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.

Kalyani | Trijita Mukherjee

The following poem by Trijita Mukherjee won the third prize of Twenty Five Thousand Rupees in Wingword Poetry Prize 2017.

Trijita writes of a quiet town in which she can hear the sound of the sleeping sadness. The sound of an axe skinning away at a piece of wood is heard and so is the sound of a bell on a cycle. The blacksmith’s hammer at regular intervals hits the drowsy town with its sound. Trijita writes about the town's details such as Taposh-da pulling the shutter of his grocery store and his wife draining rice starch from the earthen pot. Further down Biren-da brews tea and sells biscuits for the bank officials during their lunch hours. She writes about how a young boy at a furniture store would sprinkle water on the floor to settle down the dust which quietens the evening even more.  Then there is Amal-dadu who smokes biri and invites the poet for tea but she politely declines and reaches home where the gates creak. The poet has been living alone in the house where the sound of her sadness is loud in the quiet town. The poem is about the loneliness of the poet despite knowing so many people of the town. She is observant of everybody’s activities and is friendly with everyone. Amal-dadu’s invitation for tea is a sign that the poet often spends the evening with Amal-dadu over tea. The poet has written about the loudness of her loneliness in the quiet town.

this is a quiet town.
a town so quiet that
you can hear the sound
of an axe skinning away
at a piece of wood.

the sound of a singular
bell on a hero cycle,
when the cyclist slowly trails
along an even slower road

that leads to the blacksmith's
shop at the end of the road.
the blacksmith's hammer's
clank-clank-clank,
punctuate
a drowsy town.

at 2 o'clock
on an ordinary afternoon
if you walk towards
Central Park,
taposh-da will be
pulling down the shutters
of his grocery store--
his wife
has just drained the starch
from an earthen pot
she has boiled rice in
for the last 25 years.

further down
biren-da would be brewing tea
and selling biscuits and other
such eats,
for the bank officials,
when they step out
for their hour-long
lunch break.

later on
maybe around 5 o'clock
when you are walking
back home,
the boy at kamal furniture store
will be sprinkling water
from an old pepsi bottle
on the floors
of the shop--
the afternoon dust will
then settle down,
giving
way
to a lesser quiet evening.

winding down
the lane
by the lake, which leads
up to the gates of your
home,
you see amal-dadu sitting
at his doorstep
smoking a biri. .
"kire? kamon achis?
kobe asli?”*
you smile at him
comment on the weather,
and refuse an invitation
to a cup of tea.
"nah.. aaj jai."


you will reach home
open the gates
that creak
with the sound of years
of coming and going--
solitary footsteps
and bags, lost.
you will sit in your room
switch on the fan and
hear the pages of your diary
flutter--
it is the sound of
the slumbering sadness
of a quiet town
you will know.

Trijita Mukherjee is the third prize winner of Wingword Poetry Prize 2017. She lives in Kalyani and is caught between the promises of a city and small town. She likes Simon and Garfunkel, poetry, and cooking.

Still | Debarshi Mitra

The following poem by Debarshi Mitra won the second prize of Fifty Thousand Rupees in Wingword Poetry Competition 2017.

Debarshi wishes to bring the time to standstill, at night. She wants the neighborhood to stop in time and only the street lamps would flicker at its designated corner of the street. The time could be so still that the watchman would suck time into his lungs from his unfinished cigarette. The stray dogs would be quiet and in their places while the windows remain shut and not a leaf dares to move. She wishes the time to be so still that the shadow in her bed of, assumably, her loved one wouldn’t leave. She wants the shadow to remain there and that would only be possible if the time was still.

The poem is short and direct in its delivering of the thoughts of the poet. The poet wants to remain with her lover even though it's their shadow. The lover is not there physically and maybe won’t be there in future and this is why the poet wants the time to stop and be at a standstill so that the shadow remains in her bed, never leaving her.

It seems at this time of the night,

I could bring my neighborhood to a standstill

just by wishing if it were so. Only the street lamps

flicker in nervous anticipation and precisely

at the designated corner, the night watchman

holds up his unfinished cigarette

and sucks time into his lungs. The windows

remain shut, all stray dogs occupy their respective

places in the universe. Not a leaf dares to quiver.

Even the shadow of the thought of you in my bed

refuses to leave.

Debarshi Mitra is the second prize winner of Wingword Poetry Competition 2017. He is a 22 year old poet from New Delhi, India. His debut book of poems ' Eternal Migrant' was published in May 2016 by Writers Workshop. His works have previously appeared in anthologies like Kaafiyana and literary magazines like  The Scarlet Leaf Review and Thumbprint. He is currently enrolled in an 'Integrated PhD' program in Physics.

Organ | Yashi Gupta

The following poem by Yashi Gupta won the third prize of Twenty Five Thousand Rupees in Wingword Poetry Competition 2018

This poem talks about her heart, which she says is the most ignored organ of her body. Yashi says that her heart is frozen and is beneath all the worldly things. It is beneath a guilt that is not even hers to bear. Yashi says that in the angst of doing everything right, she lost herself. But she points out that one can not lose something that was borrowed. From the fire she would light lives, from the water she would wet the grass and from the earth she would support the needy. She speculated herself wondering if she really lost herself and found that it was there the whole time, her heart. It was just beneath all the emotions of guilt, fear, anger and anxiety.

Yashi’s poem is a reminder that despite everything, our heart is there which often gives out the best advice but is ignored for most of the time.

I found it beneath the dust,
that was frozen in the timelessness of our perpetual splendour,
beneath the memories that occupy the space between those events unusual.
It was hidden, beneath the guilt that wasn’t mine to bear,
beneath the heat of my belligerent anger,
beneath my habitual curiosity of knowing the unknown,
and beneath my natural wish to know the known!


The metaphor fails me and your
presence encourages me to breathe again, 
breathe in the freshness that follows the rain,
breathe in the momentous occasion of fame.
breathe in spite of the caverns of truths untold,
breathe in spite of the abyss of the lies unsaid.

In the angst of doing everything right,
I thought I lost myself somewhere.
But you can never lose something that was never yours,
for it was all borrowed on interest.
From fire, let me light the lives,
From water, let me wet the grass,
From earth, let me support the needy,
From air, let me make you breezy.

And in all the self-speculation that I did,
I found it beneath the dust,
beneath the particles frozen in time,
beneath the memories stuck on the edges of my rhyme,
beneath the layers of pages that always remained unturned,
beneath the fine lines of frowns of sequences firm
I found it, my heart, the most ignored organ of my body.

Yashi Gupta is the third prize winner of Wingword Poetry Competition 2018. She lives in Jaipur.

How did winning the prize change your life?

Well, I'm not exactly a morning person so when I went to my morning class, checked my phone and saw the notification of a mail and read the first few lines, I turned off the phone. After hyperventilating in my mind, while trying to study Budget, I relaxed myself, turned on the phone again, read the entire mail and let a smile grace my lips. 

My life has always been about proving. Proving that my brothers aren't better than me just because of their gender. And when I share results like these with my parents and see them getting speechless and their eyes shining with pride, that's when I know I'm on the right track. And thank you, thanks a lot for giving me this excuse of proving myself again. For bringing up the levels of slowly deteriorating self-confidence. 

Burial | Jane Mary Joseph

The following poem by Jane Mary Joseph won the second prize of Fifty Thousand Rupees in Wingword Poetry Competition 2018

Jane writes about the dying tradition and cultures in her poem Burial. She uses the example of a Herbalist who has died and is being lowered into the ground. She says not only is his body being buried but it is a culture being buried. He was the last of the generation in his family to be a herbalist who cured a number of people and even diseases which were said to be irremediable by the English doctors. This herbalist did not have any formal education for the subject, he had learnt it through family legacy. It was an art for him and art comes naturally not with effort. This herbalist had a large number of clients who came from far away places to be treated by him. This person was old and his children were not interested in the art of herbs but were taken over by the white-collar jobs. Despite all the mockery, this man kept the practice alive. His clinic or his room where he worked has now become a storeroom filled with bottles of mixtures which now has a foul smell. His art died with him.

This poem is a reminder of the fact that a lot of cultural things and arts are dying because the newer generations are not interested in learning them. The art of this old man, his legacy of medicines have died because his children were into white collar jobs and not the tradition of his family. The art that was passed on from three generations is now dead. Similarly, we can see around how many of our cultures and traditions and legacies are dying.

The pallbearers lowered the casket into the ground …

With him they buried not just a Body, but a Culture itself.
He was the last of the generation in the family, a Herbalist
who had, in the prime of his life, restored to health many a person and cured them of ailments rendered irremediable by those the locals revered as
the English doctors.

He had not a formal education in the field, he deemed it pointless
as it was an Art, not a Science
and Art came naturally, not with effort.
It was what one would call a family legacy, 
traced back to four generations ago.

His clientèle came from far and wide
to palliate their ailments with concoctions,
the ingredients of which were known to him alone.
Myth had it that if a Herbalist revealed the elements of his potions,
they ceased to be fruitful.

Grandpa’s highbrow children were never convinced to uphold the Art.
The dying, feeble call of Tradition was drained by the sound
of the prevailing, forceful voice of White-collar jobs.
The contempt and mockery of the young folks failed to deter him,
he unabatedly kept alive the practice till the onset of senility.

Countless childhood tales of his grandchildren took form
in the space that once preserved bottles of magical mixtures,
but is now a storeroom of all things redundant.
His Art met its Death with his dotage, only to be recalled
when a child opens a dusty bottle in the corner,

emanating a foul smell.

Jane Mary Joseph is the second prize winner of Wingword Poetry Competition 2018.

Being a Keralite who has lived in Mizoram all her life, she had always been intrigued by the culture of the land of her forefathers. It was this desire to delve deeper and understand her roots that saw her spending all her vacations listening to stories narrated by her grandfather. Winning a prize in this prestigious poetry contest has encouraged her to further address the pertinent question of the new trampling the old. And like nothing else ever has, it has given her the impetus to continue writing, and to explore contemporary society, which she believes, is the greatest treasure I will take back from the whole process.

काग़ज़ | Digvijay Kunwar

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY DIGVIJAY KUNWAR WON THE PRIZE OF ONE LAKH RUPEES IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2018.

The poet talks about how everyone writes on the surface of the words but when a poet indulges deep into the sea of thoughts and words, it is different. The poet uses metaphors of sailing through a lake of thoughts. He says if he could pick some words and use feelings as bait in the trap, he might find a lonely shore. The dripping relations from the shore could wash the dirt of enmity from his hands. He goes on to say that if he pulls the sun down from the sky and submerges it into the sea, the moon that is drowned in the depths will also burn in the sun's flames. It might be a metaphor for the raging thoughts that burn the humble and kind feelings. After which the sun will not be raging as before. The rage would lower and the poet can then return the sun back to its hot place. Through the poem the poet wants to highlight that it is easy to write on the surface of the words but it is one thing to go into the depths and write about thoughts and emotions. The metaphors used in the poem is what makes it different and appreciable.

सतह पर तो सब लिखते हैं 
क़लम जो काग़ज़ में डूब जाए 
तो कभी ख़यालों के दरिया से गुज़रते
मैं कुछ तैरते सुर उठा के रख लूँ कश्ती में 
मैं शायद हर्फ़ के जाल पर इक काँटा फँसा के
उसपे जो टाँग दूँ एहसास का चारा 
क्या पता बीच दरिया के 
मिल जाए कोई तनहा किनारा
जब हथेली में उठाऊँ मैं उस किनारे को 
उससे रिसती कुछ बूँदे रिश्तों की 
मैं जमा कर लूँ अपनी मुट्ठी में 
और धो लूँ अपने हाथों से मैल रंजिशों की 
मैं आसमाँ से जलता सूरज उतार के
गर झोंक दूँ स्याह समंदर में 
वो चाँद जो डूबा है दूर गहराई में
वो इसकी भीगी लपटों में जल जाएगा
सूरज भी कुछ देर आलसी हो जाएगा
फिर उठा के उसे मैं उसी तनहा किनारे की सीढ़ी
चढ़ा दूँगा दोबारा आसमान पे 
लौट जाएगा फिर वो अपनी गर्म बस्ती में
सतह पर तो सब लिखते हैं 
क़लम जो काग़ज़ में डूब जाए 
तो कभी ख़यालों के दरिया से गुज़रते
मैं कुछ तैरते सुर उठा के रख लूँ कश्ती में ।।

Kunwar Digvijay is the recipient of the Wingword Poetry Prize 2018. He is a poet who has chosen Hindustani as his medium of writing. This comes from a deep rooted belief that Hindi and Urdu are not two different languages, but two faces of the same coin. His major influences have been Ghalib, Gulzar, Tagore, Frost and Shakespeare. Music, sports and binge watching TV and web series are his alternate fixations. He lives in Delhi with his parents and younger sister.

ख़ुशहाल | Shreya Deshpande

The following poem by Shreya Deshpande won Twenty Five Thousand Rupees in Wingword Poetry Competition 2019

 Deshpande has written about a village in India that is said to be happy. It has won awards for cleanliness, there are toilets in every house and every house has gas cylinders. It looks happy. There is a school, a hospital and even the girls go to school in that village. It must be a happy village. But then the poet goes on to talk about the forbidden things in the village. She is informed of an old lady who was raped, but it is hushed and said that she remains quite because she has grown old. A madman tells her to go back to her city because there is a river in this village where 'dead bodies float'. She is informed of a couple that secretly got married in the temple near the river and then 'jumped in the river'. Nobody came for their funeral as they were both men. The poet says that nobody talks of it but under the clean streets of the village are buried the bodies of people killed in the riots. The poet ends sarcastically saying that it must be a happy village which does not speak of the issues.

The poem is exceptional in its portrayal of social issues such as rape, honor killing, gay couples, communal indifference and violence. It is satirical in nature calling the village happy despite its unfortunate social evils.

स्वतंत्र भारत में कहीं पर 

एक छोटा सा गांव है 

कहते है बड़ा ख़ुशहाल सा है। 

गांव को स्वच्छता अभियान में पुरस्कार भी मिला है

गांव की सड़के हमेशा साफ़-सुथरी होती हैं

गांव में हर एक घर में शौचालय है और 

हर एक घर में गैस पर खाना बनता है

गांव में स्कूल है, अस्पताल है,

लड़के तो क्या लड़कियाँ भी स्कूल जाती है

कहतें  हैं बड़ा ख़ुशहाल सा गाँव है। 

पर सुना है, की कुछ उड़ती-छुपती ख़बरें 

गांव के अखबार में छपकर नहीं आती

गांव के एक कोने में एक दादी रहती है

सबसे बूढ़ी, सबसे प्यारी

छोटी पिंकी ने कल मुझे बताया के,

"सुना है पिछले साल दादी पर रेप हुआ था,

तबसे दादी किसीसे बात नहीं करती।"

पिंकी को घरवालोंसे बहोत डांट पड़ी

"ऐसा कुछ नहीं है मैडम जी,

बस बीमार रहती है बुढ़िया।”

कहतें है बड़ा ख़ुशहाल सा गांव है। 

 घांट के किनारे, मंदिर के पीछे एक पागल रहता है

कहते है, 

कुछ भी बड़बड़ाता रहता है

पागल मुझसे आकर कहता है,

"मैडम जी, चले जाइये अपने शहर,

यहाँ नदी में लाशें तैरतीं हैं।”

पिछले महीने एक प्रेमी युगल ने 

मंदिर में छुपकर शादी करने के बाद,

नदी में डूबकर जान दे दी थी

किसी ने अन्त्य संस्कार नहीं किया उनपर

दोनों लड़के जो थे

पर कहतें हैं बड़ा ख़ुशहाल  सा गांव है।

कोई बोलता नहीं, 

पर हर बच्चा जानता है,

की गांव की साफ़ सुथरी सडकोंके नीचे 

हिन्दू-मुस्लिम दंगल में मारे गए लोगोंको दफनाया है

वैसे तो अब सब एकसाथ रहतें है,

दिवाली-ईद साथ साथ मनातें हैं

पर कभीकबार अंतरराष्ट्रीय घटनाओंकी खबर आते ही,

गर्मी के मौसम में,

हिन्दू और मुस्लिमोंके लिए 

अलग-अलग पानी के टैंकर मंगवाएं जातें हैं

पर कहतें हैं बड़ा ख़ुशहाल सा गाँव है

सही कहते हैं।

Shreya Deshpande is the third prize winner of Wingword Poetry Competition 2019. She is an architect from Pune, in her early twenties, who loves to write. Architecture has given her the artistic perspective towards life, as well as many many sleepless nights. These two have to be some of the reasons why writing and poetry kickstarted for her. She strives to write for her inner expression and for the society as well. She has grown up reading about many oppressed lives in this society and she strongly believes that we should try and change the situation in our own ways, little by little. She has found that little way of writing. 

How did winning the Wingword Poetry Prize affect your life?

The biggest change that this has caused in my life is people have started taking her poetry seriously. By people, I mainly want to address my family members, who used to think that poetry is only a hobby for me. Winning this prize has made them realize that this is not just something I do in my spare time. They now know that this is something that is very very important to me. 

Strapped on Cash | Biju Reddy

The following poem by Biju Reddy won the second prize of Fifty Thousand Rupees in Wingword Poetry Competition 2019

In this poem, Biju has highlighted the rat race of human life. Everything adds up to nothing for him. The rent, electricity and water bills make no sense to him. The shared toilets of the tenants meanwhile the landlady snores in her sleep, Biju talks about how tight his budget is. The unending desire to earn more money leads him to often changing jobs. The chasing of big dreams of a middle class child turns out futile. The interview lists, the five year plan, the mutual funds and the unwanted college degree, everything seems useless to him. He compares the leftovers that turned into trash with his life which he thinks is being wasted. By the end of the poem he accepts the situation and makes peace with it by saying that ugly things have their beauty too. He tries to stay positive and still get through life. The poem has beautiful metaphors explaining the mundanity of life. The language is colloquial and there’s less of twisted words. It’s easy to understand that the poet is talking about his tired life and race of life to achieve his big dreams which is usually difficult for a middle class person. However the end of the poem is on a positive note that ugly things have their beauty too.

I do the math,

it all adds upto nothing.

Rent, electricity and water.

For what?

The shared toilet has its waiting list-

tenants in their pyjamas

tightly pressed bladders

while the landlady snores upstairs.

I’m strapped on cash, changing jobs

like dull channels on a television remote.

Head to toe, I rebel against

the destiny of

being born the second child

to middle class parents.

I go to interviews,

make lists and a five year plan,

save, buy a mutual fund,

everything that’s strictly legal.

I regret and

even write down my regrets.

Like my suffocating choice of college

and course.

I peel the potatoes

and envy software developers

with their fancy EMIs on home loans.

How many years spent scurrying

behind the dream?

How much futile searching

for a buried treasure?

No prophecy is required, palms sweaty

with the anticipation of future,

I give in.

Poverty shines. 

The smell of Delhi rains

mixed with fresh mold,

dripping ceiling, clogged drains,

nylon nets keeping out the mosquito

and his distant two-winged relatives.

No privacy here, a neighbour peeps

in through the doorframe.

Last night’s leftovers turns into today’s trash

steadily turns into a wasted life.

It’s okay, I say.

Such ugly things have their beauty too. 

About the poet:

Biju is an engineer by profession and poet by passion. He writes about the things he observes around him. Normal things are the subject of his writing because that is what he relates to the most. He has been published in several magazines and he is an active member of the Poetry Society. He is thankful to have won a prize for his writing and hopes to continue improving his art.

Dinner Table Conversations | Eshna Sharma

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY ESHNA SHARMA WON THE FIRST PRIZE OF ONE LAKH RUPEES IN WINGWORD POETRY COMPETITION 2019

Eshna Sharma pens down a poem which strongly talks about the silence over the mistreatment of women in the house. At the dinner table the family talks about any and everything, from work to politics but it is rare. Rather it is never that the conversation is about why her father is alcoholic, why her mother is taking more than enough painkillers, why her cousin is divorced or why her sister is in an abusive relationship. The conversations are around super-moon and the sale at the mall but it is never about the issues faced by the ladies of the house.  The poet is asked if the family should look for a boy for her now that Sharma ji’s daughter is getting married. The poet denies and opens up about her sexuality. It feels like this poem is an indication about how the situations in the family affects the mental health of a person and their perception towards relationships and love. The poem is powerful in its message. Short and precise the poem reflects on the issues of a family which is never talked about openly.

Glistening crockery

the waft of curry chicken

the radio begins to play

and we sit down for dinner

Ma passes around rotis

We make mundane conversation

"How is work?"

"Buaji called. She is visiting next week."

We smile and laugh

Ma fusses over Papa's plate

"Why do you eat so less?" she bemoans

Ma, why don't you ask him

why he drinks more alcohol then water?

Ma heaps a ladleful of fragrant rice on my plate

We talk about the weather about the coming elections

We talk about Donald Trump

And the new maid

"She puts too much oil in the food, no?"

But we don't talk about why Ma is always running out of painkillers,

though she stocks the medicine cabinet every two weeks

We don't talk about the scars on my sister's wrists,

to precise to be called an accident

We don't talk about why

My cousin divorced her husband last month

But we do talk about the Super Moon,

the 50 percent off at the local mall

And the current government's policies

For dessert we have

rice kheer

Peppered with cardamom and raisins

The subject of marriage is now broached

Sharma ji's daughter is getting married next week—

"Should we look for a boy for you too?"

This time, I smile.

"No ma, I've been in love with a girl since I was fourteen."

Eshna Sharma is the recipient of Wingword Poetry Prize 2019. She is an eighteen year old from Lucknow. Her writing traces her personal growth as she matures, crossing the threshold from teenager to adult. Girlhood is a collection of twenty ripe poems written by Eshna Sharma and illustrated by Manisha Naskar. Published by Wingword Publications, Girlhood was released in October 2020. Eshna recently started pursuing an undergraduate degree at Ashoka University, Sonepat.

An Evening to Remember: The 2022 Wingword Poetry Prize Award Ceremony

An Evening to Remember: The 2022 Wingword Poetry Prize Award Ceremony

by Sameeha Sood

Picture this- deceivingly warm rays of sun permeate through the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Stainless Gallery, New Delhi, on a midwinter afternoon, the 18th of December, 2022. The wood-finished floors gleaming, freshly polished; rows upon rows of draped chairs. In a few short moments, the first of the audience members for the Wingword Poetry Prize Award Ceremony 2022 will begin to filter in.

As the guests settled in, the host and programme director for the Wingword Poetry Prize, Saumya Choudhury, gracefully stepped onto the stage and offered a welcome note, thanking the poets for their submissions and sincerely congratulating the winners of the prestigious competition. The competition in question is an international event held annually, wherein aspiring poets and writers come forth to showcase their talent and passion for the art. The Wingword Poetry Prize aims to encourage and amplify emerging voices from diverse backgrounds through the art of poetry, and is sponsored by Delhi Poetry Slam, a leading literary organization in India. As the day progresses, the ceremony will also feature several performers, previous awardees and current winners alike, each performing a uniquely stimulating and emotional piece and displaying the effort and creativity that went into their well-deserved accomplishment. 

Following the host’s warm welcome, guest of honor Tansy Troy graciously stepped forth to congratulate the winners and offer some insight on the world of poetry. An avid writer, Troy has been telling stories and writing poems for as long as she can remember. Having graduated with a Masters in English Literature from King’s College Cambridge, she soon traveled across the globe, spreading the joy of literature and theater in schools in the UK, Palestine, Madagascar and India, especially in Zanskar and Ladakh. The esteemed guest’s varied career included a stint teaching Art at the Tibetan Children’s Village, Dharamsala, as well. In the recent past, Troy has published the Apple Press, a young people’s journal for children whom the world has passed by. The journal, first launched in October 2021, features colorful illustrations, vivid stories, and immersive poetry, and for each copy sold, one is gifted to a young person with limited access to technology and education. The guest of honor has a passion for writing and literature, and aims to increase access to the same for children across the globe. It was truly inspiring to witness her speak so deliberately about her motivation and her work. She cordially bestowed the certificates and prizes upon the winners of the 2022 edition of the Wingword Poetry Prize.

The first prize winner for the main category of the award, Nandana Dev Sen, stepped onto the stage to collect her award, posing for a photograph with the guest of honor while facing an enamored audience. The Indian-American writer, actor, screenwriter and activist currently resides in New York, and specially flew in for the Wingword Poetry Prize award ceremony. She performed her award-winning poem ‘Daybreak’, dedicated to her grandmother Radharani Deb. The nostalgic piece of art reminisces about the poet’s cherished childhood moments spent with her beloved grandmother, and the tremendously personal ode moved many an audience member. Sen’s experiences as portrayed through her poem are simultaneously unique to her and universally understood, and the audience was deeply touched by Sen’s sentimental rendition.

“how you walked into my room

with unsteady steps

on the winter nights of my finals

“To bed!” you scolded, even as

I muttered formulas I’d never follow

and dozed over tea-stained history

you denounced all-nighters

but you stayed up with me

every night”

(Daybreak by Nandana Dev Sen)

The first prize-winner also read out a number of poems from the novel ‘Acrobat’, a collection of poetry by Nandana’s mother Nabaneeta Dev Sen, originally written in Bengali and translated by the Wingword Poetry Prize-winner to English. The collection rhythmically explores the ups and downs of ordinary life, delving into themes of womanhood, intimacy, and body politics. Compassionate yet conversational, the collection is truly a wonder, and Nandana Dev Sen’s masterful translation retains the musicality and rhythm of the original Bengali. Witnessing the poet’s voice overlap that of her mother’s as she read a few pieces from ‘Acrobat’ was an intimate, irreplaceable experience for everyone present at the award ceremony. 

I am a village girl,

who grew up away

from the chiya kamaans.

I belong here,

where the famously marketed

darjeeling tea

is picked by my people.

Generations

born and dead within

tea plantations.

(darjeeling tea by bibhusha rai)

The second prize winner of the main category, Bibhusha Rai, hails from Darjeeling and holds a Master’s and Bachelor’s in English Literature from Delhi University. An ardent reader and writer, Rai holds the words of Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke close to her heart, “What matters is to live everything. Live the questions for now.” The colorfully dressed poet stepped forth to receive her merited award, however it wasn’t just her bright pink sweater that drew the attention of the earnest audience. Her impactful performance of her poem ‘Darjeeling Tea’, a captivating piece about the exploitation of workers in tea plantations in the eastern town, turned heads across the room. Considering themes of food and identity, the poem speaks on the outrageous juxtaposition of the reverence of Darjeeling tea across the world and the negligence of the true lifestyles of those that labored long and hard to provide that tea. The poet powerfully reprimands the ignorance of the larger public when it comes to the treatment of the people of Darjeeling, and her performance was a striking sight to behold.

The Wingword Poetry Prize is an international event, and the competition is not limited to just one language. The award ceremony on the 18th of December saw winners of the regional category of the competition as well, with the first prize winner for the category being Suniti Kumar Maity for his poem ‘অভিসার’ (meaning ‘convergence’). Traveling from Kolkata to collect his award, Maity spoke of his inspiration to write, which comes from divinity. The second prize winner, Sibu Kumar Das, collected his award for his poem ‘Mahanadi’, which considers the uncontrollable nature of rivers, and of how they cannot be owned. Das traveled from Orissa for the ceremony, and offered insight on the issue of state quarrels over rivers. The third prize winner for the regional category was also present at the ceremony. Spondon Ganguli, also traveling from Kolkata, received his prize with his wife and daughter. He read out two of his poems, including the prize-winning piece ‘তুমি আমার প্রভু’, translating to ‘you are my lord’. All three poets are well-deserving of their admirable accomplishment, and their passion for the art of writing was visible as they offered a few words on their poetry. 

A truly eventful afternoon, the 2022 Wingword Poetry Prize award ceremony also witnessed previous winners of the competition. A graduate from the University of Sheffield, author and educator Zarin Virji, the second place winner of the 2020 edition of the competition read her poem ‘The Killing Fields’, a provocative piece interlinking violence, caste hierarchy and the normalization of rape culture in our society. In a past interview with the Wingword Poetry Prize, Virji mentioned that she intended to capture the sensationalization and frustration, as well as the eventual disregard, that come with the unfortunately frequent cases of violence against women, in India and abroad. Current Ashoka University student Eshna Sharma was also one of the performers of the evening. First place prize-winner for the 2019 edition of the competition, Sharma performed her poem ‘Dinner Table Conversations’. The poet’s writing often traces her personal growth as she matures, and the poem in question is an immersive piece narrating a family dinner and hinting at the weight of everything the family leaves unsaid as they dine. Outlining themes of identity, alcoholism, and an impending divorce, as well as the harrowing reality of self-harm amongst teenagers, the poem is a heartrending work of art. Finally, the ceremony also featured Anurima Mukherjee, winner of the first prize of the Wingword Poetry Prize 2019’s junior category. Mukherjee’s poetry often features themes of nostalgia, existential crises, mental health, and current affairs. The aspiring poet performed her piece ‘Through Calcutta’s Streets’, reminiscing on the somewhat mundane yet beloved experience of walking through the streets of Calcutta growing up. What an inspiring evening the ceremony turned out to be, with past and present winners alike coming together and sharing their work and experiences through a common language — poetry. 

The final event of the evening was a networking session, where poets could interact with one another and gain insight on each other’s process and inspiration. Members of the audience interacted with the recipients of the awards and commendable mentions and discussed the intricacies of writing and composition. Audience members and winners alike engaged in deep discussion on themes and philosophies represented through poetry, and the event provided aspiring poets the opportunity to network with individuals further along in their journey to being published writers and poets. It was a profoundly insightful ending to an evening entirely dedicated to celebrating creativity, inspiration, hard work, and most importantly, poetry. 

Darjeeling Tea | Bibhusha Rai

The following poem by Bibhusha Rai from Darjeeling, West Bengal won the second prize in Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

Bibhusha Rai writes about her homeland that produces tea leaves. She starts the poem by mentioning the difference between the tea in Darjeeling and the tea across the country. With no spices and only with water and sugar or salt, Darjeeling Tea has the pure and authentic aroma that dominates the tea. Even though it is called Fikha Chiya,  the Darjeeling Tea is not bland. Rai mentions that she is a village girl who grew up away from the tea gardens. She belongs to the land of tea leaves which has been harvested by her people generations over generations. Women have made their ways through rough terrains to reach up the hill and collect the tea leaves. She says how hard men and women work on these fields to get tea but at the end of the day, the tea is owned by corporate people who do not belong to her land. Even though it was her people who have nurtured the land and the tea leaves, they are called outsiders by politics. She questions that if this land isn’t the home to the people who have lived here for centuries, what is home? Fiercely she blames the other people who enjoy the profits of these cultivations for the exploitation of her people. The absence of basic necessities and amenities is ridiculous. She puts in light the discrimination they face for their looks and language by people who are proud of the Indian diversity. By the end of the poem she seems furious and rebellious and points out that the next people drink the Darjeeling Tea, they remember the real nurturers and workers who have harvested the tea with all their hard work on their own land.  

Darjeeling Tea is a poem that an Indian writes with a broken heart for her people have been discriminated against because they look different. She describes the hard work and patience and time it takes to harvest the tea. But despite all the energy and love the tea workers put in, they are underpaid and overworked. The poem highlights the exploitation done by the corporate industry. She wishes that the people of her land are recognised enough and appreciated enough for their work.

Throughout our country, tea often milky, strong with spices, dark brown is drunk.

In Darjeeling, tea we often drink is boiled solely in water, little sugar or salt, allowing space for the aroma of tea leaves

to dominate. Fikha chiya

we call it, it is everything but bland.

I am a village girl, who grew up away from the chiya kamaans. I belong here, where the famously marketed Darjeeling Tea is picked by my people. Generations born and dead within tea plantations.

On hills dominated by rain, fog, hail. Women with dokos on backs, dots of colour: red, blue, yellow, white in the overwhelming green make their way through rough terrain, picking the coveted bud with two leaves. Men and women toil for tea: sweat and blood running through the hills. But the tea isn’t owned by them, belonging to corporations run by people from outside.

My hometown, known across corners of the globe because of chiya is a different picture, far from the marketed. Tea plantations closing, not growing: forsaken bushes, discarded people. This land, where my people nurtured lives and tea is our home. Politics states the other, calls my people outsiders. If where we existed for centuries isn’t home, what is home?

You who are magnified by Darjeeling marginalize who people it. You

who project our image for gains, tarnish us when we seek light. Tea gardens here are populated by the underpaid and overworked. We face absence of : rights, jobs, infrastructure, education, water. Ridiculous, isn’t it? The green hills encompass drought.

You boast of diversity, but inclusivity doesn’t include us. My people are of various tribes, many tongues, different faiths, multiple dishes, intricate traditions, diverse individuals. You say Chinkies look the same. My people’s eyes are small and big, mono or double-lidded. Light brown as fikha chiya, dark brown like chai, black as coffee. Of varied features and multiple hues.

My ancestors who worshipped nature, lived among the elements. My people who lived through backbreaking labour, political and civil unrest. Have not come this far to tolerate your disrespect. You label the men weak, the women cheap, steal children’s dreams, tag us savages. We are the other you build yourself on, burying us. In exoticism you revere us. In realism

you remove us. Postcolonialism yet you divide and rule. Mountains signifying permanence is our home, yet you relegate us to oblivion.

When a cup of Darjeeling tea relieves your thirst, I hope you remember us. Indian Gorkhas scattered across the globe, people who created the cup of tea you hold in your hands. Amber liquid, encapsulating

the taste and scent of our home.

Notes:

Fikha chiya: Black tea

Chiya kamaans: Tea gardens/plantations/estates

Dokos: Bamboo baskets

About the poet

Bibhusha Rai hails from Darjeeling, she holds a BA and MA in English Literature from Delhi University. Having worked on a research project with the Confluence Collective on Darjeeling’s tea gardens for the past year, she gained a renewed understanding of tea’s significance in regard to the Darjeeling Gorkha identity. Most of her work speaks on the intersection of food and identity, like the poem “Momos for Dinner” on the Alipore website. 

Barren | Navjyot Kaur

The following poem by Navjyot Kaur won the third prize of Fifteen Thousand Rupees in Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

There is a barren land

Void of nerve, nurture and virtue

Dry to its core

Hollowed by its crime of apathy

Vacant of blood, liberty and fire

Its guardian

The parasites of power

Force-feed pandemic narratives of truth

And tall tales of terror

Driving dependance, fear and submission

Into desperate minds and paralysed mouths

“Hush now little ones, you are protected”

From their custom cloak of authority

They camouflage and veil

Spineless they rise and claw

Feeding upon the censored dreams of the masses

The eyes of monstrous greed devour

These anti-Gods feast upon dried spirits and dread

Spreading clinical dialogue, generic sermons

The perfect power pill for obedience and control

“Made with Universal Love” for the sterile and subdued

And “The Solution” for a problem that never was

The land of the spiritless lies unawakened

Their callings abandoned by the monotony of their doing

And dying and doing and dying and doing

They crucify and tear the flesh of their depressed and withered pain

For they no longer bleed

Self-destruction their only approved pleasure

An emblem of endorsement and pride

“ Hail the half life !

For it sings of wealth, fortune and bondage

To the rhythm of currency, capital and crime

Hail the half life ”

Upon the torn landscape breath is denied

Only collective sighs form the hymn of the hostage

Sung by limp souls

“ Hush now little ones

Keep craving

Keep needing

Keep fearing

Keep hating

Keep needing

Keep needing

Keep needing

Don’t you cry, trust in me,

For the era of denial will father your misery

Will engineer the magical formula

Of instant pleasure, instant dreams, instant truth ”

The dutiful dose of demise, fear and malice

Death on the dotted line

Engineered by The Authority of Greed

Administered by The Protector

Do not ask why

Do not ask why

Do not ask

Do not.

About the poet

Navjyot is a poet of Indian origin, born in the UK and living in rural France. She writes poetry that digs deep within the individual to shine a light upon and reveal one's inner landscape, bringing the sub-conscious into the conscious mind. Her spiritual path is her guiding compass to bring transformation of the Self and deep-seated change into the world. This is is profoundly felt within her poetry.

Her poetry has been published in Kindred Spirit Magazine, ROAR Feminine Rising Magazine and Braided Way as well as stage performances across Europe including the Brighton Fringe Festival, England's largest arts festival, the Antic Teatre in Barcelona and others. With an active spirituality at its heart, her words and imagery question, prompt and most certainly empower and will never leave you indifferent.

Daybreak | Nandana Sen

The following poem by Nandana Sen won the first prize in Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

Nandana writes Daybreak dedicated to her beloved grandmother. She pens down some significant details of her memories of the relationship she has with her grandmother. She recalls how her grandmother would laugh like a girl as Nandana and perhaps her siblings or cousins would listen to the foghorn blows and the way she dealt with the numerous rounds of playing cards until the day broke. She writes how grandma would mercilessly pull her out of bed on Mahalaya dawn and she would sleepily listen to prayers. Even though she would be half asleep, she remembers that her grandmother knew each verse by heart. Nandana has memories of her grandmother disapproving of all-nighters before exams and how she would scold her to go to bed. She writes about all the memories she had with her grandmother and how she thinks of all the times she missed the early mornings with her because she would go to bed before her grandmother began her day.  

Daybreak is a poem filled with emotions Nandana has for her grandmother. It states quite beautifully the difference of schedules between her and her grandmother. The poem gives out a feeling to the reader that she felt safe around her grandmother as she was there to look after her. It was her grandmother who presented her with religion by pulling her out of bed on Mahalaya dawn. This poem reminds us of our grandmothers who have showered us with so much love. As a child, we learn a lot about life from our grandparents.  They impart us with great lessons and manners of life. The poem also highlights how there comes a gap between us and our grandparents. While the poet went to her bed, her grandmother was just starting her day.

(For my grandmother, Radharani Debi)

Whenever I think of you

I think of all the early mornings

how you laughed like a girl

as we listened

for the cannon to fire

and the foghorns to blow

on New Year’s eve

eyes sparkling,

you dealt us round after round

as hearts and diamonds

slipped through our fingers all night —

kings and queens, knaves and clowns

waiting impatiently

for the first day to break

how you pulled us out of bed

with no mercy

on Mahalaya dawn —

we huddled near the radio

half asleep, scalded by tea,

until airwaves all around us

exploded into heady prayer

like a rush of steam

rising up from every home on our street

you knew each verse by heart

and every year Ma cried

when the goddess was born

how you loved to march with us

like a drillmaster

on your morning walk,

grumbling, we dragged our groggy feet

to the dry fountain where,

years ago,

you had arranged Ma’s girlhood parties —

you paused near the shiuli, trying to bend,

and in a flash

we were groping wet earth, grabbing

orange-tipped fragrance in the fog,

greedy, and impossibly awake

how you walked into my room

with unsteady steps

on the winter nights of my finals

“To bed!” you scolded, even as

I muttered formulas I’d never follow

and dozed over tea-stained history

you denounced all-nighters

but you stayed up with me

every night

until we heard the prayers from the mosque

echo in our hearts

through coal smoke

how you clutched your magnifying glass

as I tiptoed past you, asleep in your chair,

during my summer break —

you never stopped reading the fine print,

while I

couldn’t even see how that big sky

was magnifying pink shapes

everywhere in bold,

as I stumbled into bed

unsteadier than you

just before

you would start your day

whenever I think of you

I think of all the early mornings

I missed

About the poet

A writer, child-rights activist, and an award-winning actor, Nandana Dev Sen is the author of six children’s books, translated into more than 15 languages globally, and two collections of her translations of the poetry of her mother, Nabaneeta Dev Sen. She grew up in India, England and America, and has starred in 20 feature films from four continents (and in multiple languages). Nandana’s first book Kangaroo Kisses was selected by 320 UK nurseries as a “Book of Excellence,” and her interactive workshops have been loved, in person, by more than 30,000 young people across the world.

After graduating Phi Beta Kappa from Harvard University (where she won the Detur Book Prize as well as the John Harvard Scholarship and Elizabeth Agassiz Prize each year) and studying filmmaking at the USC School of Cinema-Television, Nandana worked as a book editor, a screenwriter, a translator, an advocate for child protection, and as Princess Jasmine in Disneyland. The winner of several Best Actress awards, the Wingword Poetry Prize, as well as the Last-Girl Champion Award for lifetime achievement in child protection, Nandana has served on numerous child-rights commissions and juries of global film festivals and international literary prizes (including the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature). As an advocate and ambassador, she has represented such prominent organizations as UNICEF, Operation Smile, RAHI, Apne Aap International, and the National Commission for Protection of Child Rights, to fight against child abuse and to end human trafficking.

Nandana is the Child Protection Ambassador for Save the Children India, a global Author Advocate for Girls' Education for Room to Read, and a Director of the Women’s Refugee Commission, New York, where she serves on the Program and Advocacy Committee.  

Nandana can be reached on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter (all three at Nandana Dev Sen), as well as LinkedIn. For news and updates, please swing by www.nandanadevsen.com.

অভিসার | Suniti Kumar Maiti

The following poem by Suniti Kumar Maiti won the first prize in Regional Category of Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

বুকের মধ্যে ফুটছিল ফুল সহস্রদল

সকাল থেকেই।

আকাশ জুড়ে দেখছি তাহার চোখের কাজল

সকাল থেকেই।

বাতাসে তার অঙ্গ-সুবাস

সকাল থেকেই।

তাহার তরে মন উচাটন

সকাল থেকেই।

মন টেকে না ঘরেতে আর

বিকেল বেলায়।

চরণ যুগল নামলো পথে

বিকেল বেলায়।

দূরের থেকে ঐ দেখি,সে দাঁড়িয়ে মাঠে

বিকেল বেলায়।

আমরা দুজন

মুখোমুখি দাঁড়িয়ে আছি,

ডুবু ডুবু সূর্য তখন।

বুকের রক্তে উঠলো প্লাবন,

ডুবু ডুবু সূর্য তখন।

হঠাৎ হাওয়া বইলো

তাহার এলো চুলে।

উদাস সুরে

প্রেয়সী মোর বললো কানে,

"এত বছর কোথায় ছিলেন?"

ডুবু ডুবু সূর্য তখন।

চারিদিকে নামছে আঁধার ধীরে ধীরে,

সূর্য গেছে অস্তাচলে।

উদাস মনে হৃদয়খানা

বিছিয়ে দিলাম অশথ তলে,

সূর্য গেছে অস্তাচলে।

আমার প্রিয়া একা অশথ

দাঁড়িয়ে আছে একাই মাঠে,

সূর্য গেছে অস্তাচলে।

বিশ্ব যখন ঘুমের ঘোরে অচৈতন‍্য

আমার বুকে সহস্রদল রক্তে ভেজা

মধ‍্যরাতে।

দাঁড়িয়ে আছি মাঠের মধ্যে অশথ তলে

মধ্য রাতে।

আকাশ তখন কাঁদছে অঝোর

মধ‍্যরাতে।

About the poet

Born to father Rakhal Chandra Maiti ,a dedicated freedom fighter who was a student of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose and Dr. Rajendra Prasad ,the first President of free India .Captivated in British jail for three times. His ancestral residential building was set on fire by British police. In recognition he got a copper plate and freedom fighter's pension in 1972 ,the silver jubilee year of India's freedom .

Mother Binapani Maiti also actively participated in the freedom movement in Calcutta as a school girl in the great freedom fighter Chittaranjan Das's sister Urmila Devi's historic School "Nari Shiksha Mandir" under the financial support of the great   Gandhian Industrialist and freedom fighter Jamnalal Bajaj and ages of Basanti Devi, wife of Chittaranjan Das. 

Birth :

Born in 1949, 25th April at village Tajpur on Midnapore-- contai State highway. Went to village primary school. For middle school he went to a hostel in a famous Basic School for three years, class 5 ,6,7 in 1960 to 1962. Joined in Contai town, Contai Kshetra Mohan Vidya Bhavan .Passed Higher Secondary ,class 11 in 1967. 

Joined Kala Bhavan, Shantiniketan, Visva Bharati University founded by Rabindranath Tagore ,in 1968. Studied there for 5 years. Completed B.Fine 

( Bachelor of Fine Arts) in 1973 .Got great sculptor Ramkinkar Baij, Vinod Bihari Mukhopadhyay, Srimati Gauri Bhanja,daughter of Shilpacharya Nandalal Bose, as teachers .Had affectionate relations with Somnath Hore, Dinkar Kaushik, Nanigopal Ghosh,Sukhamoy Mitra etc .Joined part time Rabindra Sangeet course in Sangeet Bhavan under teacher Nimai Chand Baral. Learned Esraj from Nirmal Chandra Nandini of Bishnupur gharana,Learned Rabindra Sangeet from Biren Palit, Shanti Dev Ghosh ,Nilima Sen ,Manju Bandopadhyay. Fine arts, music, dance ,cultural environment and the unique nature of Santiniketan overflooded his being .

Service life:

 Joined Anjuman- I- Islam Panchgani High School. (presently Public School) a residential school at Panchgani,a beautiful hill station in the Western Ghat, Maharashtra in 1973 .In a short span of service life over here he was so much overwhelmed with the ever changing colours of the hills from don to dusk and his first batch of loving students, some of them were from UAE,  Iran,South Africa, Mauritius, Afghanistan, Pakistan etc that he wrote a touchy memoir of hisWestern Ghat days," I Western Ghat, and a God-child in Bengali as "আমি,পশ্চিম ঘাট ও একটি দেব শিশু'. Next year in 1974 he joined Grasim Vidya Mandir (a Gwalior Rayon and Silk Manufacture company school) at Nagda, Madhya Pradesh.Another dream sequence of his service life on the Chambal river in the beautiful Chambal Valley and the beautiful Malwa plateau with brooks and lakes( talaos) and vast terrain and basins of black soil and corn and cotton fields.He got so much love and respect here that forty four years after he left Nagda numerous students and parents from all over the world are connected with him still today.Left Nagda in 1978.

 The latest and longest chapter of service life:

 Joined Sainik School Purulia, West Bengal in 1978 and lived there till retirement in 2009. For thirty one years he lived with students of ten  years to eighteen years of age. Sometimes a devastatingly sick child lived with him in his bed.Thus his students became part of his life and converted him into anything they wished. They converted the Art teacher into a science teacher and  Indranil Biswas (presently Colonel I. Biswas) under his guidance got the coveted Science Seminar award consecutively in 1980 and 81. Gagan Bhardwaj (presently Additional District Magistrate, District- Chhapra, Bihar) with his Hindi write ups and under his guidance won first prize consecutively three years in All India Sainik Schools Hindi essay competition.

In the boundless open nature, flora and fauna and endless crystal clear night sky overhead in Sainik School he became an amateur astronomer, ornithologist, entomologist, poet,writing poetry in Bengali Hindi and English, lyricist and music composer.He is the lyricist and composer of the school song in English "Oh our Sainik School, Purulia Sainik School".

 Family life:

 Lived day in and day out for seventeen years with students as  bachelor  before he married in 1990 at 41 years of age. 

He has a small family of three members.Wife Kumkum Maiti is B.Sc.B.H.M.S, a homeopathy doctor and an ardent lover and great appreciator and first reader and critic of all his writings, may it be a poetry or a prose. In her school days she was the editor of the school magazine.

Son Sthitadhi is a Jagadish Bose National Science Talent Search scholar and an IITian, is pursuing Ph.D in chemistry in Arizona State University USA. Also a good singer , a member and the only Indian singer of the   university choir.

 Achievements as a writer :

First published poetry at the age of 11 years. Got first prize in an open to all classes essay competition on Rabindra Nath Tagore's 'Dakghar' in class Nine. His Bengali write ups got various prizes at different levels of essay competitions. His Bengali poems had been published in many little magazines.

Poet cherishes one  with awe. The little magazine "পতঞ্জলি"published one of his Bengali poems along with a poem of the great Bengali poet Jay Goswami.One of his English poems "The Twilight tryst" had been published in America in an online journal "Indian Periodical" in its 13th June 2021 number. It's a unique coincidence that the very poem was also written on the same subject, the same solitary peepal tree.

The Poet says he does not write poems .Poems themselves come to him. He only gracefully welcomes and captures them in his diary. Poems are like divine guests to him and writing poems are like divine induction and inspiration coming down from heaven on to him.

ମହାନଦୀକୁ ବିଚିତ୍ର ସମୟର ଡ଼ାକ | Sibu Kumar Das

The following poem by Sibu Kumar Das won the second prize in Regional Category of Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

ଏ ସମୟ ବଡ ବିଚିତ୍ର,

ପ୍ରଶ୍ନ କରେ;

କାହାର ଏ ଜଙ୍ଗଲ,ନଦୀ ଓ ପର୍ବତ ?

ଅପାରଗ ମଣିଷ ଭିଇଲାଣି ସର୍ତ୍ତ ।

ସେ କହେ ମୋ’ର,

ମୁଁ କହେ ମୋ’ର,

ନଦୀ ମୋ’ର, ନଦୀ ମୋ’ର;

ପ୍ରକୃତିର ଦାନ,

କେ କରିବ ଆନ

ହୁଅନ୍ତୁ ସେ ପ୍ରବୀଣ ବା ନବୀନ ?

ଅକାତରେ ଯଦି ବହି ନପାରିଲୁ,

ଯେହୁଁ ଜଳ ହିଁ ଜୀବନ ଖର;

ତହୁଁ ମହାନଦୀ ନୁହ,

ତୁ ଏକ ସାଧାରଣ ଶୁଷ୍କ ଧାର ।

ମହୋଦଧି ମୋ’ର ମହାନଦୀ !

ସମୟର ଡ଼ାକ,

ମୋ’ ମନ୍ତ୍ର କୁହୁକ

କଳକଳ ତୁ, ଦୁଃଖତାପ ହରି ବହିଯା;

ମହୋଦଧି ମୋ’ର ମହାନଦୀ !

ଗଡଜାତ ପାଣି,

ଜୀବନକୁ ଠାଣି

ଦିଲଦାରିଆ ତୁ, ଦରିଆ କୁ ବେଗ ବହିଯା ।

About the poet

Sibu Kumar Das (b 1956) is a 1978 Post-Graduate in English Literature from Utkal University. After a brief stint as a lecturer in colleges in Odisha, he joined a Public-sector bank as a Probationary Officer. He retired from his service in bank in 2016 and has been spending his time in reading and writing. He reads and writes in English, Odia, Bengali and Hindi. He has been occasionally published in magazines and newspapers. Literature has been his life-long passion, starting from his days in school.

তুমি আমার প্রভু | Spondon Ganguli

The following poem by Spondon Ganguli won the third prize in Regional Category of Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

তোমার বিচরণ ত্রিভুবনে।

আকাশ গঙ্গা তোমার পথ।

আমি স্তব্ধ তোমার ব্যাপ্তি দেখে।

আমি অবাক তোমার করুণায়।।

তোমার আদেশে আমার স্থানান্তরণ লোক হতে লোকে।

কালে কালে তুমি দেখিয়েছ পথ, তবু পথভ্রষ্ট আমি!

আমার এই ছোট্ট হৃদয় করেছি উপলদ্ধি তোমায়।

সেই জ্ঞানে আমার হৃদয় যাচ্ছে পুড়ে।।

আমার আমি যাচ্ছে মিলায়ে যেমন গলে সোনা আগুনে।

আজ আমি শুদ্ধ সেই আগুনে পুড়ে।

আজ আমি পবিত্র তোমার বারি ধারায়।

আমি তৈরি জবাব দিতে, সব অপরাধের জন্য।।

About the poet

Spondon Ganguli presently working as an educator in M. C. Kejriwal Vidyapeeth, a renowned and reputed English medium school in Howrah and Kolkata under CISCE affiliation. He started his career as an educator in ICT in 2000 and worked in various schools, both ICSE and CBSE, across the country.
He is a lifelong learner with a zest for experimenting and learning new things. Apart from teaching computer science and programming, he is an author and started his journey of authorship in the year 2019. Some of his work were published in online magazines – The Thinking Pen, Hatpakha, and Channdam. Apart from this, his work are also a part of anthologies across the globe – Letters Here to hereafter, The Great Indian Anthology (Volume 3), Memories of Food (A collective anthology 2021), Indian Poetry Review (Classical) Award 2021. He is the author of three books to date. First poetry book titled ‘Forgotten Love Unforgotten Love,’ as his first solo work in literature, and the other two fictions—Let Me Hold Your Hand (English) Phira Asha (in Bengali). He won the third prize in the prestigious Wingword Competition 2022 in the regional category for his poem and traveled to Delhi to accept the award.

Interview with Gopi Kottoor

Gopi Kottoor is the third prize winner of Wingword Poetry Prize 2020. He is a poet living in Trivandrum, Kerala. We interviewed him to find out about his writing journey.

Interviewer: What is the inspiration behind your poetry?

Gopi: My childhood was spent in Kerala, where nature is abundant. The real life experiences of my day to day life such as climbing the lemon tree in my backyard or exploring an old haunted house filled with termites prompted me to pick up the pen.

Later my father printed my first book of poems in order to encourage me. I was also introduced to a professional writer who helped me develop my craft with strong criticism. He would strike out 18/20 lines. This helped me understand what works in a poem and what doesn’t.

I soon realized that a poem is never finished; it is only abandoned. An idea which appears in childhood may come back even 15 years later.

Interviewer: How did you come about to write ‘Father’s Shirt’- the winning poem for Wingword Poetry Prize?

Gopi: While my father was in coma, I revisited my child memories surrounding my father as it was a really emotional time. The poem comprises images around his belly and the wire with his hanging shirt.

Interviewer: What advice would you like to offer budding writers?

Gopi: Reading and observation is essential for any poet. When you read poetry, you will learn how to explore your own voice. Poet is the director of his voice. So you must read, write, explore and experience.

Also, you need to know when to cut and revise a poem. Four out of five poems one writes need not be published.

Poetry is a private journey which will become public later. Keeping that in mind, one must think about what will be the effect of the work on the reader? Will it stir shock or surprise? This should be the aim. After all, writing is about making the ordinary extraordinary.

About the Poet

Gopikrishnan Kottoor has won  major prizes for poetry such as the All India Poetry Prize (Poetry Society, India) and the All India Special Jury Prize (Poetry Society, India, and The British Council).  He has also won several other prizes and nominations for his poetry . His poems have appeared in magazines of repute both in India and abroad such as The Illustrated Weekly of India, Opinion , Debonair, Kavya Bharati, Chandrabhaga, Economic and Political Times, The Hindu, Thought, Quest,  Indian Literature, Nth position, UK, Orbis, UK, Mud Season review, USA, North west quarterly USA, Toronto Review, Arabesques, Plaza Japan, Chiaroscuro UK, and others.

His poetry has been translated and published in German , Hindi , Sinhalese, and the Chinese.

His poetry has featured in anthologies such as Verse Seattle,

Bloodaxe book of Contemporary  Indian poetry in English,The Golden Jubilee Anthology of Indian Poetry in English, Shakespeare Sonnets, Lie of the Land, Sahitya Akademi, and others.

Gopikrishnan Kottoor   was India Guest at the University of Vienna , Austria, and an ICCR  nominee for the Foreign Poets Seminar in  Tagore Centre, Berlin,Germany.  

His major poetry titles include the highly regarded poem sequence,    Father, Wake us in Passing  (Translated into German, and published in Germany), Mother Sonata, A Buchenwald Diary,Victoria Terminus, Tell Me, Neruda, The Painter of Evenings, Descent  Vrindavan  The coloured Yolk of love http://gopikottoor.blogspot.com (Radha-krishna poems), Father Benedict Goes to Heaven, My Blue Alzheimier's Sky, Reflections in Silhouette, Tell me Neruda, and ‘My dear Tsunami and other Poems, among others.

His novels are ‘A Bridge Over Karma, Chilanka, the Anklet ,Hill House, Wander(A child's fantasy)and Presumed Guilty, on the life and loves of the fashion designer Anand John.

His dramatic works include ‘ The Mask of Death' ( The final Days of the poet  John Keats), Fire in the Soul  (The life of the Nationalist poet Subramania Bharati), A woman in Flames, and The Nectar of the Gods,( The life and execution of the Beatified Devasahayam, a soldier in the army of King Marthanda Varma, Tiruvitamkur. Gopi Kottoor made his debut in Malayalam with ‘Jesus Pearl' Yesumuthu, a re-working of his ‘Nectar of the Gods’  based on the life of the beatified Devasahsyam, to much critical acclaim.

He has translated Kukoka's Rati Rahasya and Poontanam.

Gopikrishnan Kottoor has been a poetry reviewer for The Hindu Lit Supplement. His poetry reviews and articles have been featured in Malayalam Manorama Online (Guest writer), Deccan Herald ,  Deccan Chronicle, The Hindu, New English Quarterly, UK, I mantra, Kavya Bharati  and The Economic and Political weekly.

Gopikrishnan Kottoor founded Poetry Chain which, with Dr. Paniker as a mentoring spirit was one of the earliest poetry association for English poetry from Trivandrum  Kerala . Its journal with a pan Indian spectrum had an uninterrupted run for  twenty years . It first published and brought to light many of the poets now in mainstream Indian English Poetry. It worked in association with Poetry Society, India,and on its own to discover new talent with The Poetry Chain-Poetry Society(India) awards, Father  Wake us in passing Poetry Prize, The Agha Shahid Ali Poetry Prize,  The  Young Talent School Poetry Awards and the Harish Govind Memorial Poetry Prize.

Gopi Kottoor has edited two books of Indian Poetry in English ,‘A New Book of Indian Poems in English’ and ‘ Living Poetry ‘ Seven Contemporary  English Poets from Kerala.

He presently edits a newly launched poetry e-zine, www.chipmunk.co.in. Poetry submissions may be sent to chipmunkitnow21@gmail.com

Gopi Kottoor lives in Trivandrum, Kerala .He can be contacted at gopikottoor@gmail.com .Mobile 91 9567424832.