The Cost | Stephen Deepak

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I often wonder what it means to be free.
I grew up hearing freedom and liberty as the mottos of my democracy.
Am I free simply because I was born here, a natural citizen? Am I free because I have an identity card to prove my citizenship?
I grew up hearing that I live in a republic where the people are powerful,
But I go around begging for what is rightfully my due: rations, education, shelter, electricity, and healthcare.

I often wonder what it means to be free.
I grew up hearing secularism and diversity as the uniqueness of my nation, its pride.
I am beaten up if I don't chant a slogan, teased because of my skin color, and mocked for resembling the Chinese.
I grew up hearing that the law is for all, and all are equal,
Yet I'm beaten up for speaking to a girl from another religion, and I'm forced to tie a rakhi and call her 'behen'.

I often wonder what it means to be free.
I grew up hearing about freedom of speech and the right to equality,
But I'm often asked about my surname and my ancestors' occupation.
Whatever I speak is labeled as rightist, leftist, pro, or anti.
I grew up hearing that the nation comes first, and we are all brothers and sisters,
Yet when I voice my dissent against a biased bill or don't conform to the majority's stance, I'm booked for sedition and branded a traitor.

I often wonder what it means to be free.
Flying within a cage, going in circles,
Flying at a controlled pace with my clipped wings.
I'm made to fly blindly, as I'm led and told to follow the flock.
I fly with my head ducked in fear, living just to see the next day's dawn.
I fly to survive, at 'the cost' of my freedom.

Cross the Door | Aditi Singh

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Cross that door, evolve.
Step ahead and resolve
miscreations, misunderstandings, misinformed gore,
and tread as you would
if wings grew out of your spine.
Tearing out wide and strong.

Open those gates,
Closed, rusted, pushed aside.

Bust out.
Feel the wind touch your skin,
as you're akin
to the cold winter night.
Each cold hit is like
that bullet in the eye
that left the world blind.

Feel it.
As it flows.
Don't stop,
Don't bow,
Don't deter.
Soak in the air,
and cross every door.

Tell every other,
Time is here, now.
A time like no other.
Where the blue cold beasts
won't stop hunting
even in the summer.

Tell them to gather.
For the floods, the fear,
And the fathomable tear
Of our belonging.

Together,
Slather with ink, voices, and gestures
a new world.
Before your spine falls
and your wings are cut off.

Go on,
it's time to cross that door.

Ordinary Love | Sayantani Chakravarty

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

She says she has nothing new to offer,
She is nothing extraordinary,
And no one you haven't seen the likes of before...
I believe her.

She says she is nothing unusual,
She may have one or two stories,
But, they are not unheard of...
I believe her.

She says she is no hero,
She may act like the protagonist of a movie once in a while,
Stoic and strong...
But, we all do, sometimes.

She says she is nothing extraordinary,
I believe her.

She says there is nothing exceptional in the way I feel,
That there is nothing new,
Even... in this sense of invincible joy,
Of having known true happiness and beauty like nothing else before,
Or in this pain...
Of sinking to a bottomless ocean,
Or having a thousand shards of glass,
Rip right through your heart.

She says there is nothing extraordinary in the way I feel,
I believe her.

But, there is nothing ordinary about love.

Less of Me | Siya Sawhney

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

What do you do
When you keep giving too much of yourself
To someone who can only accept too little?
What do you do when you have a bouquet of flowers in your arms
But no hands reaching out for them,
Should I just stand by your doorstep,
Waiting for the petals to wilt before knocking on your door?
What do you do when you’re too much for someone
Who can only take in too little?

Instead of gifting you poetry in the small decorative bag
That you once told me reminded you of your mom’s rangoli,
I’ll text you good night
And go to bed trying not to think of you,
Trying to be less for you.
Instead of learning the words to all your favourite Prateek Kuhad songs,
I’ll play the first suggestion on Apple Music
And say I forgot you liked Hindi music.
I’ll tell you I forgot your regular coffee order,
I forgot your sister’s name,
I forgot your birthday,
I forgot it all.

I’ll try to be less.
I’ll try to give you less of me.
I can be anything you want me to be;
Just tell me you want me.

Broken and Scattered | Jyotsna Misra

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I hope to share with you all,
More poems from my healing heart's call,
Though it's been shattered and torn apart,
I find an anchor to mend each part.

Suicidal thoughts may haunt my mind,
But in this anchor, solace I find,
I'll spend quiet time to recombine,
My heart to myself, a task so divine.

Till I return from this tearful mission,
Reclaiming the pieces, my heartfelt vision,
My strength may have waned,
Yet I'll be whole again, no longer pained.

Drained of power, sweetness lost,
I'll rebuild, no matter the cost,
When I'm gone, what's left of me,
In memories, a place to be.

Innocence marked by time's delay,
These are the shadows of a darker day,
Unprepared I was for this strife,
But I'll find my way back to life.

Yearning for peace in a world of strife,
Chased in circles, this uncertain life,
By two-faced cabals in their games,
I'll regain my strength, no more in chains.

Pour me hope, a living stream,
Gallons of it, like a vivid dream,
In this journey, I'll find my way,
From broken to whole, come what may.

When Did Our Childhood End? | Dania Ahmed

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I want to walk down those lanes again
that once bore witness to my childhood.
I want to ask them if it was as lively as I remember,
The walks in the garden, the meadows, and the woods.

Was our laughter as loud as it still rings in my ears?
Was it as cheerful and free from all fears?

Were the trees as tall and the grass as green?
Does the scent of roses still linger, and is the view still as serene?

Is that trunk of a tree still lying there, which once fell to the ground and laid,
Which patiently bore us climbing on top, for all the evenings that we played?

Did it delay its decay and finally die when it was time for us to go?
Did it, on purpose, halt its growth and instead watch us bloom and grow?

Were the faces around me as happy as they are etched in my mind?
Or was I too young to see the grief that they perfectly hid behind?

Is that the innocence of youth they talk about,
Which once lost is never to be found?
The carefree spirit that once ran wild
Is now shackled with duties, never unbound.

When did it all end? Was it all too sudden for me to realize,
Or was it when I bargained to be the master of my choices,
With what came as responsibilities in disguise.

We remained unaware of the worries of life, and the world seemed so fair and good,
Alas, this bubble of lies was burst,
And I think that marked the end of my childhood!

Ah, the Butterflies Are Still Now | Aishwarya Jayasankar

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Hope diminishes like the image of a loving pot plant in driving distance,
one that grew in nurture drains and nitrogen rains,
smaller and smaller until a dot and then a vanish.
Just like that, hush.

Shouldn't I be protecting it, loving it,
holding it to my chest in aggressive need,
like the last ever heave of breath?
Shouldn't I be saving it 
even in the mirage of its vague existence?
Shouldn't I be singing its praises,
of joy and triumph and delight and victory?
I try to speak, but vacuum stays for me,
I try to lean, but no shoulder holds me,
I try to stay, but ruined roots grace my ground,
I try...I tried, amidst frowned and ignored.

Ah, the butterflies are still now,
them who never stopped flying, in blush and ambition-
who never stopped;
tight grasps to the details of slow flutters and iridescent breathing wings,
the butterflies are still now,
resting, life slowly growing back into them,
caterpillars again, to feel more and
maybe to wake up to the sight of their pretty pot plant,
one they will grow in nurture drains and nitrogen rains.

Alchemy | Azra Bhagat

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I have an empty space,
That’s wrapped around my heart,
And anyone who's seen it,
Doesn't think I'm very smart.
They wonder about my life,
They wish upon a star,
To take away the vacuum,
Or fill the space up like a jar.

But I love my empty spaces,
I don't need to build a wall,
The things that need a way out,
Usually find one on their own.
My precious empty spaces,
Keep all things fresh and new,
Letting colors run freely,
Without painting things a certain hue.

I see no fear or trouble,
Because little do they know,
We all need a little space sometimes,
Some room for us to grow.

Witless Warfare | Preetha Panicker

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I had a nightmare last night: a divided human race has been pitted against one another. The reason I can't quite remember, for the war that began had passed a decade and the land was strewn with bleeding drops of red. Vultures circled the dead and dying, bodies of able-bodied men, scattered crimson beads that broke away from a single thread. O, from a single thread! Mothers for their sons with lifeless eyes searching the bloody valley pregnant with the dead, the flame they had kept ablaze lies half-eaten by heartless feathered beings, a sight powerful enough to stop their hearts pounding loud. The ill-fated mothers of little handsome boys who are now fatherless see dogs licking off warm blood from their spouses’ arms that sheltered their family once. Snatching father from son, brother from brother. Why then should there be wars? Whatever the size of the reasons. Whose selfish desire? To conquer or to expand? Are courts the places where abhorrent ideas are sown? Are ministers the venom in the kings’ ears? From where does one get the idea to slaughter one's brother? I felt the earth shaking beneath my legs like a thousand incomplete lives asking why. Could the king hush the rebellion beneath the blood-soaked mud? The rebellion for justice! The rebellion asks why. Why is my wife a widow? Why is my child fatherless? Could the king sleep again? He can only if he chooses to be blind and deaf to his soldiers' living debris. He can sleep peacefully if he has a heart of stone. The child of no tyrant is graced with safety or goodwill. He can only be clothed in the comforts of purple for so long.

Tell me why another war?

Irene, wake up!

It's time!

When Sweet Turns into Poison | Devi Vaidehi

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

It all started as a whisper,
You poured into me something sweet for the years.
Is it prose or a verse?
Or half-told lies?
Curious, I was in the beginning,
like a fiction without an ending.
It was nothing like a good old movie,
But I got hitched like you wanted me to be.

Long forgotten, the secrets are to be hidden.
But you and I let out a contagious infection.
Our words spread like a forest fire.
Reality? We were nothing short of liars.
Our victim got burned alive.
It scarred his mind for life.
An irony? or maybe we were lucky.
The source of the lie remains a mystery.

Our guilt came with the ransom.
It haunts us, turning each day fearsome.
Truth, it was him yesterday.
We could be next in line any day.
What started as sweet for the ears
Have turned into a poisonous rumor.

Love and I, We’re Not Exactly Friends | Sanaa Shaikh

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Love and I, we're not exactly friends.
We tiptoe around each other, silent footsteps and uncertain hearts.
We play hide-and-seek in a shoebox, not enough room to run but plenty to stay apart.

Love and I are like the horizon.
We never truly meet.
We rendezvous as a forbidden couple does, stealing glances when the other isn't looking, hoping for a moment's thrill to bloom into an eternity's calm.
It never does.

Love and I, we're a constellation nobody wants to string together anymore.
We dangle from the edges, waiting to be caught.
Only the abyss opens its arms for us.

Love and I, we're a story that always ends on a cliffhanger.
We write our names in the sand and pray the earth remembers us.
We rollerblade on water.
The waves still wash us away.

Love and I, we vow to meet when the sun sheds snow.
Then we wonder why we haven't met yet.
I keep love in my heart like I keep flowers in a vase.
Carefully, but always meant for death.

Love and I, we stare at happiness from the sidelines.
If life is a football game, then love and I rot on the bleachers.
If love is a violin, then I'm its broken strings.
Who listens to a wailing violin anyway?

Love and I, we're two parallel lines racing till we meet.
The race never ends.

Love and I, we stand in the desert but dream of rain.
We smile at the oasis, only till our reflections remind us it is all in vain.

Love and I, we forever promise to sail to the shore.
Is that why the ocean is filled with abandoned oars?

Love tells me the truth, I tell it my sorrows.
Love boasts its happiness, I ask for some to borrow.
Love leaves again, and I lay hollow.

So when you next bring me love on a platter, don't frown if I drop it.
If you summon before me an ocean of love, don't hate me for running to the mountain.
If you serve me all the world's love in a vial, don't be surprised if instead I ask for the poison.

A Cyborg's Reminiscence | Trevor Pinto

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Two millenniums passed by
under the watchful eye of Mr. Time,
many civilizations mushroomed, following a pattern
which can be classified from boom to decline. 
 
History's timeline decorated with a spectrum of events
from the battles to the peace times,
comedic how humans seamlessly adapted
not to forget this race created the Divine. 
 
Like an incandescent light bulb, it dawned on them; 
nature, no matter how beautiful or strong was mortal, 
an impending sense of doomsday sent shivers,
now, they created a belief called the afterlife.
 
The forehead creases mirrored that of a farmer
watching goats and praying for rain,
while staring at the dry skies across the mountains
far as their eyes could take.
 
The eyes in search of hope creating hope,
but when it would arrive, none could tell.
They survived on a promissory note, called tomorrow,
They were funny at times, Extremely, I swear. 
 
Idle minds creating a façade
treating today like an advertisement to a great play
titled – In tomorrow, we believe, so why do it today?
Chaos reigned, but they did not fail.
 
They survived centuries and still survived
may not be the same as the ancients did,
It was the trust in fellow humans that worked,
trust is the blessing of the rational mind.
 
In happiness, sadness and all, they sailed
They had emotions ranging from love and hate.
No fear of exposure to sunlight, snow or rain
enjoying the end of October. Playing the game.
 
They lived, both the masters and the slaves alike
as far as they lived, they felt alive.
They forgot to code hope in our system, never mind.
They were a kind. We are going to miss them.

Adulting | Akshita Sharma

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

An incredibly intimate concept,
belongingness can be.
You don't realize when it creeps
into your veins
or holds you hostage,
especially when you get a whiff of that boiling raw milk,
tensely bubbling through and through when maa makes sweet rice pudding,
or when dad wraps you up in a warm blanket
after bedtime stories,
or when dadi gives you the first slice of mango
while the ceiling fan creaks and slaps the air around it, in sultry midsummers.

You don't realize that it is
ordinary days that caper around extraordinary truths
that you will miss most
when this belongingness
in your veins begins to wilt,
and when you do,
when you actually do,
these sacred mundanities begin to lie.

You cope and comb
and long for a place unknown
until this longing turns into an autoimmune disease.
It eats what produces it
until the numbness spreads to your toes, fingers, eyelashes,
for you were coherently living a lie,
and truth,
which had parted ways with choice,
was just another prejudice you couldn't get past.
That is when it shatters,
and takes with it your existence, your prayers, your faith, your tears.

You are left alone, with nostalgia scraping the last remaining bits of your tongue.

Cope. Cope. Cope.
Comb through.
That is all you do.
That is all you can do,
when belongingness and innocence
turn into cartwheels of upheaval
and responsibilities cater to anxiety.

And yet, strangely,
amidst all this,
the child in you breathes through the cracks
in your spine,
the fault lines along which form your sustenance,
subsisting in a world
that begins,
and ends in symmetry.

A Visit to My Mama’s Resting Place | Pekingto Jimo

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

In a hushed corner, where wild flowers bloom,

Lies my sweet mama’s resting place, in gloom.

I shall soon visit this calm, quiet space,

A place that holds my mama’s name in grace.

Mama, as we know, mid June’s drawing near,

I’m coming back to visit you, my dear.

But this time, it will be a special one,

For someone comes alongside your dear son.

On your stone, she and I, will flowers lay,

And with you shall sit, talk and spend the day.

And for the first time, I won’t shed a tear,

For joy, she brings along, my lady fair.

I will return home happy, not alone,

But with companion by my side, my own.

Mama, oh how I bet you will like it,

This visit that will bring joy, bit by bit.

Oh, with a heavy heart I come again,

Depressed and lonely, sad and filled with pain.

Mama, I’m sorry that you hear my cries,

As I sit here alone, beneath the skies.

But my fair lady promised, hand in hand,

To visit your tomb, on this sacred land.

Yet, fate played her accomplished cruel part,

Left me with nothing but a wounded heart.

The cool breeze whispers your sweet lullabies,

As teardrops glisten in my weary eyes.

Cicadas’ summer songs and sunrays gleam,

Reflect the tender love you once did beam.

Oh, how the ache within me starts to grow,

For my love could not come, the sorrows flow.

My broken heart is pained, in great regret,

For being alone, this day, I’ll ne’er forget.

The weary sun descends and calls me home,

But I don’t wish to go, I’d rather roam

Around here, for it no more holds the grace

Of my mama; no better than this place.

Yet, farewell I bid, with a heavy heart,

For from this place we’re bound to be apart.

But the thoughts shall last, till the end of days,

Of this mournful visit, where sadness stays.