એ બધે પડઘો થઈ ગયો. ક્યારેક હસતા રમતા તો ક્યારેક વાતો કરતા, ક્યારેક હસતા રમતા તો ક્યારેક વાતો કરતા, નિભાવ્યા બધા કીરદાર એણે હસતા હસતા, છેક સુધી ટક્યો કલાકાર એ અવલ નંબરનો, છેક સુધી ટક્યો કલાકાર એ અવલ નંબરનો, પત્યો નાટકનો અંશ અને કફનનો પડદો થઈ ગયો, પ્રેમ શું કર્યો એણે અને એ ચર્ચામાં ચડતો થઈ ગયો..
તુષાર મહેતા.

आत्ताची पिढी

The following poem in Marathi: आत्ताची पिढी (Today’s Generation: Gen Z) by Sachin Khare won the second prize of Rs 15,000 in Wingword Poetry Competition 2025 (Regional Category).

आमचे वय वर्ष असेल सोळा ते अठरा
आता कळतं आम्हाला असा असे नखरा

त्यांचे अजब वागणे करी तुम्हाला चूप
जरी त्यांच्यापेक्षा दुनिया पहिली खूप

काहीही सांगा पाहिले येते "जरा थांबा"
काम होतंच नाही होई सगळा खोळंबा

कपडे, बूट, अंगठ्या सगळं असतं भारी
कटिंग ची स्टाईल असते एकदम न्यारी

वूट अमेझॉन नेटफ्लिक्स असे मोबाईलवर
सराईत बोटं त्यावर फिरती अगदी भराभर

वेध लागलेले असतात कॉलेजला जायचे
स्वप्नं पडू लागतात क्लासेस बंक करायचे

कधी अचानक खूप जबाबदारीने वागतात
नक्की कशी आहे जनरेशन हे प्रश्न पडतात

सगळेच वागणे बोलणे वाटते कसे अजब
व्यावहारिक वागण्यात आहेत मात्र सजग

नाविन्याचा हाती धरला आहे त्यांनी कासरा
तंत्रज्ञान ऑटोमेशन त्यांच्या जीवनाचा आसरा...

আমি বাবাকে দেখেছি

The following poem in Bengali by Koustov Mukhopadhyay won Rs 25,000 in Wingword Poetry Competition 2025 (Regional Category).

এই নিষ্ঠুর পৃথিবীতে আমি এক আশ্রয় দেখেছি,
এই ব্যস্ত ভীরের মাঝে আমি আমার বাবাকে দেখেছি।
দিনের শেষে ক্লান্ত বেশে বাড়ি ফিরতে দেখেছি
হাসি মুখে মায়ের রাগ সহ্য করতে দেখেছি,
ভেঙে পড়া সব ঘরের মাঝে আমি এই পরিবারের সম্বল দেখেছি ..
আমি আমার ধৈর্যশীল বাবাকে দেখেছি।

দাদাভাই-এর ওপর রাখতে দেখেছি
আবার পরে তাকে ভালোবাসতেও দেখেছি
আমি আমার সংবেদনশীল বাবাকে দেখেছি।
আমাদের পড়াশোনার খরচ একা ওঠাতে দেখেছি
কখনো কারো কাছে কিছু চাইতে দেখিনি
আমি আমার আত্মসন্মানশীল বাবাকে দেখেছি।
অন্যের জন্য দামী জিনিস কিনতে দেখেছি
অথচ নিজের সেই পুরনো জুতো পরে থাকতে দেখেছি
আমি আমার সংযমী বাবাকে দেখেছি।
আমার বাবা অমিতাভ বচ্চনের বড় ভক্ত
তাকে মজার ছলে অমিতাভের সংলাপ বলতে দেখেছি
আবার কখনো কিশোরের গান-ও গুনগুন করতে দেখেছি,
অফিস থেকে ফিরে বেহালা বাজাতেও দেখেছি
আমি আমার শিল্পী বাবাকে দেখেছি।
আমাদের সব দুঃখ কষ্টে পাশে থাকতে দেখেছি
অথচ নিজের কষ্ট চুপ করে সহ্য করতে দেখেছি
আমি আমার সহনশীল বাবাকে দেখেছি।
সকাল থেকে সন্ধ্যা তাকে পড়তে দেখেছি
পদোন্নতির পরীক্ষায় দেশে অষ্টম হতে দেখেছি
আমি আমার দৃঢ় সংকল্পী বাবাকে দেখেছি।
পাড়াতে কোন ঝামেলা হলে তাকে ডেকে নিয়ে যেতে দেখেছি
কারুর দরকারে যে কোনো সময় তাকে এগিয়ে আসতে দেখেছি
আমি আমার পথ প্রদর্শক বাবাকে দেখেছি।
খালি সময়ে জীবনের অভিজ্ঞতাকে ছন্দে বাধতে দেখেছি
আমি আমার লেখক বাবাকে দেখেছি।
বাবাকে কখনো পূজো করতে দেখিনি
অথচ রোজ স্নান করে দাদু-দিদার ছবিতে ধূপ জ্বালতে দেখেছি
আমি আমার উপাসক বাবাকেও দেখেছি।
যাবার আগে আমি একটাই কথা বলতে চাই
পরের শতজন্ম তোমায় বাবা রূপেই পেতে চাই। ।

युद्ध

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY VARSHA RANI WON THE THIRD PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY COMPETITION 2025 OF TWENTY THOUSAND RUPEES (MAIN CATEGORY).

मैं माँ हूँ, मुझे युद्ध नहीं चाहिए,

मैं जीवन देती हूँ, मुझे मौत नहीं चाहिए,

सींचा है, जिन्हें, अपने लहू के कतरों से,

उन नन्ही कोंपलों का संहार नहीं चाहिए,

मैं माँ हूँ, मुझे युद्ध नहीं चाहिए I

युद्ध है विभीषिका,

हार को दिखाए जीत है, यह वो मरीचिका,

काल,देश,धर्म,कोई,चाहे हो कोई जाति,

बेटों के आहत होते ही, उनकी माता भी मर जाती,

घुटनों चलता बेटा, जब एक वीर रक्षक बन जाता है,

पिता, तब तू आसमान बना, ऊपर तना, बहुत इतराता है,

वही बेटा जब चीथड़ों में वापस घर आता है,

मैं माँ हूँ, धरती हूँ, कोख और कलेजा तो मेरा ही रौंदा जाता है I

देशभक्ति के नाम पर दुनिया को टुकड़ों में बांटनेवालों,

फिर इनको बचाने के लिए वतनपरस्ती का जंग छेड़नेवालों,

ऐ पुरुष, किसने इज़ाज़त दी तुझे, मेरे जिस्म पर लकीरें खींचने की,

खेतों, नदियों, पर्वतों और मुल्कों की सूरत में मुझे बांटने की,

फिर इनको बनाये रखने के लिए, मेरे ही बेटों की बलि देने की ?

यह मेरी हिफाज़त है, या तेरे अपने अहम् को महफूज़ रखने की चाह,

कि तू मरवा डालता है, मेरे मासूम जवां बेटों को बेगुनाह ?

देख यह तेरी ही बहू- बेटी है, जिसकी मांग का सिन्दूर गया,

यह उसी के बच्चे हैं, आज जिनके सर पर न कोई साया रहा I

रोज़-ब- रोज़ जीवन का जंग यह सभी लड़ते हैं,

बेपनाह दर्द में न तो, यह जीते हैं और न मरते हैं,

तूने ही नियम-कानूनों,रवायतों और इन मजहबों को बनाया है,

मरने-मारने की गौरवशाली परम्पराओं को चलाया है,

सुन, कायर नहीं हूँ मैं और ना ही मेरी औलाद,

गांठ बाँध ले, और रखना यह बात तू हमेशा याद,

जो जंग रोज़ करते हैं, वह जंग बिलकुल भी नहीं चाहते,

क्योंकि लहू के कतरे-कतरे की कीमत को वो हैं पहचानते,

बेवजह मेरे बेटों का खून बहाने को जो तू आगे आएगा,

मुझे अपने सामने चट्टान जैसा खड़ा पाएगा I

ऐ पुरुष, हमेशा सिलसिलों को तोड़ने की बात न कर,

कभी जोड़ने की राह भी चलने की थोड़ी जुर्रत कर I

न और बरगला मेरे बेटों को जन्नत के नाम पर,

उनकी मासूम जवानियों को यूहीं बर्बाद करने से तो डर I

वे सिर्फ चलते-फिरते बुत नहीं हैं इंसानी,

सुनहरा सपना हैं एक माँ का, उसके जीवन की रवानी I

इतिहास है गवाह, कि सिर्फ जंग हर मसले का हल नहीं होता,

ये बात तू भी जो मान लेता तो, आज यूँ नहीं रोता,

अमन नहीं मिलता उफनते लहू के गहरे दरिया के पार,

चैन से जीने दे मेरे बेटों को, वक्त से पहले उन्हें बेमौत न मार I

Body Language of The Dead

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY DALIP MACCUNE WON THE SECOND PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY COMPETITION 2025 OF THIRTY THOUSAND RUPEES (MAIN CATEGORY)

It is difficult to understand

Body language of the dead

As truth has no beginning

And lie has no end

We are with you they pretend

In the political authoritarian game

Freedom and ideologies they tame

By pumping bullets; bodies they frame

Men in uniform get fame

For ending terrorism’s hate game.

In our paradise

They have killed the sun

They have killed the moon

They have killed humanity

But say, “We have saved you from doom.”

On existence’s may-day call

Sky falls

While children play with dolls

Life crawls

And settles within the graveyard walls

Dressing native normalcy in modern absurdity

By Hema Nayak

This poem won the third prize INR 25,000 in English Category of Wingword Poetry Competition 2023.

1

These women talk about miscarriages

sitting in the backyard

cleaning and dressing my favorite prawns

"I had to rip my yoni off

to take out the remains of my first child"

I see the remains lying in front of me

heads, eyes, tails, flesh, and pieces

I will not eat them again

Is this how I have food allergies?

2

I ask this woman whose name

translates into Mother of tiger,

"Why is this neighbor building a mansion

on our compound walls?"

She says,

"He wants to be buried

under our patience; Remind me to get

generous amount of salt, soot and ice cubes

to dress him on the day he dies."

And, we wonder

why fresh ghosts haunt us.

3

Here is my childhood toy hen

Dress it; Press it,

it lays painted plastic eggs

I feel like that proud hen

with my several daughters –

Elis gliding out of my entertaining nest

I can neither chew nor swallow

but can only hatch my motherly boredom

here in this game of eggs

4

Clear water, skinny dip, precious stone

Then I step on the sharp edges

of rock oyster

Blood red water, salty skin, prickling stone

Woman with an exotic Kannada accent

appears and dresses the open wound

on my foot stuffing fried red-hot chillies

"What are you doing?"

"Relieving your pain with pain

like removing a thorn with a thorn"

"No, you are layering my pain with pain"

And, we continue to mumble as the warp

of our realities keeps on wrapping itself.

था वो बचपन- SATYA DEO PATHAK

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY SATYA DEO PATHAK FROM LUCKNOW WON THE THIRD PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2024- REGIONAL CATEGORY.

क्या था समय?

पूछो ना हमसे।

जिंदगी थी, खुलके हंसी थी,

था वो बचपन।

ना कोई गम , ना ही कमी थी।

थी ख्वाहिशें कम ना मगर,

खुशियों में लेकिन ना कोई कमी थी।

तितली पकड़ना, चांद को छूना,

जिसकी मनाही,

बस वो ही था करना।

अंधेरे से डरना,

दामन में मां के सिमटना।

आया है शेर, कहके डराना,

बहला के फुसला के मुझको सुलाना।

जो था सुकून,

अब वो मिलता कहां?

मखमल के बिस्तर पर भी,

नींद आती कहां?

क्या था समय?

पूछो ना हमसे।

जिंदगी थी, खुलके हंसी थी,

था वो बचपन,

ना कोई गम ,ना ही कमी थी।

जो भी बुलाता, दिल को लुभाता।

जो भी सताता, उसको दौड़ाता,

नन्हा था कद, ना कोई ताकत,

हौसलों में लेकिन ना कोई कमी थी।

अगर कोई चाहे मुझको जो छूना,

मां मेरी ढाल दिखती खड़ी थी।

मां में ही सिमटी थी मेरी दुनिया,

मां ही मेरी जिंदगी थीं।

जिंदगी थी, खुलके हंसी थी,

था वो बचपन,

ना कोई गम ,ना ही कमी थी।

मेरी शिकायत जो कोई करता,

मां से मेरे खरी खोटी था सुनता।

मेरी शिकायत, मेरी शरारत,

मां के लिए लाज़िमी थी।

शिकवे शिकायत कितनी अदावत,

खुशियों में भी अब दिखती मिलावट।

पल में झगड़ते, पल में थे मिलते,

मन में ना कोई सिलवटें थीं।

जिंदगी थी, खुलके हंसी थी,

था वो बचपन,

ना कोई गम ,ना ही कमी थी।

ABOUT THE POET

Satya Deo Pathak is the third prize winner in the Regional Category of the Wingword Poetry Competition 2024 (summer cycle) for his poem ‘था वो बचपन’, receiving a cash prize of INR 10,000. He also known as " Kavi Pathak" in the world of Poetry and Literature is resident of Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh state of Bharat. He is an Electronic & Communication Engineer and started working in the Indian Railways after getting selected in Engineering Services Examinations through UPSC .While working in North Eastern Railways he started writing songs , scripts and poems. He is a spontaneous and creative poet who can write over any topic within minutes.

एक वृक्ष की आत्मकथा - Jaya Mishra

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY JAYA MISHRA FROM RANCHI WON THE FIRST PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2024, REGIONAL CATEGORY.

देखे मौसम देखी सदियाँ

मैं मूलों से ही जुड़ा रहा

उड़ते देखे नभ में पँछी

मैं वृक्ष वहीं था खड़ा रहा

ऋतुओं का प्रकोप झेला

जेठ की दुपहरिया झेली

तड़ित प्रहार ओला वृष्टि

चिरकाल से पीड़ा झेली

झेला मैंने घोर एकाकीपन

सहा कुठार का आघात

मूक-विवश मैं जन्मजात

ना रोक सका कोई त्रास

मुझे काटने में दिन सारा बिताया

खूब पसीना था उसे भी आया

टुकड़े गिरते देख रहा था अपने

विकल्प न था मैं भाग न पाया

फलों का मौसम आना था पर

वो नव पल्लव अब सिकुड़ गए

टूटी टहनियाँ और बिखरे पत्ते

रिस-रिस प्राण मेरे उजड़ गए

जिन पथिकों को छांव दिया

उन सबने मुझे मरोड़ा था

सड़कें चौड़ी करनी थी सो

मैं बीच रास्ते रोड़ा था

वहीं कहीं घोंसले अपने ढूंढने

शाम को चिड़ियां आयी थी

सौंप के गयी थी नन्हें बच्चे

पर देख दृश्य अकुलाई थी

अथक परिश्रम से उसने

तिनका-तिनका जोड़ा था

अपना छोटा-सा परिवार

उसने मेरे भरोसे छोड़ा था

भूखों को फल भी देता था

मैं ज़हर शहर का चखता था

हँसते-खेलते बच्चों को मैं

बस यूँ ही तकता रहता था

किसे सुनाऊँ मैं अपनी पीड़ा

क्या यह हत्या अपराध नहीं?

कोई लड़ने भी ना आया क्यूं

असहाय का वध पाप नहीं?

मानवों की इस धरती में

मुझ बेबस का ज़ोर कहाँ था?

सबको मैंने साँसे बाँटी पर

मेरी साँसों का मोल कहाँ था…

About the poet

Jaya Mishra is the second prize winner in the Regional Category of the Wingword Poetry Competition 2024 (summer cycle) for her poem ‘एक वृक्ष की आत्मकथा’, receiving a cash prize of INR 15,000.

She hails from Ranchi in Jharkhand and has a keen interest in writing, painting, sketching and calligraphy. Her works have been previously published in various newspapers and magazines.

She believes imagination is the first step to creation and thus people should allow themselves the free time without the use of devices so they can imagine and dream.

The Beauty and the Beast- Ashanab Sheikh Rasees

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY ASHANAB SHEIKH RASEES FROM MALEGAON, NASHIK WON THE THIRD PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2024- SUMMER CYCLE, JUNIOR CATEGORY.

There's a villain in every story.

The wicked witch of the west,

A wicked witch of the east,

The evil step mother,

A monster, a beast.

What does the villain look like?

Some people may ask.

It doesn't always have a black cape,

Or a witch's broom,

Or a big and scary mask.

I have a villain of my own, But she's kind of hard to see.

She has a really good disguise-

She looks a lot like me.

Mirror mirror on the wall, Who's the fairest of them all?

Or maybe it's

Monster monster inside of me,

Tell me tell me what you see.

Rip me apart

Tear me to shreds

Make me a prisoner Inside my own head

Tell me what I am

And tell me what I'm not. Tell me what I need

And tell me what I got.

You bring out my scars My sadness, fears, and aggression.

You cause me a lot of envy

And leave me with depression.

Deprive me of my confidence

Take away my self esteem

Cause me to fear judgement

And make me yell and scream.

You taunt me with your words

Like this is some kind of game.

But when it comes down to it

There's no one else to blame.

This villain isn't a creature.

Or a devil sent from hell.

It isn't a witch or demon,

The villain is myself.

I try to fight it but it won't stop

It's never going to cease.

It's mean. It's a liar.

I'm the beauty and the beast.

There's a villain in every story,

A statement that is true. But how do you kill the monster,

When it lives inside of you?

ABOUT THE POET

Ashanab Sheikh Rasees is the second prize winner of Wingword Poetry Prize 2024 (summer cycle) for her poem ‘The Beauty and the Beast’, receiving INR 15,000. Ashanab hails from Daregaon and she is currently enrolled in 10th standard of Al-kabir English Medium School.

She enjoys reading books and writing poetry. She likes to write on women issues, child rights, disability. Through her art she hopes to bring positive change in society.

She is extremely thankful to the Wingword Committee for selecting her poem and she hopes this will serve as an encouragement for her to continue being involved in poetry and literature.

पोपट लाल : एक भूचाल- Tanishka Ghatak

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY TANISHKA GHATAK FROM FARIDABAD WON THE FIRST PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2024- SUMMER CYCLE, JUNIOR CATEGORY.

मैं हूँ पत्रकार पोपट लाल,

मेरे खबर का शीर्षक है लोगों का भ्रष्ट चाल,

मेरे साहस से कभी नहीं हो सकता मेरा बुरा हाल।

मैंने देखा है लोगों को खाते हुए हानिकारक माल,

मेरे प्रोत्साहन से आज लोग खाते है देसी दाल,

इस कारण कोई नहीं जाता है असहनीय पाताल।

ऐसा हुआ यह कमाल,

मेरे खबर से हुआ बवाल,

मैं ही हूँ क्रांति का मिसाल,

मेरा समाचार सुनकर भ्रष्टों का लड़खड़ाता है हर चाल ।

अब लोगों का खुशी-खुशी जाएगा यह साल,

उनका जवाब ही है उनका सवाल,

अब मुझे लेना पड़ेगा अंतराल,

मेरी खबर सुनकर लोगों को स्मरण हो आया नंदलाल |

आज लोग कहते हैं ‘जय महाकाल, जय महाकाल’,

इस प्रकार लाऊँगा मैं भ्रष्टों के दुनिया में भूचाल !

मैं हूँ पोपट लाल,

मैं हूँ पोपट लाल।

My Medium Family - Ira Ghosh Nayak

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY IRA GHOSH NAYAK FROM MUMBAI WON THE SECOND PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2024- SUMMER CYCLE, JUNIOR CATEGORY.

Some families are BIG

Some families are small

But in my medium family

Everyone's a Know-it-all

Let's start with my Mumma

Now she's a big lawyer

She's the Kindest person I know

And I am so in awe of her

Now my Baba he tells stories

As funny as can be

He has won many prizes

But none as big as me

Then there is Ivaan

The mischievous and notorious monkey

He can be kind and loving

But he usually is a donkey

Now Coco's the most playful dog

That's what she does all day

Except when she eats and sleeps

All she does is play

Lastly there is me

The bookworm amongst us all

Though when I am not reading

Me and Ivaan have quite a brawl

This is my medium family

Where everyone is one of a kind

We all have our talents

But we are strongest when our talents are combined

ABOUT THE POET

Ira Ghosh Nayak is the third prize winner of Wingword Poetry Prize 2024 (summer cycle) for her poem ‘The Medium Family’, receiving INR 10,000. She is a multifaceted 12-year-old student at Oberoi International School, OGC, Mumbai. With a passion for learning and creativity, Ira excels across various disciplines, both academic and extracurricular.

An avid bookworm, Ira has recently discovered a talent for poetry. Through her verses, she channels her vivid imagination and deep emotions, creating captivating literary works that belie her young age.

Music plays a significant role in Ira's life as well. As a skilled violinist, she finds both joy and solace in the melodies she creates, demonstrating a remarkable ability to convey emotions through her instrument.

ఆత్మవిశ్వాసం- Rekha NMS

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY REKHA MS FROM TELENGANA WON THE FIRST PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2024- SUMMER CYCLE, REGIONAL CATEGORY.

పదము పరము పరికిస్తూ

ప్రతిక్షణం పరితపిస్తూ,

ప్రజ్వలించే న్యూనతకు

హవనమందించే ఈ వైనం!

లక్ష్య పధమున రీతిని

మరువని విహానవిహంగాలు,

ఒక్కోటై ఇంకోటై

ఎగసి ఎగసి

ఆకాశం కప్పాలని లేస్తుంటే,

'ఇది నీ సద్దని

నీ సరిహద్దని

ఇది సరి కాదని

ఇది నే కాదని'

తనకు తానైనా ఎవరైనా

ఏమని ఎన్నన్నా,

త్రోవ మరచిన కూర్పును-నేర్పును, నిట్టార్పుతో

ఒదిగి ఒదిగి కూర్చుతుంటే

ఏ సరంగం గమ్యం వైపో

ఏ మృదంగం మరో సంకెలో !

అంటూ

వీచే చిరుగాలులకీ జడుస్తూ

అడుగును,

అడుగడుగునా విదిలిస్తూ

'ఇది నేనని

ఇది నా తరమని'

నేను నేను నమ్మిస్తూ

లోకాలని మోకాలికి రప్పిస్తూ

సెగనని సగాలను సాధిస్తూ ఉన్నానే!

ఇదో రకం కధ నిగముల కథ

కాలం విడిచిన బాణాల

ఆంతరంగిక మంధన

బాహ్య భయాలు, అంతర్రణాలు

ఛేదించిన సాధన కథ!

ABOUT THE POET

Rekha NMS is the first prize winner in the Regional Category of Wingword Poetry Prize 2024 (summer cycle) for her poem ‘ఆత్మవిశ్వాసం’, receiving a cash prize of INR 25,000. She is born and raised in Bhadrachalam, Telangana. An electrical engineer by profession, she is an introvert with an overactive imagination. Writing is her passion and several times her only way of expression.  She believe poetry has a lot to carry on its shoulders, expressing the writers thoughts and emotions, Spreading ideas, and more importantly preserving the language and culture and keeping alive the happenings and changes in the rawest form possible. Rekha mostly writes about current events and courage. She likes exploring nature and books and stories.

The Seat of All Problems- Satish Pendharkar

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY SATISH PENDHARKAR FROM PUNE WON THE THIRD PRIZE OF INR 25,000 IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2024- SUMMER CYCLE.

There is one thing I horribly hate

namely, having to wait. Whether

for a flight at a luxurious airport or

for a meal in a fancy restaurant or

for a tiresome office meeting to end.

There’s one exception though:

I can wait for hours and hours

for my turn to come

in the Waiting Room of a dentist.

Now, please don’t get me wrong.

It’s not that I enjoy browsing

through the gossip magazines

stacked there, to get to know who is

sleeping with whom, or who has

acquired what new pet or pet peeve;

or that I’m in awe of pics of people

the tartar buildup of whose teeth, resemble

the rock formations of Cappadocia;

or indeed that I can stare for ages at

posters showing the stages of tooth decay,

as I would water lilies painted by Monet.

It’s just that stepping into a dentist’s room is

more intimidating, than entering

a Witness Box in a Sessions Court

or setting foot into a famished lion’s den

or even straying into an alligator swamp.

I sometimes still wake up sweating

at night, clutching my jaw; recalling

a dental experience of some years ago.

I showed a dentist a badly-decayed

tooth. He took one look and said:

“The dental pulp is diseased and must be

cleaned up. Root canal is the better option.”

Through quivering lips I asked, “What is

the other option?” “Extraction,” he uttered.

Attempting to mend fences with one’s spouse

is preferable to divorce, I consoled myself.

Notwithstanding, that the root canal treatment

conjured up images of sewage and effluents

being removed from the Ganga and canals of

Venice; leaving an obnoxious taste in my mouth.

The Dental Chair is the seat of all problems.

And more sadistic than the Electric Chair

used to dispose of murderers. For, the

condemned man is strapped onto the

Electric Chair with leather belts and

cannot move. He is blindfolded and

cannot see. But a dental patient can wave

a ‘Hi’ to the dentist who nevertheless will

not relent. The dental patient is invited

to witness his own torture. And while the

condemned man gets a final release, the

dental patient’s discharge is only temporary.

For, the dentist like an automobile mechanic,

repairs the damage but while doing so,

sows the seeds of a future mishap.

This is the reason why dentists have their

faces covered with masks: To prevent us from

seeing them grinning all the way to the bank.

The Dental Drill is doubtless more deadly

than a guillotine. When I’m subjected

to it, I feel as though a dozen heavy metal

bands, playing in unison are drilling

holes through my skull. The noise made

by a thousand vuvuzelas in a football match

in Cape Town would feel like a Beethoven

symphony or Mozart sonata in comparison.

While encountering the onslaught of the

Dental Drill, one regrets having eaten all those

Peanut chikkis and Lollipops and Anjeer barfis

and crunchy, syrupy balushahis

without bothering to brush one’s teeth;

which mouth bacteria clearly relish,

chocolate-chipping away at one’s enamel.

Over the years I’ve realized that the only place

I’ve visited more frequently than a Dentist’s

Clinic is the ubiquitous washroom.

I’ve sat on a Dental Chair for a longer period

of time than have frequent flyers on airplanes.

I realize, that I’m now an incurable case of

Odontophobia. I was jumping up and down

on the couch during the Covid pandemic

since Dentists had shut shop. I did grin and

bear all toothaches. Now, I shall not visit

any dentist unless he or she vows to

administer laughing gas before any procedure.

Deep breathing or Meditation or indeed

Medication do not ease the stress.

The Dentist’s Clinic causes Claustrophobia.

The sight of the Dentist’s Stool induces

Aphenphosmphobia. The delivery unit of the

Dental Chair gives rise to Mysophobia.

The Cuspidor produces in me Hemophobia.

The Dental Drill generates Ligyrophobia.

As I speak, my teeth are falling off more

rapidly than do chinar leaves in autumn.

But my numerous visits to dentists

have so aggravated my Phobophobia,

that I’d rather undergo a heart transplant

than subject myself to a dental implant.

About the poet

Satish Pendharkar is the third prize winner of the Wingword Poetry Prize (summer cycle) for his poem ‘The Seat of All Problems’, receiving a cash prize of INR 25,000. Satish lives in Pune in India and he has recently retired from the Civil Services. His poems have featured in The Bluebird Word, Parody, Agave Magazine, Indian Literature, New Asian Writing etc. His short stories have appeared in Savvy, Flash, Honeyguide Literary magazine, The Wise Owl, Twist and Twain etc. Satish has also published a novella titled “The Backrush of Memory” and a book of poems titled “Nocturnal Nomad” both of which are available online. One of his plays "The Last Journey" was one of the 3 finalists in the Hindu Metroplus Playwright Award.

Dear Baba by Ilina Sinha

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY ILINA SINHA FROM ASSAM WON THE FIRST PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2024- SUMMER CYCLE.

Dear Baba,

I remember learning colours.

Drew crayons on the spotless wall-

a curly-haired little brother, a six-year-old me,

Ima and you - my father.

‘Oh no!’

You put your hands on your waist.

Then smiled at my curious eyes and said

‘Come, Picaso, lets draw a tree ?’

Baba, I think of the ocean

when I think of you -

vast, limitless and unfathomable love.

It was summer and a two-storeyed-suburb apartment.

An empty roof, a starry sky.

Constellations perched on a vast nothingness.

Here, you and Ima planted this little family tree

on a foreign land -

one life meeting another forming a

beautiful constellation.

One night, you shined a torch-beam at Orion,

saying: ‘Bana, the greatest distance

can only be fathomed with light’.

Often, people in family portraits disappear

like baby teeth seeking stable grounds.

But, to live, one needs to belong.

I am 25 now.

Shy dreams tip toe around.

It’s a blue office cubicle.

A mundane Monday morning

amidst keyboards clicking,

eyelashes constantly blinking at the brightest screen.

Miles apart , you, my father, my universe,

now shrinking into wrinkles

and loosened trousers.

I think of the ocean when I think of you.

Sometimes, you sound like footsteps leaving.

Some nights, I curl on my bed in a question mark –

Why this helpless vacuum?

Like foggy memories of Alzheimer-

the two storey-ed apartment,

crayons on the wall

the stern look in your gaze,

the soft smile in your eyes

There are certain distances

one cannot travel back to

on feet, by flight or by words.

It’s a quiet tonight, I wish you were here.

It’s a flicker, this togetherness.

Let it be.

ABOUT THE POET:

Ilina Sinha is the first prize winner of the 2024 Wingword Poetry Prize (summer cycle) for her poem ‘Dear Baba’, receiving a cash prize of INR 50,000 and a book publication deal. She writes in English and Bishnupriya Manipuri (a language recognised by UNESCO as endangered). Most recently, she delivered a talk on endangered languages at TED IITG and represented the language on World Mother Tongue Day 2022 courtesy an invitation from Sahitya Akademi, India's National Academy of Letters.
At present, she is a PhD student in the Department of Computer Science and Engineering at IIT Guwahati. Prior to this, she worked as an Assistant Professor at Girijananda Chowdhury University, Assam and in the industry as an Artificial Intelligence Engineer at IQVIA, India.
A PhD student by the day and a poet in the stillness of midnight, she identifies herself as a perpetual student in the class of poetry and a devoted admirer of all forms of arts and creativity.

My Mother - Neelima Chakraborty

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY NEELIMA CHAKRABORTY FROM FARIDABAD WON THE SECOND PRIZE OF INR 30,000 IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2024- SUMMER CYCLE.

My mother lives in a different time.

I in the present,

She, the past.

She smells of old books

that gathers dust

in the forgotten shelves.

I tuck the priceless tablet

away from the notebooks bare,

away from her death stare.

Her tongue unfolds

a mellifluous melody

popular sometime in the 60s.

I sink in the staccatos

of pop and metal,

The crash and burn

of the deranged ensemble.

We dwell in different times.

She and I.

She in the past,

I, the present.

Like a broken record player,

she plays the past on loop,

enmeshed in the tape

of distorted truth.

Clutching at straws,

she holds on to the yore.

The memories seem more real

than the real to her.

Her love warrants

no show of tactile affection.

She has learnt from the best-

her mother (my grandmother),

a strict disciplinarian.

But in the midst of the chores

and the whirring of machines

and the sputtering of seeds

melding with the sweating veggies,

she carefully watches

from behind the half-drawn curtains.

Everything:

what I do,

when I wrinkle my nose

or wring my wrists out of anger,

my swagger on hitting a new high,

my crumpled brow on the brink of low,

when I scrape into the jeans

that miraculously fits,

when the inner Shakespeare

conjures verses obscure.

A constant check:

did I get hurt?

did I take the meds?

did I do this or that

and that and that?!

As life speeds,

she slows down for me

to tie my laces

and cheer on with glee.

My needs, her universe—

encircles her existence.

When I grew my wings,

She was proud

for a moment,

She was baffled

next minute.

"Doesn't she need me anymore?

Will she drift apart? Is this it?"

My wings became her eyesore.

Her wrinkled fingers held onto the boat

until the day,

she let me go.

Our times, similar.

Yet never the same.

It intersected, briefly.

Till it bobbled away.

Since then,

she has despised the present.

A reminder

of the treacherous transient.

And the past?

It is safely tucked away

in the glass jars

in the fading scars

in the folds of albums

in the malfunctioning VCRs.

Sometimes, enraged,

she unleashes the hurt

in broken words

glued together with dirt.

"You are no better than I,

My modest well serves me well

unlike the princely pond

that runs you dry," she says.

Yet prays

for my succesful swim

in the same.

She frustrates me,

confuses me,

overwhelms me every day.

Then all of a sudden,

without any rhyme or reason,

she yells

and yells some more with passion.

Yet

prepares my favourite meals

for hours

with utter devotion.

My friends

become hers too.

My foe,

her sworn enemy.

My needs, her universe—

eats into her existence.

Every moment.

Her boon, her bane.

Our minds alike yet different,

rest...all the same.

ABOUT THE POET

Neelima Chakraborty is the second prIze winner of the 2024 Wingword Poetry Prize (summer cycle) for her poem ‘My Mother’, receiving a cash prize of INR 30,000. Basking in the beauty of Nature, Neelima draws inspiration from her surroundings for her creative work. Of late, she has been enamoured by the different hues that colour the horizon at odd hours of the day— a perfect contrast to the hullabaloo of the jaded lives dwelling within the cocoons of myriad expectations. An alumnus of the University of Calcutta, she enjoys exploring the world of Postmodern literature. She has taught English Language and Literature at esteemed schools in Kolkata. Currently nurturing young minds at Modern Delhi International School, Faridabad, she finds peace and tranquility in the rhythmic cadence of poems and reflective pieces, viewing them as a therapeutic medium. Her works have previously been published in Teesta Review (an online biannual journal of poetry) and Erothanatos (a peer-reviewed quarterly journal).

My Architectural Education- Surabhi Naik

made me insecure

about words.

It was always - Drawings before Words.

Inside, what are lines without life, I thought. But

the obedient rebel that I was, I complied.

So I made 'drawings'. I drew in straight lines

and measured curves, and careful thinnesses

of pencil strokes.

My Architectural Education had no time to waste

on my misshapen wilderness. It taught me that using

words to build my worlds was Unacceptable.

Untoward.

It was always - drafting the drawings.

Never, drawing the drawings.

So I was careful not to stray too far from the instrument.

Knowing I was at least one instrument too heavy.

My Architectural Education taught me about Beauty,

the kind that was immortalized in 'text'books made of

lustrous paper, erudite sentences and privileged men.

It was always - SomethingNewSomethingUnique but

within reason.

So I stepped in from the sidewalk

and marched in the army.

A Left. then Right. then Left.

One of the first things I remember conjuring

out of thin air was a poem about trees.

One of the first things I remember drawing

was a portrait of a famous man with a french beard

in a blue studio with blue lights calling the screen

'computerji'.

And he was just as blue if not bluer in the

scrawny scratches of my mom's blue ball-point pen.

And so, the words had to spill, right? Somewhere.

Like the streams that erode their way into the ocean.

Dressing native normalcy in modern absurdity by Hema Nayak

1

These women talk about miscarriages

sitting in the backyard

cleaning and dressing my favorite prawns

"I had to rip my yoni off

to take out the remains of my first child"

I see the remains lying in front of me

heads, eyes, tails, flesh, and pieces

I will not eat them again

Is this how I have food allergies?

2

I ask this woman whose name

translates into Mother of tiger,

"Why is this neighbor building a mansion

on our compound walls?"

She says,

"He wants to be buried

under our patience; Remind me to get

generous amount of salt, soot and ice cubes

to dress him on the day he dies."

And, we wonder

why fresh ghosts haunt us.

3

Here is my childhood toy hen

Dress it; Press it,

it lays painted plastic eggs

I feel like that proud hen

with my several daughters –

Elis gliding out of my entertaining nest

I can neither chew nor swallow

but can only hatch my motherly boredom

here in this game of eggs

4

Clear water, skinny dip, precious stone

Then I step on the sharp edges

of rock oyster

Blood red water, salty skin, prickling stone

Woman with an exotic Kannada accent

appears and dresses the open wound

on my foot stuffing fried red-hot chillies

"What are you doing?"

"Relieving your pain with pain

like removing a thorn with a thorn"

"No, you are layering my pain with pain"

And, we continue to mumble as the warp

of our realities keeps on wrapping itself.

اسکی محض ایک تصویر رہ گئی by Asma Tariq

This poem won the 3rd Prize in the Regional Category of Wingword Poetry Competition 2019

وه کہتی تھی مجھ سے آپ ناراض نہ ہوا کریں

ے بنیاد باتوں کو نظرانداز کیا کریں

کچھ ایسی پیاری باتیں وہ بے خیالی میں کہ گئی

اسکی محض ایک تصویر رہ گئی

خوشنصیبی تھی میری وہ مجھے اس قابل سمجھتی

اپنے سارے خواب مکمل میرے مستقبل میں دیکھتی

وہ سارے خواب ساتھ لے گئی

اسکی محض ایک تصویر رہ گئی

کہتی تھی طاقت ہے دعا اسکی

میری موجودگی ہے دوا اسکی

پنی عمر سے بڑی تکلیفیں سہ گئی

اسکی محض ایک تصویر رہ گئی

ابھی تو باقی پوری زندگی تھی

بھی تو وہ ملی تھی

میرے خوبصورت منصوبوں کے ساتھ دریائے وفات میں وہ بہ گئی

اسکی محض ایک تصویر رہ گئی

About the poet

Asma Tariq is the third prize winner of Wingword Poetry Prize’s regional category. She is a 20 year old graduate from Aligarh Muslim University. She is passionate about art and India’s diverse culture. Her writing revolves around the challenges faced by millennials and coping mechanisms to tackle them.

তাহার সঙ্গে তাহার by Dwaita Hazra Goswami

This poem was awarded the first prize in the regional category of Wingword Poetry Prize 2019

তাহার দিঠি ভ্রমর দুটি দারুণ

তাহার চিঠি ক্রমেই পাগলপারা

এসব কথা কাউকে বলা বারণ

এপার ওপার এই দুজনার পাড়া

তাহার সিঁথি জোছনা মাখা গলি

তাহার ভুরু জগৎ নাহি মানে তাহার

ঠোঁটে লাল কমলের কলি

তাহার কথা তাহার কানে কানে

তাহার বুকে উপচে পড়া আলো

তাহার পায়ে লুটিয়ে তাহার বাঁশি

আলোর চেয়ে উজলধারা কালো

চিবুক ছুঁয়ে বলছে ভালোবাসি

তাহার মাথে কোথায় শিখিপাখা

তাহার গানে কোথায় সুরবাহার

আজও তবু আশ মেটে না সখা

কী রয়েছে তাহার সঙ্গে তাহার?

About the poet

I am a published Bengali author from Raghunathganj,  Murshidabad ( West Bengal). I regularly contribute Bengali stories, poems, essays and articles to leading magazines of West Bengal (Anandamela, Kishore bharati , Shuktara).

I have  Bengali books published from different publications.

1. Saat akasher opaare ( Bengali story book for children)

2. Kobitar panchopradeep ( collection of Bengali poems)

3. Megh Brishti kwatha ( book of Bengali poems)

4. Thri – ( Bengali thriller story collection)

5.          Sera Magic Lamp (Editor) – collection of stories and poems for young adults.

6.          Oddbhuture-  Collection of ghost stories

7.           Zodiac Sign – Collection of thriller stories

8.           Purakaaler Sura- Collection of thriller stories

9.           Biscuit sing – Collection of rhymes for children

I am also the editor of Bengali web magazine Magic lamp (non-profit) http://www.magiclamp.net.in

I have finished my PhD in cultural studies from Jain University, Bangalore, India. I have done my Honours in Sanskrit language and literature, followed by Masters in Sanskrit with specialization in Vedic Studies from University of Calcutta, India

ओळख by Mandar Naik

This poem by Mandar Naik was awarded the second prize in the regional category of Wingword Poetry Prize 2019

काही उशीखाली दडवलेली,

काही पुस्तकांत लपवलेली,

काही बंद डोळ्यांनी लक्ख आकाशात रंगवलेली,

स्वप्नं ...

आज जेव्हा सापडली तेव्हा ती फारच बदललेली दिसली

आता ती काहीशी थोराड, पोक्त आणि दूरची वाटत आहेत

काल-परवापर्यंत पोरसवदा असल्यासारखी

अंगणात, मनात, डोळ्यात हैदोस घालणारी ती ...

आज एखाद्या अवघडलेल्या माहेरवाशिणीसारखी

अलगद लांबूनच हसली ...

कुठेसं जाणून कि आता ते दिवस नाहीत,

ते हळवे डोळे नाहीत आणि ते वेडं मन ही नाही

कुणास ठाऊक त्यांना आता डोळे कसे दिसले असतील

ओळखीचे वाटले असतील?

त्यांच्या जागी कधी कोण जाणे

नवीन भाडेकरू राहू लागले आहेत.

सध्या उशीखाली चिंता राहाते,

पुस्तकांत प्रश्नचिन्हं आणि आकाशात ?

आकाशात तरंगते रंगहीन व्यवहारी नजर ...

About the poet

I am a freelance poet - writer based in Mumbai, working with an IT company (Atos) as a Project Manager. I cherish my passion of writing whenever, wherever I can. I like poetry in particularly because in a few words one can convey a lot many things, layered beneath a single idea, one can express philosophy of life. I have self-published 2 books (a short story collection -'Pebbles in the water' and a poetry collection 'Feathers, shades, shadows & a few raindrops'). I have also got my Marathi poetry blog : http://shabda-maatr.blogspot.com/

Some of my poems have also been accepted and published in eFiction India magazine, Rathalla Review & The American Journal of Poetry.

I am very happy and honoured for being chosen as the Second Prize Winner in the Regional category. It has certainly elevated my confidence and given me courage and thrust to write more

I thank the judges and the team of Wingword for giving thousands of writers like us a platform to express ourselves