Interview with Zarin Virji

Zarin Virji is the second prize winner of Wingword Poetry Competition 2020. She is a writer and educator. We interviewed her to find out about her writing journey.

Interviewer: The winning poem which was selected by the jury ‘The Killing Fields’ is a bold and provocative poem interlinking violence, caste hierarchy and the normalization of rape culture in our society. Could you tell us about the inspiration behind the poem?

Zarin: The case of a seventeen year old girl’s rape in Uttar Pradesh set me thinking about gender equation. Often when we hear about such horrific incidents in the news, we feel frustrated and rattled. But soon, we move on and forget about them. The poem captures this very thought.

Interviewer: As an educator who has been teaching for over three decades, do you feel that writing is a skill which can be learned? Or is it what one may call, a natural talent?

Zarin: I would say writing is a blend of both. It is not just a skill but an innate calling towards expressing oneself. An idea sprouts up almost simultaneously and nothing can be done until it is penned down.

A liking or inclination towards language must naturally be there in order to be a writer. But of course, the techniques which refine one’s writing can be learned.

Interviewer: What advice would you like to share with other writers?

Zarin: The most important thing to remember is to be original. Be yourself. What makes a writer’s work shine is the unique perspective which he or she offers about even the ordinary.

One of my recent poems, 'It's in the air', emerged just like this. My bedroom window overlooks my neighbour's garden. During the pandemic, this garden offered me peace and relaxation. However, my neighbour, a dear friend, who had nurtured this garden, was fighting a losing battle against cancer during the same time. I have tried to situate her pain and the inevitability of death in our shared surroundings.

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About Zarin Virji

Zarin Virji is a graduate of the creative writing programme from the University of Sheffield, UK. For over three decades she has played the role of a teacher, teacher trainer and head of school. 

Teaching and writing are her twin passions. From 1996 to 2006, she served as the executive editor of the journal, ‘Classroom’, a safe space for all matters related to education. At present, she heads an international school called ‘The Universal School’ in Mumbai.

Her writing is as much about expressing spontaneous feeling as it is about grappling with socio-economic realities of our times. Her poetry and short stories have been featured in 'The Research Scholar', 'Route 57', 'The Best Asian Short Stories, 2018' and 'The Wire’ Her first book, ‘Gopal’s Gully’ was published by Duckbill Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House India, in February 2021.

An ode to two girls | Karmishtha Krishna

The following poem by Karmishtha Krishna from Pune was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

This is not a poem.

It is a vivid memory of two girls from 2004

One nearly five, the other nearly six

One with a bob cut, the other with a tight oily braid

One who hated going to school

And the other, who never had a chance to.

One was me, the other was our helper’s daughter

We spent our days

Dancing around a white wooden table on a green grassy lawn

Nurturing a friendship that was too difficult for others to imagine.

 ‘Two polar opposite DNA strands can’t helix up together’, they said

‘Those who can afford new clothes every month mingle only amongst themselves’, they said

And so, she began to mingle with only those

To whom the fortunate ones donated their old clothes

And so, I gradually stopped sitting by the glass window

Waiting for her to come by holding her mother’s old, ripped saree

Waiting for her mother to salute mine and watch the mothers scowl

As we galloped to our little corner -

But before I knew it, it was all over.

I moved on and made new friends every dusk

And began sipping from porcelain teacups

And she, was sent to Nepal

For a more ‘disciplined’ upbringing

And sadly, I have nothing more to recall.

But this, is not a poem.

It is a painful memory of two friends from 2004

Who were scarred by differences in privilege

Which I, a child of the gentry refused to remember

Until I heard that she’d come back in 2018.

And I ran to the glass window once again

To get just a glimpse of my long-lost friend

And there she was.

Brown and beautiful as ever, with her tight oily braid

I saw the child in her alive

The little fingers tightly grasping an old, ripped saree

But wait –

It wasn’t her smile, it was her child’s.

She was now a mother.

Let me remind you -  that this, is not a poem.

It is a memory of two coming of age girls from 2018

I, who carried the weight of board exams

And cribbed about the heavy burden

And she, who carried the weight of a baby and an abusive husband

And silently swallowed all her pain

This is a memory of the day

When two childhood friends met after fourteen years

Through a glass window

That somehow didn’t shatter that day -

With screams that echo

When they cross each other in the colony even today

Without a smile, or a word.

You see, this is not just a poem.

This is an ode to two girls from 2004

Way before one of them

Was any different from the other.

Creator and the Creation | Abhinav Shukla

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

The creator created man in his image,

I have been told.

The way I see it,

The man created the creator in his own,

A warm rendition of light,

Was the answer of man,

To the dark, perpetual cold.

A drug that leaves my senses numb,

To the finite that I am,

Confronting infinity.

A shelter that I built,

Out of figments of my incoherent dreams,

For myself in eternity.

The creator created creation in his image,

Was the story I was told,

The creation created the creator,

To its convenience,

Is the belief I hold.

Battered on the ground was creation,

Inching to get back on its feet,

A fiction was created thus,

Beyond itself,

An ideal beautiful,

And convenient to believe.

Born out of heathens,

Nurtured by the mortals,

Is God,

An immortal art.

A touch of insane,

A hint of chaos,

To preserve sanity,

To bring harmony,

In the forsaken homes,

And the broken hearts.

Why did the creation create the creator?

Is the question I am asked,

After burning in hell,

An answer I bring unto you, at last.

The man created God,

In an image that was his own

For he was brave enough,

To know his destiny,

And coward so much,

That he succumbed,

To the fear of unknown.

He carved God out of his heart,

To be engraved on the stone,

The path of the devil then,

He embraced all alone.

You can tell a lot about a man,

From the God he worships,

For the sins he committed,

Stay forever in his heart,

Confessions of his murders,

Mumbling on the edge of his throat,

Almost on his lips.

The man created God,

To bear his unbearable guilt.

His dreams are cursed to an eternity,

With the sights of those he killed.

The stains and screams haunt him,

From the blood that was spilled.

To atone for the graves of his victims,

Were the churches and temples built.

Malum in se | Sneha Hegde

The following poem by Sneha Hegde from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

It’s a chilly winter morning.

The town is still asleep,

in contrast with my bustling mind.

My breath makes tiny wisps of mist as I shiver,

and I pull my coat closer to my body.

As I do, I feel the broken bottle shard

resting in my pocket,

and I wonder if I’ll ever have to use it again,

the way I did last night.

I stand in front of the sprawling building,

feeling rather small,

as men and women in khaki uniforms

move about, tending to their duties.

I ask myself if they’ll ever be able to help me,

as cases like mine, although common,

tend to never reach them, and instead,

are swallowed by the stigma that surrounds them.

Even now, I can’t help but to think of the shame and guilt

that would be thrust upon me by the prying eyes of society,

if my intentions were to become known.

They wouldn’t accept me, they’d be ashamed of me.

I jolt out of my thoughts and shake my head.

As I turn to leave, head lowered,

my eyes fall upon the ring on my finger, and I feel trapped.

This could destroy everything that ring means.

At the same time, I remember why I’m here.

All the motivation rushes back to me, and my resolve hardens.

I need justice. We all need justice.

I cautiously make my way inside, to the man behind the desk,

his badge and medals displayed proudly across his shirt.

I lean over to shake his hand,

and he notices the scratches all along my forearm.

I close my eyes,

and begin to recount the harrowing experience of last night,

how I was pinned down, the weight of his body cracking my ribcage,

how I can still taste the gag that prevented me from screaming,

how every inch of my body was explored while silent tears trickled down my cheeks,

how I tried to push him off, but all I got was a slap to the face,

how I was shoved aside when it was over,

all by myself, with only my thoughts

and the sheet that covered me,

how I was scared and all alone…

As I relive the last of it, I open my eyes,

expecting to see the outrage on his face.

He says nothing for a second,

then to my dismay, begins to laugh, his belly heaving with the effort.

“Madam, you say he is your husband.

Then how can it be rape?”

His words echo in my mind as I make my way back home,

fighting back tears, and I’m barely able to digest it.

My hands tremble as I unlock the front door,

only to see the bottle shards still all over the floor,

and him sitting on the bed, with his head bandaged,

leering at me, knowing there’s nothing I can do to escape.

My eyes fall upon the ring on my finger,

and I feel trapped.

“Section 375, Exception 2”

An Indian Tragedy | Satish Pendharkar

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

Can you blame Laxmichandra and Babita

For not having possessed

Prescience in adequate measure to foresee

The nightmare that was looming large?

Their solitary child Avinash was dying.

However, they had pinned their hopes

On the monuments of Super Speciality -

The Taj Mahals of Medical Hospitality.

Shuttling from one hospital to another,

Begging that their sinking son be saved;

Racing through streets - their ambulance’s siren

Muffling the pitiful wails of their lad.

Yet everywhere encountering the trauma

Of doors being slammed on their faces.

The cruel discovery: One is an outcast

In a city one regards as one’s own.

The caring hands that readily caress,

Cuddle, calm and coddle the affluent

And the influential – those very hands

Often crush the spirit of the multitudes.

Their boy on the verge of the precipice,

They saw Hippocratic Oath-takers

Turn hypocrites to shut them out, realizing -

 When one’s untitled, one’s not entitled.

Deflated, they resumed their leather-hunt

Finally finding an oasis in the desert.

Soon thereafter, calamity struck

Snuffing out the flickering candle.

The ruthless world yet continued

To extract from them a further price;

For what greater sorrow can visit one

Than one having to bury one’s only child

Feeling awfully lonely, utterly hopeless

And terribly guilty, they stared hard

At the gaping ground below before tying

Their hands together to take the final plunge.

“It’s nobody’s fault” they had written.

Incorrect. For, we as a nation failed them.

So, what plans have we – acts of atonement,

To ensure their deaths have not gone in vain?

lassi, aam panna | Amrisha Sinha

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

curled fists fuse themselves

into the warmth

of clipped grass,

tension easing into loose soil.

inhaling the empty wind

of hell’s own kitchen fire,

you welcome it in.

it’s the wilting of lungs

you crave now.

a year ago,

when cool artificial air

saved you from twig-like

fingers and chins,

when the soft whistle

of a laugh was the only air

you wanted to breathe in.

closed doors, dark curtains,

reflective glass

and khus injected lassis

- a small incubator

for your open mouths

and his gentle sway.

now you listen

to the crackling of dried mint leaves

above glasses of aam panna,

hoping you could avenge

your lost innocence,

your past ignorance.

while the sun illuminates

your corpse,

you wish

you didn’t know

what it meant

to feel smothered

while breathing

virgin air.

The 6:12 News | Lawrence Fray

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

Covid keeps us apart.

When permitted, going out is an adventure

With masks and latex gloves.

We must remember to keep our distance,

Not to gather in groups;

When queuing, to maintain a gap of two metres.

Not to touch surfaces

And to go home without delay. Even better

To stay indoors unless

We have good reason or in an emergency

Forcing us to travel.

So our days unravel.

The days are hot, humid;

We look up expectantly at the Delhi sky

For the weather to break

And the beautiful rain to fall and bring relief

From the oppressive heat.

Those who can, pray; a few believe, everyone hopes.

So it has always been.

Power cuts are more frequent as we stay confined,

Cut off in a war zone,

Besieged by a foe that does not discriminate,

That shows no prejudice:

Everyone's nemesis.

Heavy clouds oppress us

The air is still, the leaves on the trees mutely beg,

Their palms open, waiting.

The stifling heat oppresses, Covid stalks the land:

Unholy alliance

That sweeps people from the streets and sometimes from life,

Keeping us trapped in fear.

It is clear we cannot return to former days.

Complacency has gone;

We live in a locked down world of uncertainty.

Now we must change our lives:

Needs must as devil drives.

We do not meet with friends,

Family and colleagues; we stay in touch by phone.

The ceiling fans circle,

Cleaving the palpable air, mindlessly spinning.

We remain in our shelters

And wait for the All Clear signal that does not come

Like the absent showers.

We need to refine and redefine once normal

Parameters of life,

Redraw the maps by which we navigated years

In accustomed fashion:

With post-Covid passion.

The monsoon rains are late;

The grey sky withholds it's blessings from the parched ground

While the plague stalks about;

A dystopian vision made reality.

Fake news proliferates;

There are opinions, discussions, talks and debates,

But there are no answers.

The decision makers, those who have influence,

Responsibility,

Are often seen washing their hands. They sanitise,

While we must watch and wait:

We should recalibrate.

Unholy Women | Madhu Shruti Mukherjee

The following poem by Madhu Shruti Mukherjee from Kolkata was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

“Why are you touching it?” cried Ma from afar.

She came hurriedly to the altar

And snatched the idol from me.

“Don’t you know?

Bleeding women can’t touch God.

Bleeding women are considered unholy.”

That made me think-

This wasn’t the first time I heard the word

It was echoed at cousin Rita’s wedding.

They blamed her

For not bleeding on the wedding night

And cursed her for the unholiness spreading.

Which reminds me- not very long ago

I had offered alms to a woman

And shaken her hand when Baba pulled me back.

“These aren’t real women!” he cried.

“These are just men dressed up.

Don’t ever touch anyone from this unholy pack!”

And only yesterday

We cremated my sister who died

From the grief of bearing an unholy daughter.

Her in-laws blamed her

For being unable to gift them a son

They simply couldn’t put their family name up for slaughter.

I realized I had been lost for some time.

So I handed the idol back to Ma

And asked her to look at me.

"Don't you know?

Bleeding or not-no matter who we are

We women were born unholy."

the things we keep | Pritika Rao

The following poem by Pritika Rao from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

a monkey slips his fingers into the leather bag

strapped onto a black motorbike

that belongs to a man who is taking photographs of the mountainside

the culvert is sprayed with blood-red paan

the graffiti of the poor

the green shrubs have plastic debris beneath them

stacked like glistening Christmas presents

a few ripe jackfruits hang from the trees

while some weaklings have broken and split in the carpet of dried leaves

a stray nail from the plank of wood

digs into my thigh

as I place my order with a middle aged lady in a patterned cotton nightie

we receive two cups of coffee

that taste like diluted jaggery

and a plate of pillowy idlis drowning in sambar

we watch as a stray dog just escapes

the raging wrath of a bleating van

and barks defensively as it disappears around the bend

the lady rushes to survey the commotion

and we all collectively offer the dog our quiet support

satisfied, he proceeds on his journey

the monkey has gone

the man returns to his bike

he picks up a spectacle case and ratty keychain

from the damp mud

and rides off into the cool evening

as we all re-settle into a state of calm,

something catches the light in the distance

the monkey tries on his new pair of neon sunglasses.

anxiety. poetry? | Aditi Upadhyaya

The following poem by Aditi Upadhyaya from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

I feel anxiety in my right foot

in the middle of conversations

at the dinner table

doing my laundry

solving an equation

my right foot starts shaking

suddenly, abruptly

and I have to excuse myself

I graze my fingers over my palms

I count the number of things I can see

I wanted to write a poem

on my anxiety

in the hopes it will make me feel better

less anxious, even

i am trying so hard to make this poetic

but we can’t romanticise this

my anxiety is not poetic

it is deadly, scary, dangerous

it is not sacred, not beautiful

so the next time

my right foot starts shaking

and I run away to graze

my fingers over my palms

I will just remind myself

these are the same hands

that bleed poetry

anxiety is not poetry

but my hands are

and I will keep telling this to myself

until either my anxiety goes away; or becomes poetry

Nail | Anshu Pandey

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

There's a tiny crack on my nail.

"I've fought with my anxieties

To nurture this beauty. No, I won't cut it."

So I shaped it an almond leaving a tinier crack intact.

There's a tinier crack on my nail.

Days pass by and my silly self feels I've fixed the problem.

I go about my regular business but

Whenever I pass my hands through my hair,

A strand of hair gets stuck in the crack.

Again.

And again.

There's a bigger crack on my nail.

That day in the shower,

Completely unaware, my nail broke

And got lost with the irreversible running water.

There I have it. A broken nail.

Why did this nail break?

Why did it need fixing?

The nail on the wall is quite sturdy,

The one that has kept the clock stuck to the wall.

But then it's just a broken nail.

What about the other brokenness?

My Mother | Anushka Das

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

my mother is decreasing

she tip toes barefoot about

the house to not make a

murmur of her existence

my mother is contracting

she nibbles at our leftovers

until the morsels choke the

base of her throat

my mother is dwindling

she has a shadow which

attempts to detach itself

and a reflection which

strives to crack open the mirror

my mother is shriveling

she is a ghost wearing

cheap moisturizer laden

skin over appendages

that rattle when she moves

my mother is condensing

she cries but within time slots

to not allow the full throttle of

her sorrow to manifest

my mother is recoiling

she stands at the edge of

family photos such that one

of her limbs is always cut out

my mother is shrinking

she has an arched back that

curls more inwards as

she makes up space for us

my mother is a frail framework

of brittle bones and tattered tissues

she has nourished this house

with enough love to call it a home

but every corner bears shackles

the size of her withering wrists

her larynx is a morgue

with unsaid words

rotting like unidentified cadavers

my mother is

one-fourth

the woman she

could be

three-fourths

the woman she

had to be

so I excavated

years of generational

expectations

from in-between

her vertebrae

and asked her to

straighten her spine

I told her that

I will always look

up to her

If Not | Mathew John

The following poem by Mathew John from Ernakulam was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

If you would prefer death to poetry

Then, let a poem be

Among the waymarks,

A U-turn

In the midst of stars,

A black sky

Still alive in the silence,

A querymark

In the field of vision,

A teardrop

Somersaulting in the skydive,

A dead leaf.

The Language I Breathe In | Ilina Sinha

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

Once upon a time…

Summer breaks meant dusty village roads, home,

golden beetles and fireflies that slipped into our bedroom at night.

Once, there lived little sparrows on our roof.

Before the roof cemented and strictly meant

‘no space for nests’.

I write them letters.

‘Dear little sparrow,

You left unnoticed.

I wonder if you still remember home.

If ‘home’ means something more than your fore-fathers’ distant memory.

Home isn’t always a place.

Sometimes, it is that 2-sec silence to the question

“So, where do you come from?”

Sometimes home has no roof,

but a hand to hold on to.

Such fragile is our existence, dear sparrow,

we are dew drops on a blade of grass.

Endangered.

Endangered.

Extinct.’

My letters to the sparrows are more soliloquy than solace,

written in an endangered language to an endangered species.

We all need a place to belong.

Google says- ‘A language dies every 14 days.

A species is wiped away every 9.6 minutes.’

We rarely realise that a species is the biological equivalent of the entire human race.

History, Art, Mozart, Networking, Information

lost without a trace.

Evaporated.

Like a dew drop under the sun.

That. Is. Extinct.

When the crusade came,

the Phoenicians, who gifted us our first alphabets,

fled inside a dead volcano for life.

When my forefathers heard gunshots,

they fled beyond valleys and hills…

blood on feet, sweat on forehead,

and the surviving words of my dying language on their tongue.

They planted the family tree on this land - named it ‘home’

No soil, dying roots.

Home, isn’t always a place.

Sometimes there is no roof, but a hand to hold on to.

The last time I visited home,

the horizons shrank back in my body.

There was no raindrop.

No sparrow

Not a single voice echoed in my mother tongue.

Only a prelude to our eventual insignificance.

My freezing hands reached out for the rusted trunk.

Pulled out the old stethoscope,

letters, worn out photographs.

I placed the stethoscope on my heartbeat.

Fingertips on pulse

and heard the chorus of blood-rush:

‘home, home, home.’

Kali's Dance | Navjyot Kaur Vilain

The following poem by Navjyot Kaur Vilain from Le Monastère, France was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

The Mother has stirred

From the dark night of destruction

In the wake of tyranny

Amidst the denial of the sacred

She has arisen

With a surge of rage in her veins

And with divine justice in her heart

Be warned

Her howl resurrects the silenced from their stupor

Her eyes burn to the core of the countless crimes

Unveiling dark paradigms and darker narratives

And layer upon layer of lies and lies and lies

The heartbreak, her shield, her force to shatter the madness

O the primordial force! the Goddess of goddesses ! The Black One !

Noble titles bleed away as her feet stand engaged in virtue

The warrior untamed, loyal only to the source

She needs neither consent nor ceremony

For she, the rightful guardian of destruction

Guided by ferocious wrath and fierce love

Armed with fearlessness in the face of ignorance and hypocrisy

Fuelled by the injustice to the spirit of the soul

She strides upon the violation of the land and the death of the truth

As humankind sways to the beat of disorder

Wings of the world clipped by the vultures of deceit

Her bare feet tread upon the ashes of arrogance

Uprooting an ill-authority of misdeeds and malice

Crushing the foundations of a bloodsucking reality

She has risen to slay the predators might

She has risen to sever the bondage of obedience

She has risen in the name of freedom

She leads from the shadow of humanity

From behind the curtain she clings to the lost souls

She dances

Destroying the infectious virus of greed

From the foul scent of decaying minds

She dances

To the crematorium of illusions

Burning the pillars of power and privilege

She dances

Unhindered flames purify versions of vice and hate

The smoke purges sick structures of oppression

She dances

With the flow of her seasons will

The dance of death and life and death and life

Her rhythm holds no reason for he who cannot dance

Within her passion for life and her honour of death

The unseen Majesty of love

The ultimate restorer of righteousness

Grounded within her timeless grace

And ever blazing fire of life-giving abundance

Planting the humble seed of consciousness within the heart

From a love ignited by the calling of the truth

More intense than the fires that consume

A love more fierce than her fury

Defender of the light, bearer of the truth

From the darkness she rises to rebirth the sovereign law

“Oh glorious Kali

From the sanctity of your omnipresent love

Evoke the alchemy of change

And rebirth a braver new world”

In the name of death

In the name of life

And in the name of love

She dances.

My Land is Bleeding | Ambika Raina

The following poem by Ambika Raina from Darjeeling, West Bengal was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

It's been a long time now, two decades of existence

It stung me before, it still pricks,

These seemingly superficial questions.

The shell remains, I have the face

I have the nose, I have the grace

The shell remains, the only trace

The only trace...

But still under the yellow maple,

Or in loose dinner discussion,

You'll ask me, hey, where are you from?

It's a casual conversation.

It's a casual conversation, sure,

For you the answer's easy

But I will have to rack my brain

How do I say,

My land is bleeding?

Let's not intensify

I'll take it slow, this should be breezy

I'm from India! I say with conviction

Traveled all my childhood

Amusing answer,

You probe further,

Unsatisfied

I know you are.

So Raina huh? Aren't you Kashmiri?

Well. Congratulations. I guess so.

Instant reaction - Wow! Exotic! I love roghan josh

Well good for you, I'm glad you do

I love it very much too.

Do you speak the language? No I don't.

Ouch, but I still smile

Where in Kashmir? Srinagar. Oh wow!

Ouch, still smiling meanwhile

Don't you go back? No I don't.

So where do you stay?

I stay in Gujarat,

In Punjab or Maharashtra..

Just not in Kashmir.

AWAY.

Water's Story | Sonali Pattnaik

The following poem by Sonali Pattnaik from Ahmedabad, Gujarat was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

the falling from above

of water reminds us

that the story of water

remains half told

water gives, takes, dances

and destroys

it surrenders without

relinquishing a drop

of its power

it’s a paradox,

a talisman of

the truth in resistance

do not let water

and its generous falling

trick you into believing

that she is gentle and appeasing

she flows, feeds and forms

for herself alone

water is held and holds

without boundaries

banks are contours

to her infinite body

your banks she is certain

to break and overflow

she is not made to be controlled

through the years, ever so silently

she will rearranged

the mighty land’s structure

through her meandering course

like love, water only

appears contained

the fount of all birth

water never truly belongs

it is not only fire that undoes

water caught, chased,

choked and harmed

is self-damnation

she will explode every pore

of the parched firmness

you stand upon

water is given to release

and flow not to fall

she will become you as you immerse

in the end over your limbs fold

the falling of water from

above reminds us that

water will not be caught

let her be many,

let her fondle

and enter the earth

to rise again and again

she is here for love

for it is not fire, but water

that ignites many a hunger

and ends many a thirst

water, a testament

to life’s divine and delicious

contradictions

was here first

yet her story

remains to be told

I'll Play The Blues For You | Asmi Sundru

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

Do you see the blues?

Blue pages, blueprints.

Flipping through our lives

Trying to write it down

Or write it off

Blue erasers, blue pens.

Make some mistakes

Then delete it

Or repeat it again

Blue skies, blue seas.

Limitless like our souls

Tied to the tides

Fleeting with the wind

Blue detergents, blue dustbins.

To wash off our sins

And discard our trash

Or fill it in our sad minds

Blue nails, blue skin.

Because in cold spirits

All warmth is gone

Replaced with illnesses

I see the blues everywhere.

Uniform | Susanna Correya

The following poem by Susanna Correya from Chennai was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

do you remember the day you outgrew those black buckle shoes?

your toes were sardined inside them but you knew better

than to complain about the serious lack of wiggle room.

that grey pinafore stiffened into a sheet of lead.

its straps hung heavy on your back and bent it out of shape.

life was so dull in greyscale.

your unoiled braids began to maneuver themselves

out of the serpentine red coil of ribbon and untangle.

(in retrospect, your back was not the only thing that got bent out of shape.)

what about that garrotte of a tie?

how promptly it tightened around your throat whenever it sensed

an inflammatory mob of asterisks, hashtags and exclamation points

charging towards the exit!

(you swallowed a lethal amount of those.)

it's a good thing you can regurgitate them now

like the formulas and the facts you regurgitated

on those answer scripts that were expected to be--

what was that word they used?--

uniform.

Horror of Lights | Probal Basak

The following poem by Probal Basak from Hooghly was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

In a not so ordinary day

someone somewhere somehow

trumped up the plan

to wake the world up from

primitive darkness under its hood.

As the world woke up to lights,

too much lights around,

it craved for even more

like the colony of beetles

flies to the smoldering wood.

As our world continued its walk

into the horror of lights, the

addicted eyes lost eyesight one day,

and, the blind world laid an egg,

unlike the one the firebugs brood.