Streaming | Kanupriya Rathore

The following poem by Kanupriya Rathore from Jaipur was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

I like to make a fuss

in picking a movie we

will never watch because

you want to touch me too much

we argue

over Nana Patekar’s

best work

and for a moment you forget

all about my breasts

you are lost, in a fight

you are now having with yourself

about the brilliance of another man

it is easy to like you then

we lie on the couch

the only solid thing, as you fight your nemesis

my old bra, I am grateful

for your neck and for

 the stray dog that is now ours

I take a sip of your beer

How come we don't have a song, I think, we kiss

later, when you're holding my foot

up against  your chest

I wonder, if I wore too much eyeshadow

for a night of Netflix

 and this

on the screen, Nana Patekar mouths

the words of a song, I laugh

maybe this could be our song

We talk, about your mother

how she forgets your name sometimes

another beer for you

that I drink most of

the credits roll and we are washed in the

light of names, many names

and none of them are us

Family Tongue | Rahat Tasneem

The following poem by Rahat Tasneem from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

My father has many tongues,

but little feelings to go with them

and is sparse with his words.

Maybe you don’t need too many words

when you have a miscegenation of languages

at your disposal.

My mother is certain, and verbose in her monolingualism.

I struggle between my two languages-

one found, one forgotten.

All of us still fail to understand each other.

A Pot-Pourri of Email Openers | Gunjan Nanda

The following poem by Gunjan Nanda from Dehradun was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

'How to kill Isolation boredom'

'Sick of the inside of your house?'

'New skills for a new reality'

'New Normal: Picnic at home'

I wake up to the buzzing of a new email alert every morning

'Feeling Stressed? Schedule self care with these 5 easy steps'

Hmph. Stressed while at home? I think this is the best paid vacation I would have ever asked for

'Stay safe, Play from Home and win unlimited real cash daily'

Hah! If I had a nickel for every email I've ever received like this one

But wait, did you see what they just did? They're taking advantage of this golden opportunity of being home

You're home, away from friends, maybe away from family, too much time on your hands, maybe too little because you're overburdened with WORK FROM HOME

But for those lucky few, 'earning real cash' might just be it, a saviour in a physically distanced world

'Check out our exclusive selection of Face time ready shirts'

(Because who wears pants anymore?)

I think of the realm we live in, and the realm we need

Much like the broken clock in 'Alice in Wonderland',

perpetually stuck at six

Are we stuck?

'Stretch marks? Cellulite? Veins? XYZ waterproof body makeup has you covered'

Pretty sure I'll need this after eating tons of cheese-laden deep dishes and coffee cakes

(Add to cart)

'Travel with your taste buds’

Interesting! Always thought travelling was an actual verb.

Although my palate does like the idea of being guided

Thai for dinner? Naan and Paneer for lunch?

Count me in, Virtual Chef!

'Why Physical Distancing might last for some time'

Now this one got me thinking

See, here's the thing about distancing yourself from the world, you should do it anyway

Do it in a way which isn't obnoxious or nasty

Do it in a way that saves lives (politely)

Behaviour is the one thing we, as humans, have very little control over

Everyone is stressed out, fearful and anxious for their own health, we need to be sensitive and sensible Try not to be the town watchman

MOVE BACK, someone says

Didn’t you just come back from one of your international travels, another one says

'6 feet apart' was never this consuming

...

(Another email buzz)

Together at home: We may be apart right now, but in some ways we're more together than ever’

Riot | Elvin Lukose

The following poem by Elvin Lukose from Mumbai was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

doors latched shut from the inside

he sits on whatever remains of the toilet seat

at a roadside latrine

smoking his flimsy cigarette

watching the smoke ascend

to irritate the halogen glow

of a bulb that hangs hopelessly

from a leprotic roof

the bucket is filling up to the brim

drop by drop

from the nozzle to the bottom

keeping time

in a suddenly timeless world

he can see the flashes

on the door in front of him

like a movie

the civil barter of warfare

of petrol bombs and molotov cocktails

the only company he has now

are these buzzing flies

fleeing from the clouds

of phosphorus

of gun powder

and ash

he can hear the police

the blaring microphones

the battle cries of the street warriors

the goons

the guardians

and the invisible line between them

he peers out of the window slits

all he can see are

legs running

bodies darting from point to point

some of them interrupted in their tracks

by a gunshot to their belly

only to fall onto a puddle

of their own blood

soon to be motionless

lifeless

he is getting used to the pounding

on the outside and the inside

there is nothing worth watching anymore

his eyes haven't closed since 3 days

there is no dream

there is no sleep

no night

no day

just flashes of amber

and smog from the pyres

he sits back on the toilet seat

staring at the little streams

meandering between patches of moss

on the moist floor

spiraling into the closet

the fetid stench is suffocating

but bearable

at least it doesn't smell

like blood and fire here

the cigarette is shrinking

down to the filter

his last fix

is about to end

his eyes are wearing out

his toes are pruning

from the wetness on the floor

he lies down, curled up, legs to his chest

head to the knees, in his own little womb

he can hear his mother

singing his favorite rhyme

like an angel stroking his weary head

within a tactile memory

he still has two match sticks

and one more cigarette on him

as he holds its crooked body

trembling between  his fingers

and buries it back in his pocket

for safekeeping

for future

no matter how long it is

or how short

he will need to stay there

for a few more hours

maybe even days

it looks like it will be awhile.

ice cream summer | Meghna Chatterjee

The following poem by Meghna Chatterjee from Kolkata was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Trigger Warning: Sexual Abuse

iv.

that summer, i

held an ice cream stick between my legs, it

stayed still for a while, then melted

allatonce.

god, that feeling of falling down a rabbit hole.

iii.

"write about love", 'write about love', write about love,

to hide what you can't write about.

come under this bed, it's dark and cool and dark

ii.

fingers, my fingers, some fingers, play a dangerous chess, look there's a hole

in my dress,

maybe we can slip through it like water,

look there's a noose in my dress

i. 

black mold on my teeth;

lockjaw, self-imposed, but that's a given;

we push and pull like an elastic band

Family Photograph | Nidhil V

The following poem by Nidhil V from Brampton, Canada was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

a lonely camera looks on,

at five imperfect people and five imperfect smiles,

five imperfect sets of clothes and five imperfect stories,

that have been paused,

to steal this perfect moment, from time itself.

blinded by the flash, they huddle around the camera.

dots of blue and purple, curtain their vision,

and no one notices that there’s five people,

and only four sets of teeth.

dadi said they’re crooked, whispers my sister,

crooked is ugly.

Lieutenant General Vohra beams from ear to ear.

the wound below his eye is a battle scar,

which he dons with, pride and honour.

a badge, like the ones that grace his uniform.

Undergraduate Vohra’s

gold dupatta, glimmering, like her 4.0 GPA,

is wrapped around her wrists.

her cuts reek of dishonour.

they’re from a battle,

history books won’t talk about,

and she won’t either.

my dad’s heavy hands,

rest on my shoulders.

my dad’s heavy eyelids,

droop slightly, as he stares into the distance.

my dad’s heavy heart,

suffers from undiagnosed eternal grief.

my dad’s heavy shoulders,

haven’t felt hands rest on them,

since,

my dad’s heavy hands,

set fire to a wooden pyre.

i see myself,

happy, calm, still.

still.

the me in the picture, isn’t shaking his left leg,

or drawing circles with his right hand,

and no one can tell that my mind,

has already wandered onto foreign thoughts.

what would it feel like to devour a kebab,

made out of a t-rex’s flesh?

the photographer and my mom,

are talking shop. 

highlights, exposure, gradients, contrast.

his smile says that he is impressed,

with the 45-year-old lady’s knowledge,

of Adobe Photoshop.

after years of receiving fairness creams

as birthday presents,

she found her magic wand,

in photo editing.

as we hang the family photograph,

up on the off-white wall,

someone calls it,

“a picture-perfect family.”

i smile. my little sister laughs.

this time, she can’t help but show her teeth.

A Backseat in Duronto Express | Lakshya Singh

The following poem by Lakshya Singh from Nalagarh, Himachal Pradesh was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

It doesn’t matter if the engine,

sneakily crawls,

or bolts like that cold-sandwiched air

blowing past,

those weary faces,

dispersed on dull green, metallic benches

when you are lying still,

a dormant volcano,

lips shunned , eyes-shut

away from the sight of that glass window,

on that upper berth 64-B1,

which smells,

rather fumes of someone familiar,

of white-linen soaked in fingertips,

vaporizing beneath that

strangely cold, grey blanket

coiled like the hair of that lady

drifting in her late sixties,

supping her tea in a plastic cup,

glancing at the glass window

which stares back at her like

a cracked mirror.

With her back hunched as

a crumpled sheet of paper,

her name, age and a thousand other letters

carved on her round face,

the ticket collector stares

at the blurriness of her eyes:

a perfect identity card,

passes a faint, nearly invisible smile

and then moves away,

near a couple with an

over-zealous toddler sucking

the nipple of his milk bottle,

and babbling occasional “Amma, Appu”,

which fades away in the bustle of the tires,

his mother, dressed in her khaki-kurta

probably watching dunes fall back

into little grains of sand on her cheeks,

his dad, pretending to read a book,

while rubbing his son`s back.

Upon his arrival,

they sit befuddled

as an unhinged door,

she vigorously searches her handbag,

he lays hands on his narrow pockets,

nothing, mere lumps of rock

tanked like an empty silo ,

outside their window,

inside their throats.

They unzip their luggage ,

bags shut open like their mute mouths,

clothes heaped over -another

like buried, unspoken words

“It will be fine,

we`ll be fine,

you`ll be just be a video-call,

just a few semesters,

probably then a 9-5 job away.”

They check over his little pockets,

the little fingers, those curly hairs,

the bottled milk, nothing.

mere ghost spaces

and bones intertwined into one.

The TTE mumbles and moves away

with a slight hand gesture,

rather a sympathetic nod

read as” Its okay, I understand, anyways.”

It doesn’t matter if the engine

whistles or

silently drags itself with

a thousand bodies floating

through time and space,

when those fluorescent lights are already shut,

the pastel blue curtains drawn and

that bottled milk spilt on the floor.

A Letter to One Returning Home | Aditya Saha

The following poem by Aditya Saha from Malbazar, West Bengal was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Plant your steps softly dear

for the fallen leaves may look

familiar brown and homely old -

but the street has a coat of tar new ,

a new pair of potholes few steps

from the lamp post standing beside

Hush dear , don't fish out from

your childhood days of playing truant ,

the name by which you used to call that

street of your favourite sweet shop

beside that stout alphonso tree with

welcoming boughs and a shade of respite

nor don't you pay your dues in here

with your old notes 500 or 1000

( saved aside from what your relatives

thrust into your hands during the puja)

for they are good for naught but origami

ask that atm kiosk standing there

by the turn of this street

about how he had to cope up

with the unending lines from

dawn to dusk as the entire nation

stood sweating with bowed knees

and trembling upturned hands

just as one stroke of twelve on clock

on one cold November night

turned pockets of country men

to trash , as bunch of promises , men

and national assets sell out for cheap

wear your sweater tight dear

for the winds blow bitter cold

and not just the thermometer

but the gdp shows drops

however the jawans are on guard

in the glacier outpost of Siachen

surely you could learn a thing or two

of sacrifice and self reliance

from the brothers putting their lives in

the crossfire of hostile neighbour

Step aside dear , you might get lost

in the crowds rushing about

for they are seeking their identity

in midst of lists questioning their existence

temples and statues rising up anew ,

cities changing names ,

paper notes acquiring new colors ,

bills diverting your attention

Put on your mask dear above your nose

for many have lost their sense of smell

either in literal or in figurative sense of words

or like bio hazard many have been dumped

stay back in favourite corner of your home

( unlike the scores of migrant workers )

with a note of thanks to the farmers who

turn their sweats to keep your nutrition intact

you can afford to live on your bank

and stream the old Masakali on Spotify

for you are not locked up without internet

Bird died at the edge of NH-22 on a national holiday | Diya Kandhari

The following poem by Diya Kandhari from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

and grief fluttered into an inconvenience,

a sliced open pigeon wing, bruised mantle, crushed beak

against asphalt; the vertebrate sticks out like flawed timing.

The neighbour's children have paint on their faces; an unfinished celebration

They complain about the vacuum cleaner that fell into disuse after the last death

about how the house is still filthy, humidity clinging onto shelves like an omen

Mother says today wasn’t the right day for death

You see grandfather has lost his driving license

which means mother has to drive him to and from the the highway.

Bird died at the edge of NH-22 on a national holiday.

Bird died on a highway no one drives upon because of the drunk civil engineer in 1940s

Bird died and here we are, and mother says bird should’ve died another day

Stacked up deaths are easier. 

The distinctness of death is what makes it painful, it’s peculiarity, of location and cause

Aunty died on a hospital bed from heart disease, uncle drowned in a lake,

Mother says bird should’ve died tomorrow

But tomorrow is Mimi’s ballet recital, and day after is national cookie cutter day

And the day after the day after, is significant because it’s day after

Bird died on NH-22 on a national holiday and grief fluttered into an inconvenience, because it was always meant to.

Hello | Shristi Sainani

The following poem by Shristi Sainani from Ahmedabad was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

I did try and say hello

Outside the butchers shop,

Where they also sold in bulk

Marigolds strung to beetle leaves.

You seemed to be distracted,

Perhaps looking at the dusky shepherd
 

Herding cattle on the right,

Magenta saree shop on the east,

From the incense scent

Or the vermillion ruins of chewing

You stepped in.

I did try and say hello

But the traffic was too loud

The buses sped fast

Crows called above.

My hands, tied with heavy jute bags.

There was muck on the streets.

I did try and say hello,

But it vanished

In between.

Crimson Cup | Prateek Joshi

The following poem by Prateek Joshi from Saharanpur, UP was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Twilight. It’s gray, and I have an objection to tea —

in the hours, two of which have passed fleetingly.

A wish to be anywhere but here presses me

My syllables ache, disjoined

The market is in disarray, and the inns are closed

I took a nap to forget the boredom, but a noise knocked me up 

Once the owner of a bar saw me slipping out the window

Since, I have grown an ear in my belly

I am listening to the blood mix in my spleen

All feuds return in the gossips of servants

It is getting too warm to wear pants.

Forged paintings in my bedroom color my clutter.

What did I tell you? It’s twilight, gray

and I have an objection to tea?

Two hours have passed fleetingly.

It’s past daytime now, and I can’t keep denying a cup of it.

We the hoarders | Qubra Rather

The following poem by Qubra Rather from Srinagar, Jammu & Kashmir was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

The soothsayers with their crystal balls and the tarot readers gazing at their cards, are irrelevant here.

Even the weatherman has realised the futility of his gauges and barometer.

The famine of hope being seasonal like the monsoon,

Brings in the need to feign plenitude to cover up for paucity.

Rendering the institutionalised apparatus of hoarding, an indispensable skill.

Hoarding for the cold winter.

Hoarding for the bloody spring.

Hoarding for some viral invasion, anew.

Hoarding groceries along with worries and pain and guilt.

Hoarding good memories to live through tough times.

Hoarding the unfinished work-in-progress of dreams.

Hoarding courage to carry the carcasses of being.

Hoarding relics of life to handle the crossover with death.

These reserves of, overwhelming fear, blood curdling resentment,

milk fermented by the sourness of hearts,

left over bread of yesterday which just couldn’t be gulped down,

pots of tea still brewing with anger,

drugs to bring on bouts of apathy,

buckets of slime, stress balls and fidget spinners for the more cautious,

all become inventories in – The Warehouse of Rage.

In the cold storage, rage remains rage.

Sometimes processed into numbness. Sometime action.

Sometimes death. Sometimes the living dead.

Pandemic Salvations | Riniki Chakravarty Marwein

The following poem by Riniki Chakravarty Marwein from Singapore was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

our neighbour’s elder mouth bells

at the door, announces his wife

he titled on the internet. her cheeks

of country virgin fresh

now have a leader, they meet

our assumed aura of spinsters.

his elevated expression swells out

more tongue about his other

salvation by newly heard online healers,

he adds they have tagged him

one of our town’s latest corrections.

we noise the part where his name

is floating their marquee with our duty

to inform our homing one of us upstairs

who is now in pathogenised demography.

we are eager to also offer our apologies for

having to miss his prayer before two cups of tea

to celebrate his third matrimony, but the end

of our pandemic sentence made long

by mother tongue converges on his wife’s

teenage speed with which she slings

her own lightness from his side

to the street. he mismatches her urgency

with polite charge towards her waiting

for him but in a hurry, her see-through kerchiefed

eyes passing through closed window parts

of our home’s body. we watch his Bible-

fattened pocket switching parts

to let his right hand crawl

back to grease her story.

Collision | Indra Hatpins

The following poem by Indra Hatpins from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

I~

You~

Rise from a land of the mythical kind,

a paradise hidden behind the white man's lie,

which is only

his story, a most devious study,

a viewpoint that fumes in colonial envy,

adopted by seditious pundits,

scholars whom I cloak in air-quotes,

the leftists, the seculars, the urbanised Naxals~

Call us anti-national, the usual suspects,

alas, our clenched fists defy governments

and their bent narratives, not the Republic,

deception with a forked tongue,

the serpent that slithered out of Eden,

if your twisting coils smother our critical lungs,

it's only natural of us

to struggle for freedom~

Cities crumble when these pesky radicals

assemble for a peaceful rumble,

their roots, buried in home soil

to suckle dry that fertile grind

 trampled under ruthless hooves

of a thousand years of invaders,

a disease of weeds to sully

the Sanatani garden,

foul like a burka to dull

the belle of Dharmic tradition~

Subtle Islamophobia

is the new orange,

pupils of Jamia

need more than just a bandage,

their image punctured

by venomous drips of news media outlets,

blasphemous,

like serving beef to customers,

stomach this instead and get upset:

the irony of blindfolds on Lady Justice~

A crippling of righteousness,

political correctness has forgiven too many wrongs,

minority appeasement trafficked in violet fingertips,

but not anymore,

for my awakened spirit

sparks into an amalgamation,

I electrify the revolution,

a desi renaissance, the spicier version,

a glorious reinvention of the Motherland,

painted with indigenous passion~

As bloodshed and tear gas shells

litter the Nation,

pellet prints carelessly sprinkled

like misplaced freckles across torsos and faces

of citizens, guilty and innocent,

the due process of law, a fading wall

once crafted to protect us all,

before it erodes into figments of imagination,

we’ll arrive as reinforcements,

ready to write the last stand like Stephen.

“Ü-This Poem Starts Here” | Imsanenla Jamir

The following poem by Imsanela Jamir from Mokukchung, Nagaland was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

(For my grandmother and her grandmothers and her grandmother’s grandmothers.)

|

The crow at your funeral

perched on a naked tree

Otsü* smiled- said

you paid a visit

You are the pots clanking

at night- said

you paid a visit

The first stone at the graveyard

The rumble among the bamboos

You who went and never came back

||

Your tsüngkotepsü*-

stained and painted with

tigers, mithuns and heads

Your ardour, your children, your grandchildren

You walked barefooted to the capital

An alien gun bound on your back

|||

Otsü had

ten mouths to feed and lull

Empty ponds, dying fields- rape

Cicadas mocking her- and

her sully shawl

Now grandchildren asks her

Why women did not- and

Why women should go to war

||||

The leaf of life

Our ancestors plucked-

Plucked from the forest spirit

Ladder to heaven erected-

erected our ancestors

Plucked and ate clouds

This lust for life

||||

Otsü, Obu*

My name-

Your namesake

But-

Wrapped my tongue, I have

Shortened my name, I have

Shrank, diluted my being

Rammed my pot of milk

With stones

and offered it to them

But-

They know, they know

They know It all

All the letters from A to Z

Except what comes after Z

Ü*

This lust for life

This pregnant lady’s contractions

This naked child spread on my chest-

I welcome them all

This poem starts here

*Otsü- Ao Naga word for grandmother.

*Tsüngkotepsü- An Ao Naga shawl stained with plan juice, or embroidered with pictures of tigers,mithuns and heads they (warrior) killed.

*Obu- Ao Naga word for grandfather..

*Ü- The last word in Ao Naga alphabet

The Play | Mandar R. Mutalikdesai

The following poem by Mandar R. Mutalikdesai from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

A lamb out to play

Among un-eyed faces

A lamb made to pay

Just so it can play.

A lamb about to pay.

The play, acceptance

The pay, toffees.

The play, the lamb

The pay, the lamb.

The toss of a coin

The fate of the lamb

Head: a punch

Tail: a stab.

A lamb out to play

A lamb about to pay

The lamb, the gamble

Terror, the outcome

An angst, a wedding

A tremor, the bride.

A lamb out to play

A lamb again to pay

For a game of ball.

The ground, an abyss

Endless, the fall

To the faces, an appeal

An appeal they see

An appeal they un-see.

A throw, the play

An eye, the pay.

A lamb out to play

A lamb about to pay

The lamb, the ride

Emptiness, the park

Bloodied without a trace

Not a touch of steel.

A lamb, played in full.

A lamb, paid in full.

The Difference | Laudeep Singh

The following poem by Laudeep Singh from Gurugram was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

The poetry speaks itself about the poet

and each word states clearly

with what purpose and intent

it has been written by the so-called ‘poet’.

I don’t like poets

who cackle and grin all the time

as there is no cloaked wisdom in that,

irrespective of what their dreary optimism dictates them.

I don’t like poets

who are egocentric;

the ones who write to advertise and sell,

the ones who write to fill their coffers with money,

and the ones who write for notoriety and respect.

I don’t like poets

who read in large gatherings;

the ones who make a spectacle of their poetry,

the ones who always only read out their representative poems,

and the ones who recite less and spit more

to generate a wider response among the audience.

I don’t like poets

who don’t drink and smoke;

the ones who are afraid to die,

the ones who want to live a long successful life,

and the ones who themselves call themselves ‘poets’.

I like poets

who cry all the time,

who howl their heart out

wherever they go,

who embrace the glumness of life,

and who denounce phoney sanguinity.

I like poets

who are altruistic in their nature,

who write for themselves,

and who write for the contentment

of their own heart, mind and soul.

I like poets

who don’t read their own verse

but are always appreciative

of the poetry of other individuals

and if the need be -

those who read only in small gatherings,

who read out diverse chunks of poetry,

who recite more than the audience can chew,

and who feel pleased

if no one understands and reacts to their poetry.

I like poets

who indulge in all sorts of madness;

whether it is the use of some substance

or other means to nourish their creativity,

who don’t wish for a long joyful life,

who themselves never call themselves ‘poets’,

who are not terrified of death,

who consider death as their darling,

and who wait for their union with death

till they breathe their last.

The Maid | Sampoorna Gonella

The following poem by Sampoorna Gonella from California was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

The room sits in vacant silence

as I slap a wet rag over the marble floor,

a familiar wave of panic

coating my skin.

Occasionally a chime announces

a tickle of wind at its feet,

the corner of the newspaper

dabs the coffee table until

it surrenders itself back to quiet.

The scream is all too familiar,

a roar ripping through his lungs,

the fragile silence in the room,

and every pore of my shivering skin.

It spews a volcano of words,

rattling against doors, windows

and walls

of my heart.

I tug the ends of my sari over my face

as madam descends the stairs in whispered strides,

shoulders hung in resignation,

fresh powder clinging to the bruise on her cheek,

her eyes lift just long enough

to register the swollen half moon

scoring my eye, a remnant

of last night.

She looks away from this mirror

almost instinctively, before the truth

can swell in her eyes.

Evolution | Harshit Pratap

The following poem by Harshit Pratap from Lucknow was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

i.

There is a little marigold plantation

In front of my house, across the road

A woman comes there

EVERYDAY

In her oddly draped saaree

With a sac dangling in front of it

Apparently, she “owns” the plantation.

And every day, she plucks marigolds,

Gold, orange, red.

One by one.

Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.

PLUCK. PLUCK.

P.L.U.C.K.!

Every time she does it, it hurts me.

Why haven't the flowers learnt

to not grow yet.

I wonder.

ii.

It's not like I don't understand

What happens to the marigolds

Once they are plucked.

They become.

Sometimes decoration,

Sometimes garlands,

Sometimes offerings

(divine or not).

And many would say,

Aren't those beautiful to be!

And they'd wither away anyway,

If they stayed on the plant,

For too long.

And that's exactly what I ask,

What's the point in growing,

If dying is what you'll do,

Eventually.

iii.

If we didn't have to wither,

Would growing be worth it?

Is eternity what we crave?

Well, far from it.

Who'd crave an eternity of pain?

Of being

plucked.

PLUCKED.

P.L.U.C.K.E.D.!

Who can guarantee me monotony?

Not that that's any better.

So, maybe the joy of life is

the joy of being

plucked

PLUCKED.

P.L.U.C.K.E.D.!

Some people don't see it,

Others don't mind.

I do and I ask.

Why haven't the flowers learnt

not to grow?

Yet.

Departed | Digjam Sarma

The following poem by Digjam Sarma from Tezpur was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

father

am i making you proud

i have been a real good wife, haven’t i

silently taking in

all the blows and burns

since you betrothed me to him

the scaly belt torn in half

skin branded names by red-hot poker

my mark of honour

my tears now feed his thirst, father

more than my flesh

look at me now

look at me

you son of a bitch

look at your princess darling

before this bullet thins your skull.