An Epic Love Story | Kushal Narang

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

It's been some lively yesteryears

Since I met my love-lyric

Two tiny angels blessed our lives

As our love-story turned epic!

But not so simple should it seem

To one who happens reading this

Fruitful rewards need stern efforts

And that is how this love-life is!

A lonesome, handsome somebody

I think I was, some point in time

A vibrant, fragrant flower was she…

Blooming in her youthful prime

Our feelings struck a rhythm divine

Thanks to our planets and stars

But Venus was her preferred home

While I belonged to Mars!

A minor celestial rearrangement

Of tempers and temperaments galore

A little adjustment here and there

And we loved even more!

Love bore fruit in the loveliest way

An angel personified!

The apple of my eye indeed

My moment of fatherly pride!

And the fragrant flower that was her

Became Mother Nature herself

To bear and rear her treasured fruit

And raise her miniature self

While here was clumsy me instead

Balancing work and life

Servant to humanity, son to parents

And husband to my wife

Many a big, fat book I'd read

Oft managed a dreaded disease

But oh, this new-found tiny-tot

Was beyond my expertise!

But look at her, just cruising along

Through work, and house and kid

And friends and kith-and-kins all

Much more than I ever did

Time flew fast and angel grew

Cuter and naughtier by the day

Through smiles or pranks or otherwise

She would have her way!

Until of course we found a route

To magnify our world

As another angelic presence formed

And destiny unfurled…

New joys galore she brought to us

And relief from a testing time

Her tiny, yet wholesome form perfect

Her ethereal beauty sublime!

So soft and sweet her charming self

So tranquil is her sound

An experienced father is how I feel

With my second child around

And so, she grows too, so do us

In this journey of family-life

And grows along our story of love

Of daughters, man and wife!

I marvel at these big-small girls

Of different shapes and sizes

Who hold me in their loving fold

With sweet, naughty surprises!

I look again at my dear self

And can't hold back a grin

I thank the Lord for who I am

And the kind of life I'm in...

An agreeing husband, obedient father

With things in near-perfect sync

As I lay floating, an island of blue

In a sea that's coloured pink!

Lawn of Lonesome | Disha Ransingh

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

It was somewhere when I hadn’t walked the street of spring

A time when my angels turned a lonely spirit with no wings

So I skimmed and glided alone on an empty broken bridge

Thinking how I was unseen when I was visible like the crest of a mountain ridge

I too saw the lingered lamp-post cast it’s pale light on me

But the shadow made wasn’t mine, but some forlorn dead tree

Always I had known a mother who sang lullabies in the seventh heaven

A father to scare away my fears with his love’s weapon

I too had some millions of so-called bosom friends to crowd me

But as we caressed it’s just skin that touched, never was the heart free

For in my room, I just watched the windows or the crack in the ceiling

And sometimes hugged the cushion or clothes in the closet

as I whispered in the ears of stuffed animals and dolls, some secret

Cause I knew my family and friend just saw the glow of my flame

When the ashes wanted to be touched by their palm for it’s pain

I know I have always been a longing spiral staircase

All the feet have touched me, but was I ever counted just in case?

I lived and was hung like a vintage lamp in the core of a cottage

my light did reach all, but why was their glimmer of eyes always a haze?

Sometimes under auroras, I tried to sit in the heart of Cloverleaf

Waiting for some crossing car to stop, to see me as they see colours in the sky streak

Somehow I never wanted anyone to see my teardrops on a desk

Cause if they think I was lonely, then was their love just a wreck?

But then I sensed the darkest chills running down my spine

Cause hugging myself in the mirror wasn’t enough in that reign of time

So I hit every parks and parking lots just to talk to strangers

And let my voice rasp as I waited for my mother to pick up the phone

Just to utter broken words of how I just want to escape the lawn of lonesome

Fatefully, now that my lonely self has been frozen in my grip

I know hear not just mine but also the love of my loved ones' heartbeat.

Something Invisible in a Gift-Wrap | Andrea Burke

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

My hand stretches out to receive a petit-gift,

I find within it a Crimson red: giving me a powerful up-lift,

I hold it tenderly like a bird in my hand,

Feeling it's greet lup-dup, lup-dup, making me understand,

It's words as components of blood,

Flows into my veins with a thud,

Ready to have a heart-to-heart talk,

Trying to lip-sync while doing a moonwalk,

The tender heart murmurs,

And I become one of the observers:

It's rhythm and speed is involuntary,

Whereas mine; becoming voluntary,

My heart's valves are like doors:

between it's heart chambers , triggering it's pores,

Searching for it's conscience,

To grasp the real essence,

All of a sudden, it suffers a heart-block!

This refers to an aftershock.

It's still an invisible gift, a heart of gold!

It's still an invisible gift, a heart of gold!

Mirage | Yukta Vats

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

I ain’t no wanderer in dust

Nor a bird of passage dying of thirst

I’m not the trickling sand in glass

Then why do I feel I’m sinking into a morass?

Of illusions and deceptions

Of pretentions and dissimulations

I see an enchanting vista before my eyes

But is it all a scape of lies?

I’m drawn towards it

As if, losing my wit

I know it’s an illusion, a mirage

But there’s this force causing me to barge

Straight into the alluring fantasy

Into the Goddess Morgana’s territory

I see the oasis of dreams

Wondering what it really means

As I move forward and touch

It becomes real, oh so very much

I sit back, reflect and ruminate

What’s real – unreal anymore, I struggle to differentiate

If I’m living in a too-believable illusion

Or the delusion of illusion was itself an illusion

Was the conceived reality so unreal?

And perceived fallacy so real?

I guess everything’s a reality, everything’s an illusion

It really is, in our own vision

To see, experience, and believe

The truth beyond what we so dearly perceive

Maybe I actually, am a traveller in a caravan

And that mirage was where the realism began

I discerned that everything’s true and at the same time untrue, I’m nothing at all

And that’s when it struck me that I have it all

Kaali | Pranit Gurung

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

She wrote her name,

With shaking hands,

And blushed,and its not first time.

Her thumb prints,

Had just been replaced,

Her letters are quite spaced.

She receives her wage with a smile,

That the dinner is guaranteed,

Some fishes could she buy,

For two sons,who are fatherless.

Her house is roofed with rusty tin,

Would only let some raindrops in,

And in corner lies a biscuit can,

Where she saves some,beside a broken fan.

Her dreams are not so big,

But daily would she crush stones and dig,

Not as good as crusher though,

Yet enough for her two sons to grow.

And one crooked night,

Her sons are nowhere to be found,

Not spared was a broken fan,

And also the biscuit can.

Distant across she sees the light,

Disappearing from her sight,

And her hope and her sons,

And Kaali slowly cried.

See | Anagha Rao

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

Join me right here

And together we'll travel

To a world we belive in

One that is not all we see

Let us behold together

A world that is true

See it with our hearts,

Our minds and our souls

A world that is cruel

But beautiful and wild

Devastating and daunting

Yet filled with color

The green of the trees

The red of the blood

The blue of the oceans

And the gray of our lives

In a world of our own, we remain

Confined in our minds

Wasting away till we suffocate

Detached from the world outside

Isolated in our thoughts

We do not see

The beauty of the world

Unparalleled and simple

When your too deep to realize

That the world is not all

What our mind or our heart

Insists that it is

Take a breath and stop

Stand still and stoic

Look around, observe

And open your eyes to see

I am | Shradha Goel

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

I am cold, I am hot

I remember what I’ve lost

I am sane or insane

Sometimes I am modest

Or a little vain

I like to fly

But I am caged up

I have wings

But I ain’t a bird

I am a mother

I have some duties

I am sexy with a little beauty

I attract attention

That I don’t seek

I pretend to be strong

Although I am weak

I am frustrated and aggressive

I am active and I am passive

I like flowers and I like cake

I am honest, I can’t be fake

I love to travel and have some fun

Be it in the hills or in the sun

I am a dancer, I like to sway

I to like to find my own way

I write to let it all out

I don’t care about, what I shout

I am me and no one else

I am not here to pretend or please

I am a phoenix I rise from the hell

I am a seeker, I know my shit very well

Rage | Peehu Jaiswal

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

if i expressed my rage

The colour would be red

And the walls would bleed

The world didn't owe me anything

But it didn't have to cut so deep

I wasn't just robbed of my innocence

You were equally responsible for taking it away

And I was so busy trying to understand you

I forgot even my grief had a weight

You were a victim but a bystander too

And I was in this cause of you

I spent all my life making sense of it all

Trying to be there fr you as much as i can

Always cushioning your fall

We had all the love in the world but the colour was blue

I was there for you so much that i forgot i needed you too

Loss | Bhannu Vashishta

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

You pray to your phone to connect,

for one last call to a person who left

this world an year ago.

You wish for a "last time", "last words"

leaving their mouth.

If only letting go was as easy as

blowing a dandelion.

I wish for a speed post service

to be available to the stars,

where mother says the dead live.

You wish for a last train to exist,

to take you to the exact star you wanted to reach.

You turn the pages of your novel,

your glasses carrying a tint of hope

to find a theory to revive all the stars that stopped shining.

They say you need eight or twelve hugs a day,

while you barely manage to have a half

and your spine aches.

Death wants you so much,

yet you toughen your fingers

to write a goodbye that stood half,

with a heart whose

three out of four parts are full,

you pinch your skin at the end,

to snap your mind out of loss,

a loss whose eight parts felt missing.

You convince your arteries to not bleed,

to believe that universe hears all,

hoping for a movement inside photographs.

Loss is an empty well

that keeps you searching

for a barrier between our world and theirs.

Loss, makes you homeless

Loss, makes you a begger craving for life,

whose heart doesn't pump enough blood

to fill the empty spaces.

If there's an ocean deeper than the Pacific,

it's Loss.

Five telephones at home and none to make a conversation with the one who's gone.

Twenty something envelopes

and no letter to wrap inside.

How to reach the reciever's address ?

A hand to harm yourself, and no one to hold it.

A brain to think,

but your heart's a coping mechanism for searching all ways out.

Words to write, but no one to send to.

Am I still waiting for the last train?

मौन शब्द | Surbhi Aggarwal

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

तुमको भाती है पायल,

और कंगन खनकते हाथों में।

आघात अहम पर बोली मेरी,

दिलचस्पी नहीं जज़्बातों में।।

तुम को भाती है रोटी गोल,

और चोटिल करते हैं पदक मेरे।

मदहोश करे मुस्कान तुम्हें,

और सपने बोझ लगे मेरे।।

आगे बढ़ने की होड़ नहीं पर,

क्यों चलते रहना हक नहीं मेरा।

तुम दौड़ दौड़ सीखो उड़ना,

क्यों मैं भाती हूं खड़ी वहीं।।

Locksmith | Will You Be Able to Open It | Kaustubhi Reddy

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

They didn't even use pencils,

So I could rub it out.

Markers pens underlining my flaws,

Highlighting what they think are my sins.

Why would you scribble my story?

Change it the way you want it to be.

No please don't tear that bit,

No don't fold that part,

Stop creasing it.

These are my pages,

My versions of my tales.

Stop trapping them in your brutal cages,

Stop stealing my boat before it even sails.

But none of you listened.

Watched me recite my story first.

Made fun of my sentences behind me,

All you made me feel was imprisoned.

The present wonders why my book is so deeply locked,

The present wonders about the secrets I have blocked.

But oh dear locksmith,

It's my past,

Unwilling to trust.

It thinks even you'll break me like glass,

And my tears acting like rust.

Will you be able to open it?

So that I can make my own edits.

Do you think the lock and key will still fit?

Unlock my words,

Don't break them.

Read my nouns my verbs,

Don't mock them.

But how can I know for sure?

How can I trust you,

Because for me the word lost its shine.

Please tell me your soul is true and pure,

Please tell me your heart won't smash mine...

Unspoken | Y Nidhi Shenoy

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

I wonder about the things we say too quietly,

To ever be heard aloud;

I wonder why we deem it essential,

To cover the rawest parts of ourselves, in order to stand proud?

There are things- too quiet, too delicate,

To be spoken in the daylight;

Things that are crafted vaguely, brought up after the sunset or before the sunrise,

Things meant to be choked out in voices slight;

We humans are odd creatures- masters at hiding what we mean,

We speak so loudly half the time,

So that no one hears the invisible unseen;

Maybe we swallow words for the best,

Exactly for the reason we're scared of death-

We prefer happy lies that hurt to swallow, than the bitter truth that's difficult to digest.

As Love | Navjyot Kaur

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

Love does not sit idle from its passion

it stirs the greatest of fires, that of our deepest calling within,

to be love

Love is the wild child,

running barefoot and untamed, amidst the inner kingdom,

to the majestic throne of Oneness

Love is the alchemist,

shakes with frenzy and fervour purifying the roots of illusion

with the elixir of its embrace

Love does not possess, neither need to be loved,

it liberates in pure magnificence

in blissful presence, as love

Love is the warrior unleashed

whose unbreakable courage defends the divine right and the sacred law

to love and to be love

Love is the sunset

a friend, holding your hand and painting a sky full of wonder

walking you home to love

Love is the beacon of truth,

paving the way for the brilliance of the light within

to light the path for all

Love is the revolution

armed with a crystalline sword of righteousness, when all crashes and falls

it remains victorious for love

Love, for love

Love, as love

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.

ग़ुलामों की बस्ती | Deepak Ahuja

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY DEEPAK AHUJA FROM NEW DELHI WON THE FIRST PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY COMPETITION 2023’S REGIONAL CATEGORY.

ग़ुलामों की बस्ती में, आज़ादी का क्या मोल,

मन मे व्यथाएँ हज़ार, लबों पर बस दो बोल।

किसने सीखी यहाँ पर, राह-ए-उल्फ़त कभी,

जो रास्ते हुए मयस्सर, एहसास रहे थे तोल।

कोई हसरत बुझती नहीं, बेड़ियाँ पहनने से,

सय्याद बेरहम है, पंछी न बचता चहकने से।

ख़यालों के ग़ुलाम, चेहरे से लगते बिस्मिल,

कोई सरपरस्त नहीं, क्या फ़ायदा कहने से।

सिर झुकाए चलते, ये जिस्म, बेजान लगते,

अपनी ही क्षमताओं से, अब अंजान लगते।

जागते-जागते सो रहे, बेहोश और गुमनाम,

गुमान नहीं, नज़र-नज़र से, परेशान लगते।

फ़राहम नहीं हिम्मत अंदर, न कोई फ़रियाद,

नसीब हांक रहा बैलों की तरह, राहें न याद।

न कोई ज्वाला, न कोई लौ, न कोई शम्अ,

जी रहे कठपुतली जैसे, ज़िन्दगी न आबाद।

हुक्मरान का सितम, मन की दशा बदलता,

जो सहता ज़ुल्म, ठंडी छाया में भी जलता।

ऊपर देखता आसमान में, कोई चिराग़ नहीं,

जब देखता भीतर, अंतस् में साहस पलता।

रास न आया ग़ुलाम को, सूरज का उजाला,

अंधकार भरी रातों में, जन्मों से विष पाला।

ये ज़हर पी कर भी, हाल-ए-दिल न बताया,

एक चिंगारी ज़हन में, ये दर्द ऐसे संभाला।

बादशाह का गुरूर, ग़ुलाम करते हैं क़ुबूल,

ये बस्ती मजबूरी की, इश्क़ करना है भूल।

क़तरा-क़तरा बह जाता, लाख ग़म छिपाए,

साहस को परखना, यहाँ पे मिट्टी और धूल।

वो आवाज़ न उठाता, सितमगर के ख़िलाफ,

जो टुकड़ा-टुकड़ा हो रही, वो रूह है साफ़।

ये गीत उभर रहे, इस तन्हाई के, साज़ पर,

क्या इस सरगम को मिलेगा, कोई इंसाफ।

भेड़-बकरियों जैसे चल, बने जी का जंजाल,

एक दूसरे के पीछे, कैसे है अजब भेड़चाल।

कोई आज़ाद आँख न दिखे, रौशनी में भी,

कुछ तो ऐतबार कर, ख़ुद पर, बन विशाल।

उड़ती पतंगे, बहती पुरवाई में, पता पूछती,

अपनी बनाई ज़ंजीरों से, ज़िंदगी है जूझती।

अजी ग़ुलामों की बस्ती में, सिर कौन उठाए,

जो उठाए एक नज़र, वो नज़र गिरती टूटती।

शिकवा, शिकायत करके भी, क्या फ़ायदा,

इस कड़वे फल का, शहद न बदले ज़ायका।

एक वजूद, एक अस्तित्व, एक ही मैं मन में,

कैसा ख़्वाब, कैसी ख़्वाहिश, कैसा क़ायदा।

साथ न किसी ज़माने का, कैसा ये वीराना,

जो साथ चल रहा, वो ख़ुद से भी अंजाना।

ग़ुलामी पसंद शख़्स की, न कोई पहचान,

बस वो तलाशता, मर-मर जीने का बहाना।

गिर रहे सुर्ख़ ओले, जकड़े हाथों के तल पर,

पिघल-पिघल सोना बने कुंदन, ऐसा असर।

अंदर जीवन, मन की हसरतें, न बनी ग़ुलाम,

कैसा खेल जगत का, इंसान नाचे बन बंदर।

इस संसार में कौन है, जो पैदा ग़ुलाम हुआ,

हर किसी की माँ ने, वात्सल्य रस से छुआ।

ममता की नदी तो हमेशा, आज़ाद ही रहती,

प्यार की, सबसे बड़ी मिसाल, माँ की दुआ।

ग़ुलाम तो जिस्म है, मन को कौन बांध पाए,

हर बशर के अंतर्मन में, बसते नूरानी साये।

अब कोई बस्ती मिले उल्फ़त वाली, मन को,

जहाँ उन्मुक्त आत्मबोध की, कथाएँ सुनाएँ।

ऐ क़ल्ब-ए-रूह इस तरह, तू बेज़ार नहीं हो,

जीवन के मायने समझ, ख़ुद को पहचानो।

जो पानी पीया, मुहब्बत का, प्यास न बची,

आम इंसान बनकर, ये स्वाभिमान संभालो।

एक ग़ुलामी स्वीकार है, उस परमात्मा की,

वो रब तो शाश्वत है, प्राण ऊर्जा आत्मा की।

घट-घट में वो बसता, नयन पुतली से झांके,

वही तो साहिब, साहिबा, हर जीवात्मा की।

जब नैन नम हो जाते, वो मालिक पुकारता,

उस दर पर जाके, ग़ुलाम नसीब संवारता।

तेरी शक्ल देखकर, बंदा नायाब बन गया,

झुक कर, सजदा करके, अहम् से हारता।

मौकापरस्त ज़माना, ये मन प्रभावित करे,

पैरों की बेड़ियाँ टूटी, सब मन पर वार करे।

एक ढाल बनकर, ज़िंदगी आज़ाद रखना,

ग़ुलामों की बस्ती का, कोई तो उद्धार करे।

बहार का मौसम भी, पतझड़ जैसा लगता,

ग़ुलामी का जामा पहने, कोई नहीं जगता।

सांसारिक सामान, जैसे माया की दुनिया,

डूबकर अपने भीतर, आध्यात्म में रमता।

कोई नाम नहीं, इस भीड़ में केवल चेहरे,

इस शरीर पर लगे, तपती निगाह के पहरे।

सभी चाहते जीना, बिना किसी बंदिश के,

लेकिन ये अरमान तो, सहमे ठहरे-ठहरे।

साँसों की ये कश्ती, अविरल डोलती जाती,

अंधकार में डूबा, बिना दीपक और बाती।

वफ़ा तो दिल से होती, डर से होए दिखावा,

कोई आहट आए, दिल में उम्मीद जगाती।

सौंप कर, अपने को किस्मत पर, नाच रहा,

इस दिल की रम्ज़ को, कौन है जाँच रहा।

बिना बोले नहीं जान पाता, संसार व्यथाएँ,

पिंजरे में बंद हो, ज़हन के बंधन काट रहा।

काट कर तन देखा, सिर्फ़ मुहब्बत है पाई,

फिर क्यों यहाँ पर, पल-पल मिले रुसवाई।

अजब रीत जगत की, कौन बच पाया यहाँ,

मन की गहराई जान, आज़ादी हुई पराई।

नि:स्तब्ध होके, ग़ुलाम बस्ती को सलाम है,

जग में इंसान कम, यहाँ पे सिर्फ़ इंसान हैं।

क़ैद में मुस्कुराते, ज़ुल्म-ओ-सितम से परे,

अजब खेल सरकार के, हम सब नादान हैं।

About the poet

Deepak is a former corporate professional and is now an entrepreneur. Fortunately, the voices of his mind go beyond these tags and call him a poet. That's what he identifies most of his personality and character with.

He believes poetry is not a mere expression of thoughts and feelings through words. It is a much deeper confluence of art, perception and understanding.

The mundane aspect of his education is that he did is graduation from Shri Ram College of Commerce, University of Delhi and post graduation from Fore School of Management. The exciting aspect of his education lies in his ability to observe and think in an imaginative way, which is continuous.

He feels very passionately about the inner dimensions of life. Something, which can be felt but not seen. People call it spirituality, a very clichéd word these days. He just calls it a way of life.

Kalyug | Muskanpreet Aulakh

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

Gunah ki patri par sabhi chal rahe hain

Naye halato ke nayepan mai sabhi dhal rahe hain.

Insaf nahi mang pate to nainsafi ki jati hai

Yaha greebo ko bewajah saza di jati hai.

Khuda ko bhool bethe hain sab

Khud ko khuda mante hain.

Kehte firte hain hame sab pta hai

Koi pucho inse akhir ye kya jante hain.

Tumhe uski shakti ka anuman hi kaha

Vo sansar ki bate bata gaye

Tumhe uske ilawa kuch pata hi kaha.

Usse ucha uthne ki bate karte ho

Uske bina yeh jahan, asman, ek shavas bhi kaha.

Puri srishti ka srijan vo kar gaye

Badle mai kuch manga nhi

Tujhe sahi rah dikhaya hamesha

Teri galtiyo par bhi tujhe danta nhi.

Tu kehta hai itno mai bhool gya vo mujhe

Magar vo to sabka khayal rakhta hai

Kabhi akele reh jao to jana uske dar pe

Tujhe tujhse bhi zyada vo pyar karta hai.

Uske diye tohfe to sambhale nhi ja rahe

Moh maya mai faskar sab reh gaye

Inhe ab tak samajh nahi aya

"God is one" har dharm ke guru keh gaye.

Usse pana chahte ho to pyar rakhna hoga dil mai

Par pyar ke to sabhi dushman bane bethe hain

Yeh kya jane pyar kya hai

Yeh to bazaro mai bikne wale ko pyar kehte hain.

Is kalyug mai rishte bhula diye sabne

Ma bap ko dhakke mare jate hain

Khuda se bat to bas kuch hi log karte hain

Beshak mandir masjido mai to sare jate hain.

Izzat to bas paise ki hoti hai

Use sabse upar ka darza mila hai

Jo bach gaye is lalach se

Bas unhi ko khuda mila hai.

Can't Digest | Rimmi Kaur

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

You love me, I can't digest it.

Why would you, what you see in me?

Is this your way to humiliate me?

Make me stand in front of the crowd.

Accept I was a fool to think you were into me.

Would that give you satisfaction?

Would that make you popular in the jungle?

You took my love for granted.

Acted like we got along.

No wonder you were pretending to make me yours.

You acted so good I felt this could be forever .

But,

I almost believed you trusted you

After a long fight with logic I embraced you.

I am sorry I doubted my brain.

Look heart this happened again.

Next time I won't argue, just listen to my brain.

Hey did you see that guy he winked at me today.

No brain heart is right we should have a taste.

Not again.

Heart not again.

A Slice of My Sky | Somedutta Chakraborty

My sky was infused with wisps of cotton,

It was a brilliant blue ,like the one flowing in my baby's eyes;

The colour ,fresh, like a Spring that lasts forever

The hues of my sky have changed;

In a terribly transient Kyiv

My city,my country , my sky

has metamorphosed

Alas! the butterfly would soon die

Its wings caught in a flame,

stripped of freedom

My sky was golden,

Glittering like my wedding band

As bright as his eyes glistening with tears,

The tears like pearls, falling on his bloodsoaked shirt

My sky turned ash grey,

Cold, distant ,alien

With smokes,fumes and sirens

A quiet cacophony resounded in the streets,

The streets deserted like corpses in the hospital nearby

Now it's crimson ,

Mutilated by missiles

Amputated with words,

Smeared with hatred ,with anger

Every morning serves a new agenda for breakfast 

I eat it up, with a tinge of pride that's Ukrainian

The evenings bring promises, negotiations, a host of them

And yet, the skyline remains crimson 

Sometimes, my sky sings our anthem 

They can hear it too,

They are afraid too,

Just like my crying baby

But they are chained by diktats 

Will they ever break free?

My baby has stopped crying

There's tranquility, but no peace 

My sky is now apocalyptic 

This sky is mine.

Three Headed Snake | Ambica Gossain

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

The wedding wasn’t the worst of it.

A precursor of love, wind-swept,

weather-beaten and threadbare,

begging for alms before it stepped through

the temple door threshold.

My husband and I just barely bobbing

atop the waves of guests we rode that day.

A negotiation between airborne crests

high on a love that rivalled cheekbones,

eyes waltzing with each other ever so briefly,

and the deafening roar of the troughs

that would render us strangers

at our own ceremony.

(Shush) an unspoken reminder,

the history that everything is never

as dandy as it seems.

A mother's largesse accentuated

by a hot pink and lime green sari,

tacked with a six inch,

broad pearl cummerbund (suggesting a waist)

that paired with the multi-string necklace

spanning her under-bust.

My birth mother was the ornamental

overstuffed of stress, eating

her way through an imposed second wife.

Me, as equally plump.

Facedown, tongue out,

eating out of a step-mother’s

ruinous palms too.

As if our extra weight

deep planted our feet in a place

that didn’t make sense to stay.

A step mother trained in Paris,

her beauty parlour was the

ball of yarn animating my kitten paws.

Making them pounce and spring on

the fruity face packs, hot rollers and

French manicures strategically used

to reel me in.

My naïveté springing on anything it could catch.

Hers was an intentional spell,

to distance me from a birth mother swirling

in the emotional orgy of betrayal.

Punished for her only "misdeed,"

sticking around to avert a broken family

and secure her children's needs.

I was blind to the orchestrations,

a step mother hoarding ancestral silver,

heirloom property and my grandmother's

jewellery in her name.

The fudging of daily cash accounts for

cash bonuses.

Leaving our original family

my father’s first, unable to collect

a rightly share of wealth.

Truth, this isn’t really a poem about

my wedding day or my step-mother

and her conniving ways.

But more about grave mistakes

we cannot change and the regret that

lodges itself in their place.

About the look on my mother’s face

the day she was giving me away.

My face averted from hers courtesy

a step mother’s tactful brainwashing.

The heartbreak of gullibility or naiveté

Believing my mother could hurt me this way.

Keep a family inheritance from me,

when my step mother had looted it for me to “see”

how little my mother loved me.

A landslide victory, for a woman who

wanted more than just my father.

She wanted everything (for keepsake?)

or was it security?

I was ill-equipped to deal with the level

of deceit my blood mother had proved incapable

of intercepting.

More like her, myself,

than I cared to admit.

Every Hindu parent's journey

of a girl child's wedding,

culminates in a too- tearful, vidaai.

A farewell ritual I thought over-dramatized

and cloying, until I wept through my own.

Embodying the goddess Lakshmi,

a wedded daughter fills her hands with

raw grains of rice and throws them

over her head in gratitude of her birth family.

And a promise of their fortune

standing intact despite the departure

of her bountiful feet.

I sat behind the fragrant jasmine and

rose veneer purdah in my palanquin,

my wrists jangling with the golden sparkle

of kaleere ornaments,

when my mother parted the flower blossom

curtain and peaked in.

Contrary to custom, my mother surprisingly

gathered the rice I had flung in her

pallu (the loose trailing end of her sari)

and poured it back into my lap.

Her eyes softly locked with mine as

my father’s own grew wide, his jaw,

a dropping protest to her inauspicious actions.

I wanted to apologise to her,

but instead we observed a palpable minute

of silence, time having run out.

Or rather taken from us to feed my

step mother’s jealousy.

In those sixty seconds, we were the unspoken

love of mother and daughter,

collectively the richest we would ever be.

A switch flipped the first day

I overturned a pot of rice in my marital home.

A home where I live in conjunction with

a mother in law.

My concerned mother religiously

checking in on me

and my step mom once

and for all washing her hands of me.

A truth so painfully revealed.

My mother, an ally, one with a deeper

understanding of how complex it is for

two women to coexist (or compete?)

under the same roof.

At the mercy of three too many mothers,

I precariously navigate

how to cook my own eggs.

A hope in hell crockpot of unconditional love

to shakshouka a hold and heal.

The Ghosts of Time | Saee Athawale

One of the first losses we experience

Is that of the passing of time,

With every passing second, time is dying.

It's a shame no one taught us how to deal with that loss

As we mourn the past, we are haunted by its spirit,

And fear the birth of the future,

Though what we truly fear is the haunting that will ensue.

As we age, the spirits grow in number,

All the ghosts clinging on to every inch of our soul,

Until we die, and eventually the agony is released,

As the ghosts melt away

Out of loyalty to their creator.

My Poetry | Ankita Apurva

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

My poetry is not a privilege

of convent educated brown women

who gorged on nursery rhymes for breakfast,

my poetry is not a Humpty Dumpty falling from the London Bridge,

not a woke bigotry on social media every time humanity fails humanity,

my poetry is not a library lost to piracy,

not a satin coated diary—

my grandfather passed onto me on my twelfth birthday,

my poetry is not only remembrance poppy nor only cold war nor only carnation wreath at the national war memorial,

my poetry is a responsibility,

a legacy, a war cry, a thatched roof of bones,

my poetry is a voice I was born with

which women before me had died for,

I was born within the womb of the first woman in history,

the rhyme scheme in the funeral pyre of each Suffragette,

I am Ruby Bridge desecrating white privilege,

you see every poet is a change

and every poetess a revolution,

Last year India organised its first government funded transgender poetry meet,

at times history needs to be given a mic not a coffin,

you see my poetry is Savitribai Phule felicitated

with stones, mud, and rotten eggs

as she martyred herself to educate me two hundred years ago,

my poetry is Maya Angelou losing voice

because her rapist got killed

because women are culturally conditioned to believe

carrying the punishment of our violation

is our responsibility,

My poetry is my mother not understanding

half of it

but showing it to every guest who came to our house,

my poetry is every girl child

whose throat was found in a dump yard because of her anatomy

two days after she was born,

my poetry is the infanticide of misogyny,

Lee Makobe's mother telling her she "could grow up to be anything"

my poetry is 'twinkle twinkle little star'

my grandmother how I wonder where she is

tonight, refilling my pen

reminding me-

some times you may not

live long enough to be celebrated

some times—

you will live long enough to be remembered,

sometimes you learn history

sometimes history will

unlearn itself.