Religion and Children | Mitalee Dabral

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

Shouldn’t we pass it on

like a box of colorful playdough

soft and yielding,

making, unmaking

easy on their little hands

and mind.

Or like a magic slate

quick to draw and erase

thoughts, beliefs and point of views

to question, reject or align.

Instead we hand it over

like a box of permanent markers

stubborn and rigid,

celebrating conformity

silencing dissent !

Forgetting

that its personal,

faith’s landscape

and it’s on them to pick their favorite color

to paint it to their heart’s content.

Emergency | Shrutee Choudhary

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

I first heard sirens go off in

my brain, when I was just shy

of eight

and there was an earthquake

between my parents

the buildings collapsed

all around me, as I held

my mother's hand at 2 am

and slept at my neighbour's

dreary house

it felt like an emergency

but nobody cared

the second time, I was older

there was a curfew

around my lady parts

I couldn't look pretty

or celebrate my beauty

in front of a man

for what if he did

the unimaginable

but it happened anyway

in the confines of my own home

his hand reached for places I

hadn't yet explored

it felt like an emergency

but nobody cared

especially my parents

I'm an adult now

which means, I have lost count

of the times I’ve been wronged

it’s been too many times

my entire life's blueprint

has been a coy navigation

of minefields

and I am so tired

of carrying the weights of

my femininity

a state of emergency

is a constancy

in every woman's life

and I'm afraid I will never know

a normal day

Is this the only way?

किसान | Nilesh Tiwari

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

मैं, एक किसान हूँ I

उगाता हूँ मैं प्यार की फसल,

झोली में भर रखे हैं मैंने,

जज्बातों के गुलाल की फसल I

सपनों में,

मिलता हूँ मैं,

कहता हूँ उससे,

देख,

मेरी चाहत तमाम की फसल I

बैलों पे रखे हैं मैंने,

कई तारे,

चाँद की फसल I

कहती है वो,

आएगी,

साल दर साल,

पानी देता मैं, उसके इंतज़ार की फसल I

खो कर,

पिछला साल,

खुश होता मैं,

बो कर,

अगले साल की फसल।

Two women in a bench in light blue | Janya Govani

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

A conversation I have, between my girl on my bench

Blacked in coolness which is not blue, coolness

Felt in a black-and white kid of Chaplin,

she stands her face

On my lap, almost keeping up, any but if she does have about it

To my eyes it is numb. ‘I like doing something’, says she as though

she had to tell me for me to remember. She was right,

I did not know nostalgia meant nothing, though what I only did now,

is just enjoy its feeling.

‘Okay’,

my eye closed, my hands on the moon she wore and palm on her breast.

I did remember she loved the sex of a loved one

Touching her, even if it is the hands of a woman once pretending

To be the girl same.

‘But I cannot confirm’, she tells me

“I know”, my eyelids shiver, I acknowledged something

I do not accept…I have known time

makes me know lesser

about it gone, though all of time bears a word same,

the girl promised herself

a stubborn difference she will perceive, of every point

she sees similar

inside its border, and different amongst the borders.

But the borders look black! They share a transition. And a girl with a

memory always remembers those, does she never?

My girl does not see my questions. But she sees buried

Claim I have over my memory, she haunts the value, vividly,

In her conscience, the value she will have when she will pass the

142 big blocked points of time she is yet even to segregate.

‘What do you know.

You have never felt the things like that right now.’

I could have told her I felt her pain, and I could have told her something I remember baby, but I knew. ‘Yes, I don’t know’

‘So fucking calm and happy, how does it feel to me to see

you be

one thing at a time?’

‘You know baby, you are out of it, you are furious..’ , and so is me,

writing this being a durdled mix of both of you, knowing not one

place I can ever try to laze out to wording. Yet, I wonder if I can

accept my feelings in convention fashionably with calm tears

and

revere my conflict relentlessly all

at the same point in time,

and all

not in words or in state, or in instinct

or in a combination,

but in pure feeling gressing itself out in ways which would

eliminate any componency of the above three and more,

any importance of my lines being typed or written, my clothes damp or dry, or

the showering of thoughtlessness when I try to dampen my laptop in thought and type on my clothing

in desire.

“What the hell does furious mean?” What a cry, I had to move my palms to her abdominals to stop them from dimpling. “Nothing to you baby,

but something to me”, I feel the need to

realize I cry for her and

she does not cry for herself,

I feel the need to know, that the both of us realize things every so often,

but we seem different, and my teacher would call me more matured.

So I think my teacher is wrong, isn’t it, the girl?

“You know I do not know what it means, but you still say, when I ask you how I feel.”

“You know I do not know what it means, but you still say, when I ask you how I feel.”

The Day Kobe Bryant Died | Satish Pendharkar

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

I confess that I began living my life

The day Kobe Bryant tragically passed away;

Until then I would spent my days in strife

Ruing the past and dreading the unborn day.

Then, on that fateful day I did realize

That all through our lives, we do plans make;

Seeking gains that do seldom materialize

Gathering goods that do not our thirst slake.

From that day, tossing aside envy and reproach

With gratitude and gaiety, I did life embrace;

And every dilemma with ardour did approach

And with a smile did every worry erase.

My feet up, sipping tea, as I now a rainbow behold;

The momentousness of this moment, I do uphold.

Silent Screams | Prachi Choudhury

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

Does it really feel like this?

Does the agony ever end?

‘Just get over it’ they say

Though I wish I could find a way;

My heart shattered in a million pieces,

I try to live with it day by day.

They say to follow my heart

But how can I?

When I am still trying to hide from the torturing wrath;

Tears rolling down my scarred cheeks

How should I hide them?

When the pain is squeezing me to hide;

When life loses faith

My trust is broken,

How should I smile?

When my lips have gone dry;

How should I focus?

When my brain has gone fused,

How should I trust ‘em?

When I am broken from inside;

How should I forget the pain?

When it is driving me insane.

I have lost trust in my heart,

My story has no end,

I can’t forget my past,

Though I am trying to live once again…

Trigger-happy | Ashna Saxena

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

I fuck myself to trigger myself

Two fingers in my unwilling hole

My body screams in protest

But my mind doesn’t listen

Just like they didn’t listen

Or maybe I didn’t say anything

Did I? Did I say no?

Did I fight?

A fine gossamer film veils my memories

They merge and distort

A hand on my head, a hand on my back

A dick on my face, a dick in my mouth

A hand on my hand, my hand on a dick?

Did I fight?

Not enough,

Not.

Enough.

I get fucked to trigger myself

To be pushed back into that place

Push me into the mattress

A firm grip on the back of my neck

While I stare at nothing in particular

Floating away from the moment

Floating away, yet confined to my head

By the memories playing on loop somewhere

in the dark, nigh forgotten crevices of my head

The ghosts of their hands haunt me still.

My body craves brutality

Slap

Choke

Fuck

Rape?

My body craves brutality

Take away my autonomy

Make me less than half the human I am

Make me an object of your pleasure

My body craves brutality

Slap

Choke

Fuck

Rape.

I’m tired of betraying myself

I’m tired of violating myself

I’m tired of myself

I’m tired.

The truth is

I am sick

in the head

My pain is their pleasure

A twisted paradise

My pain is my panacea

My passing, my end.

Mean Dreams | Himanshu Arya

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

Climbing up the neck

and hanging by the edge of my skull,

a picture draws in close to pierce

right through the jaw.

Feeding on the subconscious,

unconscious as ever on nights

stacked with inevitable remorse;

invisible apparitions

of shame move around the room,

grinning with their hands and feet.

Caressing my sinuses and scalp,

one reassures me of the presence

of subtle, stinging vacuums

while two cover my feet

with warm sweat, tender feathers.

Another half a score hold on to each

of my fingers and point towards the roof.

So do I, with a cold nose.

Morning arrives and I know not

of my time of death last night.

Head buries itself inside a blanket

and feet dangle over the bed

as my arms twirl and knot beneath me.

I am here, I am awake.

Survival | Priya Pramod

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

The Sun stood silent,

As eternal witness.

Seeing all the chaos;

among the People!

They were fighting an enemy.

Unknown and invisible; it evoked fear.

Those caught off guard; fell dead.

The Nature wept!

They ran to their shelters;

locked themselves up

and distanced; to protect.

Hugs became a dream.

Sufferings and uncertainty,

They were racing against time!

When masks covered a part of the face;

Only their eyes could smile .

Heroes emerged.

Hands of hope held the ones falling.

Life desperately clung!

After every gloomy winter,

there is a Spring.

Slowly the story was unfolding.

Of courage and grit,

Of a species, that fought for its survival

and they won!

The Sun kept blazing,

As eternal witness.

Rehnuma | Kanchi Arora

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

ओ रहनुमा

कम क़हर ढा,

यूँ मुँह ना मोड़ मेरे खुदा!

तेरे बन्दे

ग़लत,

ग़लतियों के पहाड़ पैरों तले रोंदते

आगे बड़े,

बेपरवाह, बेग़ैरत हो

मौजों के बादलों में शरम उड़ाते चले..

ग़र हैं तो तेरे ही वो बच्चे?

जो धूलों को उड़ाते

ठोकरें खाके,

खाकों में ऐसे मिल रहे

जैसे मुशक़्क़त से हासिल पेयशानि पर वो बूँदें,

जो गिरते ही ख़ाक में थककर बेनिशां

सो गयीं

ना अब एब ना वो नशा।

चीखें सुन!

वह अधमरा इंसाँ देख!

उस लाश पे सोयी वो बदहवास मासूम

यूँ आँखें ना पलट!

यूँ चले ना जा!

यूँ दलीलें ना मोड़!

यूँ अर्ज़ियाँ ना ठुकरा!

ऐ रहनुमा

कुछ होश में आ

अपनी नवाज़िशों से परे ना कर

यूँ सिफ़र ना बना!

Soulmate | Maryam Mustaffa

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

“Destiny has played sound through eclipse, twilight, & love to let meet sun to moon, drawn to dusk and you to me.”

"Your name is itself our destined narration"

What is it, love?

But when, where & how.

I remember your first smile,

Your eyes have Nile.

Your presence me surroundings vibrant,

You are home longed by migrant.

First walk towards me,

Shattered! My soul said it's he.

I don't know how long I was gazing,

But... Heart, eyes, hands were mazing.

While talking seeing straight through my eyes to soul,

Ah! I noticed your smile while looking at my mole.

From your eyes I couldn't take off mine,

We hold our souls not to cross the line.

"They say is it love?

I (smiled): ask rain, sky, moon, sunsets, twilights, midst of night skies & what not....

Doesn't he mention my name?

Doesn't he long for me to be beside him?"

बाळाचे मनोगत | Kavita Sangras Kanherikar

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

आई म्हणू तुला कि मम्मा ?

सांगशील का हळुच कानात ?

पोटातील माझ्या हालचाली ,

सहन करतेस तु सार काही .

थकतेस का ग भार माझा वाहण्यात.

सांगशील का हळुच कानात?

किती घाबरतेस धक्का मला लागला म्हणून .

मोहरुन जातेस चाहूल माझी ऐकून.

तु प्रत्यक्ष कशी आहेस, दिसतेस मला स्वप्नात

सांगशील का हळुच कानात.

प्रॉमीस हं मी त्रास नाही देणार.

बोट तुझे नाही सोडणार.

नाते विणशील नं हळुवार धाग्यात.

सांगशील का हळुच कानात.

पोटातील पाण्यात दिसते मला ,

तुझ्या ऋधयाची छाया .

कशी श्वास घेतेस ग गुंतुनी माझ्या श्वासात ?

सांगशील का हळुच कानात ?

किती ग अजून वाट पाहू?

केव्हां तुझ्या हातावर जोजवून घेऊ !

घेशील का लवकर पदरात

सांगशील का हळुच कानात?

The Birth of A People | Pranav Bhagat

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

It was only after their rivers began to run black with pyre-ash, and their graveyards grew to cities sprawling wide, that they, seeking an end to their misery, turned their fury upon those long dead – their forefathers.

In the memory of their forefathers, they had waged eternal war amongst themselves. For their glory and their honour, age after age had butchered its children; and weeping, mourning its loss, had sworn vengeance, and stabbed itself in the heart – again, and again, and again. Till in the blood-frenzy all-consuming, all that was innocent got corrupted and all that was delicate withered away, leaving them feral and ruthless capable of feeling only hatred.

They hated; violently breeding to further their creed, they hated even as they made love; they hated; they could not love.

But then there came a time when throats were being slit faster than the bodies could be buried, or burnt and their ashes scattered; and so the pile of the naked dead kept mounting higher, higher still.

It was only then, when the smell of the corpses grew so pungent, that not even the most steadfast in their hatred could deny, all rotting corpses smelt alike-- no matter the faction, no matter the creed-- that they wondered: had they been lied to? If in death all their distinctions faded away, then…

Then their differences might not be as insurmountable as they had thought.

Was there really no hope of reconciliation?

They looked about, and the devastation they had wrought upon themselves became apparent.

Who remembered who had drawn first blood? Ten thousand years of war, and now no one did. But since then, genocide had followed conquest had followed genocide had followed conquest; and their history, a panegyric on blood and hate, bequeathed from father to son, had sowed the seeds of inherited war; till now, when all that was good had perished.

The books of history would have to be burnt then, and their deceiving truths buried; their forefathers would have to be killed, or else they would sing their symphonies for ever-more, and their wars would have no end.

So they tore down their monuments.

Beautiful palaces of marble so serene, as if made of clouds plucked from the heavens and compressed to brick, were broken down to rubble, the rubble pounded to dust and blown away with the wind. For they were too reminiscent of the kings of old, who had raised massive armies, and waged terrible wars, and taught their subjects that the art of war was a noble art and a virtuous art. War had to be forgotten, and so these ancient kings had to be forgotten.

Even so, they razed their own cities to the ground. They did this with some remorse, for these cities had not been lacking at all in splendour, and had been home to great poets and great thinkers in the ages past. Once perhaps even lovers would’ve sauntered through their gardens, and children, happy, frolicked on their streets-- but now these cities were the legacy of death and slaughter, and the stench of blood had taken root deep within their walls. They razed them to the ground, and on their blood-drunk earth grew forests thick and wild, that obscured them from view; the most desperate seeker would not find their site.

Then they had to lose their faith. Zealotry had caused so much woe, that they could not possibly risk the remembrance of their gods. Even the most devout suffered to blaspheme against their deities. They broke the idols of their gods and ripped in two the books of wisdom which through the centuries had been handed down to them, with life preserved against famine and flood. They consoled their mourning selves, by swearing that they would write their myths anew and found a new religion incapable of perversion. But in their hearts, they knew that a godless world would likely be less sinful than their faithful one.

At last, with trembling hands, they raised to their lips draughts of amnesia; they had to become orphans now, in memory at least if not in birth. The draught would make them forget clan and family. With trembling hands, and souls that writhed, cried out in torment at the thought of forgetting their forefathers. Their forefathers, they pled to them for forgiveness, for mercy; and cursed them for all of their suffering.

They faltered; they could not--theirs’ was a dying world, but must all die? Could not the faintest memory remain, the last miserable remnant of a fallen world? But it would spread, and it would breed; from a single drop the blood-seed would build itself again, and sing; till the last stinking corpse rotted bloodless.

Forgiveness, O you that were glory! Forgiveness, O you that were honour! What end could be to total war but total death?

So they gulped down the fiery liquid and burned away their mothers and their fathers from their hearts.

And so they were liberated.

They had no recollection of their past selves now; the world before had turned to ash and dust. With vacant eyes they looked about, not knowing kith and kin, not knowing how to raise a sword nor knowing whom to raise a sword for. With everything else, War had died, Misery had died. Once they were fallen, but now they knew nothing of their fall and so were risen again. As innocent children, they were-- one with the wind, and the earth, and the sun. And one with each other.

Seven Drops of Rain | Sharan Rao

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

Seven drops of rain

land gently on my hand,

each one, I see,

has its own, unique beauty.

The first is so well groomed,

and perfectly round;

it looks like it’s seen the world

and travelled all around.

The second moves mischievously,

like a playful child,

naïve and trusting,

but carefree and wild.

The third sits quietly

on my palm,

perfectly still,

content and calm.

The fourth is simply lovely

to look upon,

to mesmerize the senses

it seems to have been born.

The fifth looks awkward

but also shows a quality rare,

for it shields the others

with great love and care.

Number six appears to be in a fix,

for it knows not what to do,

but as it finds its niche,

it surpasses the others too.

The last, clear like the purest stream,

though hollow and empty it does seem,

with the brilliance of every quality stands tall,

like the light of wisdom that resides in all.

There Are Wars Brewing, They Say | Riya Roy

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

My uncle gulping down

shots of whiskey neat

growls how we need more wars.

My cousin agrees,

while I see in a distance,

homes lit up, one moment,

in flames, the next,

generations of men and women

charred, their skins, marrows, hopes

up in smokes,

wreaths in a sky

that is still everyone's.

The room falls quiet,

redolent of the hours

after a massacre, a stench

of rotten fruits in the kitchen

where a spread is being cooked

for the goddess has returned from a battle.

At the dinner table,

we don't lift our heads,

but instead stare

at our plates as if the food

would rearranfe itself into atlases

guiding us to each other.

My mother lifts her glass

to the sky, and for the nth time,

we let an empty prayer of words

we never use otherwise

infiltrate the frontlines

of silence between us.

There are wars brewing, they say,

and in every newspaper we read,

we look for footprints muddy

on the porch so that

they can be cleaned

before the whole house gets dirty.

But these heavy trails

are carried on shoulders of the air,

stuffing our lungs like cigarrette smoke.

And only when short of breath,

we start looking for peace like lost keys

to a room which like my uncle's heart

remains bolted from inside.

My Devices Control Me | Shalini Chhabra

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

My devices complete me

I think

I have forgotten what it is like

To think ‘just with my mind’

My devices are like an extension of my brain

Hosting memories

And a one step away search

I register sound of a notification

Much before the sound of the sparrow that perched.

In any conversation,

I have words on the tip of my tongue, well almost

But I hardly can say it through and through

If I am stuck for a second

Google comes to my rescue

Ensuring I don’t trouble my mind a lot

I take this help unapologetically

Without a doubt

I hear people around

But I seldom really listen

Because the reels in my phone

Have me engaged and smitten

With half hearted attention

And earplugs-in

added with

Almost zilch observation

I walk around.

I haven’t been hit by a vehicle so far

Makes me astound

Losing my train of thought

Is an often occurrence in life

Anxiety, panic

Seem to be my partners for life

When I am listening to you

My mind is hardly in ‘that moment’

I am like a moon of thought

Oscillating between full and crescent

These devices surely give us a long vision

But a callous nearby sight

My shallow opinions

Are just a google way

Blurring my wrong and right

And, I don’t seek mental help

Because it plays down the

happy illusion I have built

I don’t apologize, I don’t confess

I prefer my old friend guilt

You know,

Not just me,

But a thousand clones of me

Though we are all

drowning in this abyss together

But no one seems to be keen

to swim out from this pretentious sea.

Dear reader, care to drive me out

to an island where I am just me

Where I feel the winds

the sun

and the laps of the sea

Where I control my devices

and the devices don't control me.

Nostalgia is the devil | Gillian D'Souza

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

I’ve always felt good health

is a wickedly funny thing.

People wish her well, and

laud her wellbeing at 95.

My begrudging smile, now

a dreary disguise, for

things they don’t know, for

this ache we gatekeep

behind old, frail doors.

Nocturnal nights. Rare

when she remembers me.

Incessant wailing, hysteria.

Her nails gnaw at my skin.

And soon realization dawns

that we’ll ever be bound:

her fading mind and my guilt.

Fragments of my grandma

to which I cling desperately

with gloom. Some days I’m

her mother or her sister,

donning new hats, and

learning new tunes.

COVID was the worst of it

and Grandma could not hide

I willed myself not to crumble

as her oxygen levels nosedived.

Yet mine stayed the only voice

she answered to in those weeks;

my shaking hands hid a prayer

in every mouthful I tried to feed.

My face in hopeful disbelief when

her body was no longer blue.

Our doctor called it a miracle;

Who am I to claim that untrue?

Nostalgia is the devil. It tempts

one to forego rationale, all for

some semblance of affection

that may have bid us adieu.

Years later, my parents fight

over a sleeping pill: “Let her age

without burden before this life

sets her still.” Do we pick peace

over morality? Grandma can’t see

nor hear. She only waits and wails,

while we hold on to our nostalgia.

Sky is no longer blue | Prakriti Roy

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

If tomorrow our sky is no longer blue,

The sun will shine upon us directly through,

With its radiation,

Increase in mutation,

Peril will fall upon the world,

Oh please oh please save the world.

Millions of dreams to reach the moon,

Will all fall into the doom,

No longer will float the clouds,

What would we daydream about?

All we'll hear is loud shrills.

From humanity fallen into perils,

Under the direct sun, the trees

Will no longer be home to the bees,

Hearing a distant cry,

Thinking about the efforts I'll try,

Undo the changes of death,

Giving everyone a new breath.

Please Oh Please, let’s wait no further,

Save our earth from this blunder,

Seeing the colourless sky,

Forces me unto cry,

Gone are the days,

I used to look onto the haze,

With a sky blue no more,

This heart gave me a deep sore,

The black outer space,

Is whenever upwards I graze,

Into the emptiness my eyes blink,

Slowly but slowly my pupils shrink,

Filled with tears,

My inner death is near.

Into the old memories I look,

The hopes that it all took,

Gone are all the wishes, shattered are dreams,

Invisible is the bird's swarms,

Lost is the peace of mind,

The culprit is the humankind.

No longer can I imagine,

Destruction of the Earth's eugene,

With the fear in my mind,

It's best left behind,

Thinking about the brighter tomorrow,

Without the blue sky is a sorrow,

Peace be in the land,

Let the happiness expand,

For, If the sky is no longer blue,

Let this verse pass through.

We talked less | Anuja Guha

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

We talked less

Or maybe you didn’t want a mess

I sat beside you

When I thought you should’ve coz it was long overdue

Was it your mood swing

Was it you just being indifferent

Only when I thought It was okay

There it is backfiring right at me

My efforts are never enough

Thinking about it makes my day rough

Seems like you’re happier with others

Or maybe for you nothing matters

We talked less!

Because there was stress

Stress that smirked

Like it won every time we were irked