Cross the Door | Aditi Singh

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

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

Open those gates,
Closed, rusted, pushed aside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ordinary Love | Sayantani Chakravarty

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

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

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

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

She says she is nothing extraordinary,
I believe her.

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

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

But, there is nothing ordinary about love.

Less of Me | Siya Sawhney

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

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

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

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

Broken and Scattered | Jyotsna Misra

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Did Our Childhood End? | Dania Ahmed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, the Butterflies Are Still Now | Aishwarya Jayasankar

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

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

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

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

Alchemy | Azra Bhagat

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

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

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

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

Witless Warfare | Preetha Panicker

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

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

Tell me why another war?

Irene, wake up!

It's time!

When Sweet Turns into Poison | Devi Vaidehi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Cyborg's Reminiscence | Trevor Pinto

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

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

Adulting | Akshita Sharma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a hushed corner, where wild flowers bloom,

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

I shall soon visit this calm, quiet space,

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

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

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

But this time, it will be a special one,

For someone comes alongside your dear son.

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

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

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

For joy, she brings along, my lady fair.

I will return home happy, not alone,

But with companion by my side, my own.

Mama, oh how I bet you will like it,

This visit that will bring joy, bit by bit.

Oh, with a heavy heart I come again,

Depressed and lonely, sad and filled with pain.

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

As I sit here alone, beneath the skies.

But my fair lady promised, hand in hand,

To visit your tomb, on this sacred land.

Yet, fate played her accomplished cruel part,

Left me with nothing but a wounded heart.

The cool breeze whispers your sweet lullabies,

As teardrops glisten in my weary eyes.

Cicadas’ summer songs and sunrays gleam,

Reflect the tender love you once did beam.

Oh, how the ache within me starts to grow,

For my love could not come, the sorrows flow.

My broken heart is pained, in great regret,

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

The weary sun descends and calls me home,

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

Around here, for it no more holds the grace

Of my mama; no better than this place.

Yet, farewell I bid, with a heavy heart,

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

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

Of this mournful visit, where sadness stays.

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.