Twenty Days of October | Hritvika Lakhera

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

You can tell the weather

by the feeling of tap water

running cold as the months draw on.

Seasons change s l o w l y, so

it must be something else when

about a dozen days into October

you stand in the autumn chill

and the wind has changed overnight,

smelling of wafting memories.

Autumn isn't lonely -

only liminal;

I told him once I loved him,

but loved him as a friend

and he took my bashfulness

as an erotic hint; but no,

we did not have words then

to express, "I am merely unused

to being frank thus. I do not

shy from desire but from this precipice

of confessing there are things

I care about."

November brings the frost again

but for some twenty odd days in October

the yellowed leaves, the croaking crow

entrance you in a vision;

The night breaks faster and the sun

is just a little late. The moon

is easier on the eyes. The moon

has borne witness to all your nights,

do you dare indeed

look her in the eye? I told her

I loved her - would she consider

holding my hand to her lips

and her heart to my hands?

My vices! I thought then of another

I would rather offer this love to,

and moonlight shone

upon my cowardice,

my hasty insincere heart.

For twenty day there are combinations

of light jackets and ceiling fans,

warm tea and a leg out of the quilt,

like moving homes between cities

of Summer and Winter, boxes of habits

packed, trinkets of routine s c attered.

I told them I'll love them

in time, in ways

unlike their own. Their kisses,

their gifts, their words I'll return

as the cooling water douses out

my bashfulness again. I know now

love is patient, love is kind,

love hangs back and waits for you

while you tie up your shoelaces;

love waits twenty odd days

while you bring out your coat;

love meets your eye and forgives you

for fixing yourself so slow.

Empty and Full | Varshini Krishnan

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

half blind I was

missed a ton of dull shades in people

dearest to the magenta of my pulpy heart

held onto breadcrumbs

mistaking it for a full meal

terribly lonely it was

in my own home and world

my words made no sense to their minds

their hearts were deaf to the tunes I hummed

silence became my new cloak

with those creatures of familiar blood

of distant hearts and broken bonds

I saw the fire of my soul peter out in my dark eyes

over and over

slowly at first, later all at once

draining me dry

and I saw every time, flashing in front me

all the times it happened before

and my limp numb heart

caressing what was left of me

trying to ignite it again

every time my fire was back, a little dimmer it burned

held onto it but I, with all my strength

my innards longing nothing more than to go back

to the womb I had come from

where nothing of this world could ever touch me

where I could feel safe

safe again

where even my own mother wouldn’t hurt me

years passed

as I roamed around like a lost planet

looking for my Sun

deep down wishing for an entire galaxy to look for me

to bond with hearts that beat

at the pace my tiny one purred

hearts that could see silences and hear smiles

that were different from the ones I had called home for a long time

that earned my little purrs one by one

and missed them when there were none

for once I wished

for someone to see the beauty in me

someone other than me

soon enough

as I came of age

looked around to become full and whole

in deep intimacy with another soul

but two souls, halves within

could they ever make each other feel whole?

stupid to think we could give our heart to the moon

when the Sun still lurked in alleys, dark and dull

anyway, what even was this love the world talked about?

I could only see it around me

when it was thriving inside of me

on days I was empty

no lovers were found on earth

all love was dead in hearts around me

smothered I was for so long

forgot I could breathe too

breathe on my own

breathe a full breath without life support

I had lived under the shadow of trees for long

now I wished to walk into light to see my own

with not a care in the world

like a peacock I danced in my heart

drunk with mad joy I danced

followed my breath till the last point

as I looked on, empty of all thought

the hollow within flipped

to reveal a golden path

to fullness

a pause in space and time

an emptiness unlike any I had known before

the emptiness of the mind I would try to fill

this one made me feel full

Is this the one enlightened ones have spoken of?

as I walked deeper into it

every cell in my body was bathed in sweet delight

my heart slipped

just like it did when I was a carefree kid

like in those blissful few minutes just before rains

when dark clouds hovered above

and silent winds swept streets

all birds flew away to their homes and little ones

when my eyes were blind to all but beauty around

something like that but grander by many many times

wish I could pen it down

but no words can be found

what was this emptiness that I had chanced upon?

which was all things beautiful and more

which was everything together all at once

which was

completely empty

but totally full

what was it?

Rainbow Delight | Alweera Kaji

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

The full moon reminded me of my canvas.

Not so spotless, greyish webs slowly dimming it’s white!

Fictionally I book a flight through the rainbow delight!

Crossing the hues of the blue, after the green light

I dipped my brush in yellow, painting the sunlight!

And waited, for the sunflowers to come in sight!

Foolish me, I forgot I have to paint them bright!

For my soul to retrieve, I left the gold behind,

Ate some of orange, to get my spirits to avenge !

With the tint of fall, I started turning red

But As It was all dried up by then,

I rushed my brush on my wounds,

Shading the whole room, in maroons!

“A nightmare!” I jump-scared

From the rainbow, back to greyish white!

Hoping someday with colours I’ll write

Not tonight tho, Tonight I’ll calligraph my blues

Reminding myself, Just how many portraits I’ve due!

My body as a canvas | Gaurree Verma

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

My body is a canvas

Painted by colours of my own.

You see those blue spots,

They are bruises from everytime

I let myself drown in my own tears.

You see the red skin,

That is from everytime

I've thought about losing myself and my link.

You see the black scribbles in place of a head,

That is from everytime

I've let myself get carried away,

By words of betrayal.

It has become a place,

Where light is afraid to enter

And stars are afraid to burn

Heaven on Earth | Atharv Sharma

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

Farm fields and distant homes-

Oh, what a pleasure on Board!

I see golden Sun retreating shyly

From the tender swarms of mustard.

Yellow of the hue heightened

Among the white of Gulls.

Coconuts dangle and tease the guavas

While mangoes bud for springs.

Lush under calm foliage

Essays the twinkling Crimson.

Some distant merry hullabaloo

And it's inherent serenity.

Calmness in pristine solitude.

Aloof from the chaos of 'development',

From looming darks and mundane mornings,

From clamor of and for money,

From burden of luxury and pathos of ease,

From demons in humans-

This is indeed 'worth ignorance'.

Dragonflies swinging on yellow and green,

And fireflies shoving loom with sheen.

Trees stand erratically across

Like temples on streets.

Children cry playfully

In the tutelage of Moonlit doves.

The chatter of joy and tenseless gossip

And bells ringing among star fires at sunset.

Returning love, Smiling life!

Prosperous days,

Though purposeless,

Though prosperity deprived.

Hands working for stomach;

Unlike others, they are selfless.

Some modern arcs to revolutionize the scene

Hampering the surreal serendipity.

Blooming innocence, however,

Negates it.

Limping lamps shimmering negativities afar;

Luck showering from the stars.

Greenery grazing Cattle throughout the sight.

Crystal waters Reverberating ripples of scarlet gold.

Autumn striken ailing branches

Glaring; offensively resonating,

Highten the heavenly charm.

No pride or vices, orthodoxy may be.

Just some mind and heaven beholds.

Scarecrows scare what can be fooled-

The gullible kind hearts.

Rest, eat and sleep full and assured

Of a limited yet 'bright' future.

It's such simple, astonishingly: Life!

Unwavering Love: Through Seasons and Beyond | Sai Krishna Reddy

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

In sunshine's glow or shadows deep,

When moonlight wanes or stars do peep,

With winter's chill or summer's heat,

In autumn's gold or springtime's sweet,

The sea may rage or gently sway,

The land may parch or streams convey,

Through stormy days or tranquil eves,

whether skies are bright or gray,

In love's embrace, I'll find your way,

With you, my dear, come what may,

In all of life, together we'll stay.

You're the one my soul does chase.

Near or far, through distance and space.

My love for you continues to grow.

A bond that time cannot uncast.

I’m still in contact with my rapist | Shivi

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


I’m still in contact with my rapist.

He’s a cousin, like many others.

I have to bend down in a namaste whenever I see him.

He’s 40, I’m 23. He works for a pharmaceutical.

He sends me medicinal soaps.

My mother asks me to WhatsApp him a

“Thank You”.

I wonder if he fills them with his cum

for they release not a lather but a stinky goo

whenever I rub them on my skin.

I use a different soap for my vagina.

The one that is used to clean ziddi daag.

He’s a father of a son wished for and a divorcee.

His mother didn’t let his wife wear salwar kameez.

His mother didn’t let his wife turn on the fan.

His wife has filed a case for dowry.

I go to my Bua’s place after every Diwali

Even though November is my favourite month.

My father owes her 2000 rupees for Bhai Dooj.

My cousin owes me 500.

Every time I race the Kumkum up his forehead,

he looks for memories in my eyes.

As if,

to confirm if he can do it again.

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.