3 am | Tia Shrivastava

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

i think nobody needs to know how pretty i look at 3 am in the morning.

you know it is the time when my eyes light up. when the aching urgency to let it all out no longer consumes me but instead fuels my raging fire into a conflagration that devours everything it sees. sounds kind of extreme. that is me.

i don't think in parts and pieces of yesteryear and the land of tomorrows. everything i do is art. it is music and poetry screeching through the walls they built. flowing through my veins but there is no surging blood. all you can see is golden honey. loud and sweet. cacophonous and melodious and broken and brave and honey. of a golden soul.

i burn and burn and rage and scream and then silent. my ashes lie around me. the quietude is multitudes screaming out at me. calling out my name like it is the only sound that will ever matter.

and you know i am dramatic.

have you not already realized my bones are rustic from the magic of another era. do you not see that you would be insane to let me go. let me fall. madness and chaos and beauty and power live inside me. make up my core. kindness and calm and agony and melancholy reside in this body too. make up me.

so then why do you question me. how can you be so foolish.

how dare you.

do you not know i have descended from the heavens and ascended from hell. i have cried with the angels when god rained down his blows. i have worshipped the devil when he tore apart their souls. do you not witness the pulchritude that i am. i am not yours. i simply do not belong. i cannot be caged. i cannot be tamed. i am a wild thing. the wildest most gentle thing you will ever find. but you can never discover me. never hold me. i slip away like the grains of sand.

you know i think i am immortal. a pity.

i am agonizing and terrifying and satisfying and slowly dying. yet every single day i live a little bolder. hug me. tell me it will be okay even when it will not be. let me set you free. let me be your sky. the stars you hold on to. show me the scars you are afraid to uncover. i will tear apart everything that tells me i have to act a certain way. love a certain way. i am me. change is my constant. compassion is what i understand. sometimes i confuse it with being a reservoir that gives and gives and gives until it runs out. dries up like a dirty well.

you know i am one of those gemstones. they break me and my light scatters. scaffolds the earth a little more. it is a tragic joke that life likes to play with them. because they all know that i may be broken but i can never fully break. everything feels like a game. but i am okay. i wake up every day and breathe. i open my eyes to colors. i can feel. extremes.

nobody will know my mind like this. a hollow carcass turned inside out. spilling dreams and fantasies and thoughts and hopes. they are not all shattered. some of them glow. my thoughts will never end. these words can never cease. what is this inside me.

years of history etched into my skin. engraved secretly.

a dirty little secret. my most beautiful truth. nobody will ever see.

nobody needs to know how pretty i look at 3 am in the morning.

A desperate cry | Vijay Sai Radhakrishnan

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

God's creation

Blessed to be born in this world

We all may feel that's the truth

Until I read this-

An abandoned baby

Malnourished, hardly an year old

Famine struck

Skin and bone

No food to feed

No water to have

Stranded alone in barren land

Helpless eyes staring straight

Standing legs more like a bamboo stick

Cerebral neurons popping out

Veins struggling to carry weak blood

Oh God! Nothing more I can add…

My heart is not strong enough

To read the rest-

A vampire vulture

Sitting beside and

Looking eager to end its hunger!

I pray! Save these innocents!

Let this never happen again!

Sing me a song | Snigdha Saxena

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

Sing me a song

That's sweet and warm,

The kind that blue robins hum at dawn

Sing me a song

that takes me home,

To the lullaby that caressed my soul

Sing me a song

that sets me free,

from earthly woes and petty beliefs

Sing me a song

that resonates with hope

Reincarnating that withered white rose.

Sing me a song

That burns in a hearth

Devouring our dreariest, darkest thoughts.

Sing me a song

When the fireflies dance

putting the night sky in a dazzling trance.

Sing me a song

the day I learn to fly,

or make a last wish before I die.

A song is all I need,

With the twelve notes of music,

my world I weave.

Walk me home | Nayisha Chadha

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

I wish we were a little bit further from the bus stop

My steps get slower, shorter

Every time I see a nice bench

I want to go and sit down

It's so exciting, you're laughing and talking

And I

I just walk the path , looking at you

We've arrived, goodbye, get home safe I'll watch you go inside, so I quickly go in

The moment I turn around, I already miss you

One evening in which I especially didn't want to say goodbye

I called you first and we stood there

I don't have anything to say

Just want to watch

The fluttering shadows of us,

Disappearing in the dark…together.

One shoe fits all?- Falguni Supekar

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

When I buy a shoe, I am baffled to make a choice,

I left home with a design in mind that I might rejoice

and the one which not only helps me fit in comfortably,

but also not make me look impaired fashionably

The kind shopkeeper brings before me a string of designs,

My dear ones point out at one shoe, shining bright in the lines

On everyone's ardent request, I put on the shoe,

'Perfect' my dear ones exclaimed, but to me something didn't feel right, I knew

As I did the much anticipated walk in the much loved footwear,

I didn't feel comforted, and my feet felt more than ever bare.

A pair of shoes in the corner of the shop caught my eye,

I put those on, and I never knew I could fly

I could tie the laces of my dreams into a knot,

To walk miles and no intention to stop.

Now I wonder, how stepping into someone's shoes is not easy as it sounds,

One has to be ready to walk their experiences and wounds

Choose your own shoe to realize the destiny for which you are worthy

And let the sole wither as milestones of your journey.

my country is one of wealth and progress | Aanya Sharma

THE FOLLOWING POEM HAS BEEN SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

cars roll to a collective stop

at a traffic light turning red

engines sputter in the stale delhi heat;

the sun blares down on a tangerine head

a sign of malnutrition they say

and yet she performs her

routine contortionist tricks

family standing by, collecting their weekly wage

young ladies shave their beards

and weave through lanes of rolls royce and bmw

asking for sips of water in dented silver pails

jingling with change

from otherwise much more benevolent strangers

strangers who keep their eyes locked straight ahead

strangers whose pockets grow heavier as each second ticks by

strangers who, if, by chance, feel a twinge of guilt

look the young girl in her eyes, and see nothing strange at all

think to reach into their pockets

too little too late:

the light’s already turned green.

Amma's Story | Sampoorna Gonella

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

Amma decided to write a book.

Amma, of clipped word,

tangent to whimsy, seemingly

had tales stashed under her soft tongue.

Of course we laughed about it

over her hot rotis

how she'd crawled into a cavern

of a mid-life crisis

and was basking in footage of lost glory.

Poor thing, she was silent through all our barbs,

having spent years dusting them off like crumbs

at the dinner table.

When we croaked for coffee the next morning, her lips never betrayed a grimace.

Her manuscript arrived just like her little attempts

at internet lingo-an amusing surprise.

"For my husband and two dear daughters,"

the foreword read. "I wasn't sure I could ever be

good enough again, until I walked down memory lane."

And so, we spent evenings poring over passages,

written in a language I never knew she spoke--

tart, like her apple chutney on summer evenings.

In 1984, she had asked the politician who had visited

her campus, "Did you pay your taxes this year?"

Funny how marriage had turned her

into a shape shifter, synthesizing her

into a catalyst for our lives until

she watched us skate past her,

filling the home albums with our stories.

Lucky for us, Amma had an eidetic memory.

Himalayan Delight | Aarathi Bellary

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

Sometimes you wonder at the audacity

Setting out our tiny feet to grasp a majesty?

Looks endearing and welcoming once

Tall distant cold mysterious bygone once

Testing every bit of our human tenacity

Biting cold, cracking knees, sore muscles

Missing the warmth of loved ones, comfort of home

Amongst the strange bedfellows

You take on a Himalayan journey

Every ascent your heart comes alive

You are nearer to the peak yet so far

It's a gentle reminder on our final journey

Isn't it???

Himalayas where time stands still

Or stillness of mountains takes us over

Wild flowers bloom endless meadows flourish

Sun rises and sets like a giant clock work

Thunders and showers play and dance as per their will

There is clock, will, chaos, bloom, thrive and flourish all at once!

We tremble, our tiny feet and hands freeze

We belong we own we soak we breathe

We feel every bit of Himalayan Joy

Even if it's for few days

You share a space and time of million years of legacy

We take with us a lifetime of lessons

A flock may be a few hundreds

Sheep sheepishly running around

Grazing all day and a far away shepherd

In a backdrop of gorgeous Snow peaks

A sight to behold in your heart

That's Himalyan Delight!

The Himalayas question

Have you lived once?

The Invasion | Saibhang Kaur

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

No, i was never addicted

To the taste of your sugar.

You made me swallow it

When i didn't ask for it

I resisted

I denied

I fought back.

But you held my hand

Rubbed your thumb

On my ring finger

Anti clockwise

Like you know all of me-

My code

My wounds

My medicines.

You infected me

By penetrating

Through my skin

Invaded my insides

Restrained my blood.

The strain of your bacteria

Could obliterate my antibiotics.

Like my white blood cells

Could not identify

Your disguised contamination.

You fed me the sucrose

Right from your lips.

I did not require

Another drug addiction.

But you forced

Until i could feel

The rush of-

Dopamine. Serotonin. Oxytocin.

I soon became an animal

Who was addicted to you

Who would kill, if needed

To get the taste of your sugar.

You were waiting for this moment

Were you not?

You untied my hands

Unlocked the door

Asked me to leave.

Gave me freedom

When i did not know

What to do with it.

Now i am astray

With my body trembling

Devoid of your sugar

Struggling with the withdrawal

Waiting to take my last breath.

My Architectural Education | Surabhi Naik

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY SURABHI NAIK FROM KARWAR WON THE FIRST PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023.

made me insecure

about words.

It was always - Drawings before Words.

Inside, what are lines without life, I thought. But

the obedient rebel that I was, I complied.

So I made 'drawings'. I drew in straight lines

and measured curves, and careful thinnesses

of pencil strokes.

My Architectural Education had no time to waste

on my misshapen wilderness. It taught me that using

words to build my worlds was Unacceptable.

Untoward.

It was always - drafting the drawings.

Never, drawing the drawings.

So I was careful not to stray too far from the instrument.

Knowing I was at least one instrument too heavy.

My Architectural Education taught me about Beauty,

the kind that was immortalized in 'text'books made of

lustrous paper, erudite sentences and privileged men.

It was always - SomethingNewSomethingUnique but

within reason.

So I stepped in from the sidewalk

and marched in the army.

A Left. then Right. then Left.

One of the first things I remember conjuring

out of thin air was a poem about trees.

One of the first things I remember drawing

was a portrait of a famous man with a french beard

in a blue studio with blue lights calling the screen

'computerji'.

And he was just as blue if not bluer in the

scrawny scratches of my mom's blue ball-point pen.

And so, the words had to spill, right? Somewhere.

Like the streams that erode their way into the ocean.

About the poet:

Born and raised in the Konkan region of India, Surabhi Naik is a poet, designer and story gatherer. She is interested in poetry as a tool for thought, documentary and transmedia expression. Her work centers on media design and storytelling-based collaborations with artists, social impact entrepreneurs, cultural and educational institutions to facilitate creative expression of community-based narratives both in her hometown of Karwar, India and New York City.

She is an alumnus of The New School of Media Studies MA Graduate Program, New York City where she was a recipient of the Provost’s scholarship. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Architecture from Visveswaraya Technological University Belagavi and an MA in English from IGNOU, New Delhi.

She is a founding member of the transcontinental gLiTCh artists collective and Alotnesse studio. Her documentary work was showcased in Verizon's 5G EdTech Accelerator 2019 and her design work has been exhibited at eminent forums such as National Awards for Excellence in Architecture and Charles Correa Gold Medal. Her professional affiliations have included New York City based organizations like Culture Push, Works on Water, Equity Design Inc and Parsons School of Design as well as Urban Design Research Institute Mumbai and Council of Architecture India.

Buffer Zone | Angel Liz Davis

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

We live in terror and trauma

Afraid of our children’s lives,

Ending prey to tigers and bears.

Wild boars trampling upon paddy fields

Like farmers separate pepper seeds from its fiber.

We wake up at the dead of night

Hearing elephants breaking bamboo stems,

Drinking water and roaring from across the river.

Farmers at night watch, waving fireballs and bursting

Crackers from our houses to scare them away.

By dusk we assure our hens and cows and goats

Are in their shelters; we close our doors too.

Self-imposed curfew in fear of death.

Animals might attack us on the road.

We pray for father when returning late.

No tiger shall attack him on his way back home.

Farmers preparing traps, digging huge pits

In their farms to catch wild swine.

Sleep deprived them with lighted lanterns

Take turns in watch duty.

Being Woman: A Bit of Everything | Ankita Sarkar

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

I am nothing but I am a bit of everything

I am not the product of delusion

But you can call me an illusion-

I am a prismatic reflection of someone's myriad fantasy.

I am not beautiful

But beauty itself is nowhere near to me.

I am omnipresent,

I am a mystery.

Enigmatic enough to arouse poetry.

I am your deepest latent desire,

I am the heat that lights every fire.

You can touch me yet you cant-

Perhaps you can catch a glimpse of me under the veil

You can love me,

You can hate me.

But indifferent is not something that you can remain.

Tomorrow before the twilight gives way to the dusk

Wait at the seashore until you can see me at the horizon.

Look at me with closed eyes

And you can feel my scarlet warm lips mingling with yours

With the same passion that is completely yours.

Surrender | Alma Marwah

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

I’m good with whatever happens

I’m good with if it doesn’t

Trying to get it with put me away

From the moment where I stay

Just like Trees have no complaints

It sheds and grows without a frain

Trust the Universe and how it plays

Everything in Existence has a special place

Just like a baby you are taken care

Only when you SURRENDER you get there.

Ineffable Eyes | Dr Payal Singla Insan

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

To think about you is my favourite hobby,

To knit those thoughts into words makes me so happy.

The day our eyes met and then met again,

Others might not know, but it rained.

To get ready for you gives immense pleasure,

Just for your one look, I can leave every treasure.

Your ineffable eyes have the power to resurrect the sinking ship,

Do others know about the heavenly embrace that can make any life flip?

I hope to make the stars jealous even when it’s sunrise,

Staying around you is the spectacular dream I want to live and realize.

To write about you fills me with abundant delight,

It feels accomplished to have you always by my side.

I know you love to read what I write for you,

Let’s meet again and let me live the ‘dream of tea’ with you as my view.

Through Faithless All Night Long | Akil Contractor

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

Though faithless all night long

Though faithless all night long

when you wake up, you could

attempt a prayer

you could resume the piano chant

from grand or upright versions

consoling with sharps and flats

black and white keys

varied pitches ,octaves ,accidentals

sheer sustainment of chords for relief.

Standing but not tallest,

while we are faithless ,

the sky is not liberal

blocks you like the ground -

hands raised upward

must lift in supplication .

What enters your vulnerable heart

is no music just the pitter - patter

of rainstorms which turn scary .

The Painter Must Be Going Nowhere | Neha Chaudhuri

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

Angāra→ I love you●

The factory gate declares

to a busy, indifferent road

In fresh white brushstrokes against

Brown fungal walls stinking of rotted garbage and urine.

Algae frame those larger-than-life words.

The letters are all

in upper case – uneven; smeared

on the layer of powdered rust upon the Iron Gate - sticking

against hope; weighed down

by the diligent dusts of traffic jams.

The painter must be going somewhere –

home perhaps,

after frugal dinner and ample drink,

finishing off the residual paint

on a daunting factory gate; his friends

goading his unsteady fingers to declare

to the world his freedom

to love, a blooming lotus

amid muddy swamps.

The Weeping Willow | Khwabida_ki_parvaaz

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

Does this happen in your jungle or just the case at mine?

Is the wolf in you put to cages and the bird not wanting to chirp?

Is the weeping willow still entertaining, the norms of this world?

Is it bowing to the waters, not wanting the world to witness its falling tears

while embodying all the pains and fears?

Is the candle consuming its light or dissipating with all its might?

Will the pain turn to numbness or would the woods wander for change?

While the weeping willow wonders if it’s love for water would consume it or make it reign..?

But oh how the waters whisper that the willow wood was meant to make magic wands..

And stay afloat while the world drowns..

The willow’s wisdom was whispered for the weakened to cross waters while finding strength

And for the light Warriors to ascend

So witness yourself as the wondrous willow, that re sprouts when cut.

Your woods have the strength,

Strength to cast a spell.

Your inner resilience has a way to bring change

So go make magic

as you’ve let Magic make you

And weep not my wondrous willow..

But teach what you can while the world is under your pillow

Maybe the willow tree was always at war with the wuthering winds and withering world

Maybe the weeping willow just bent to not break. It’s resilience was hard for them to take.

Maybe You never lost if you’re still trying hard to wake.

-By khwabida_ki_parvaaz

Nostalgia | Shrreya Chakraborti

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

For everything that has been left behind,

All those who have left,

Left their prints in my mind,

For everything that was once essential,

which makes no sense now,

All the fights and grudges for it,feels silly somehow.

For all those fulfilled dreams,

which I hardly treasure;

the ones which were my yardstick to measure.

For the ones who are still with me,

But it isn't the same as before.

Much like your favourite shirt, favourite still,

but doesn't fit you anymore.

For all those moments, when I felt alive.

Those road trips, teenage proposals, my first drive,

favourite sunsets, silly friendships,

mum's cooked food, broken relationships

forming a beautiful story of life.

Looking back I see,

how life takes a bit of me from me.

and more than the people who were left behind,

more than the moments that wouldn't get rewind,

more than anything else I yearn,

for the part of me that is lost to time.