Tales of a Fading Landscape | Akshaya Ambati

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

All the colors of this universe

swirl about me

like every emotion in my heart

This lively world surrounds my being,

like a vibrant reminder,

that it all will be here

long after my brief stay is over.

And I am gone or will it?

The sun, once radiant, now peeks

through a canopy of fresh green leaves.

A blushing bride veiled in morning’s tender light,

grinning at all.

The birds' nests, masterpieces hanging and swaying

on the lofty coconut tree like Christmas ornaments.

The fallen leaves on the ground gaze upwards with nostalgia

Admiring the fully grown plant above,

like proud ancestors from the heavens

The rain reminds me of my mother,

pouring life into the whole world.

The wind, orchestrating a magical dance,

yet its tune now carries a mournful melody of change

Every inch of nature that brings back memories of life,

seems to be fading out.

The once-fresh leaves seem to be out of color

on the branchless tree, resembling a slowly dying heart.

Those marvy nests were crushed under the very things

the birds had named their home.

The leaves on the ground no longer have anyone to look up to.

The very rain that poured life looks like it is trying to sink everything.

Is it my mother I am supposed to blame for causing that

or my fellow siblings for being the mere cause of all destruction?

Unsmoked air I once used to breathe without having to pay a penny,

now in those ridiculously looking cylinders for how much?

Comes at a price.

That sweet water I used to drink right from my mother

is now imprisoned in those wickedly smiling beasts

that even when thrown, stay right there,

ending lives that aren’t even born.

The very home of my nameless friends,

where they were nurtured and spent their time,

transformed into a memory, themselves included.

A LITERAL GRAVEYARD! With not even a hint of their graves mourn upon.

How will I be remembered if even my mother is not recognized?

After all, she’s a mother and she has given life to all.

But now smoldering ruins have taken her place

Once healthy and growing now is lost to decay and death

A Loss | Karnika Singh

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

Loss is a tragedy

Every single time

No matter how much

Of it becomes a pattern

Or a part of life

You cannot see

the wounds

You Cannot hear

the screams

Still, more than you can ever imagine

Loss hurts

Caged like a prisoner,

In a foreign body,

Adroitly witnessing.

An impostor,

to my restless thoughts.

A deep wound

Like an object

Strikes my body

and only I get to watch

watch and feel

the Deep cuts

and broken bones

Constructing me frail,

so accessible

I gladly let it

Pierce my skin

While I twist in pain

Abandoned and alone

I am a spectator

a spectator of my pain

Closely watching

a Pattern

of lying and deception

Now I lie, Shattered,

Shattered next to my open wound

I feel everything

Blood running deeply through my nerves

Nerves running diagonally from my brain

on to the neck and stomach

and yet I feel so numb

Like I have been buried

for so long

but sometimes

sometimes you can watch too

my outbursts

my withdrawal

my insomnia

my denial

lasting for months

months and years

do you see it?

do you see how my body is holding on,

tightly to my heart,

In fear that it might shatter,

Shatter And fall apart

Bound so firmly,

I'm engulfed

Engulfed by the weight,

Suffocated by the grip of loss,

And I'd bear the stains.

Vocation | Subhadra Chatterjee

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

What do I do for work you ask?

I embroider constellations on

On the dark velvet of midnight skies;

Sometimes I sing to wild deer and

Draw motifs on their silken skin.

Mornings, I collect dews from grass to

Quench the thirst of birds, parched from

Singing all dawn, waking up Gods and us.

Afternoons I smell old books with old rose,

Old leaves and yellowed love letters, hidden

Between pages, talking of longing and loss.

Evenings are busy too; moons come to

Consult on shapes, and on whether to

Hide, or to help lovers in the dark, seek.

I rest at night on sands under palms and

Fronds bow low to tickle my brow.

Rest apart, play apart, musings,ministrations,

And mindful distraction from being thrown

Amidst so much beauty and joy apart,

What do I really do for work you ask?

Kinstugi | Indra Das

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

They always said,

A girl is good

when she sticks

to rules and norms.

I think you had enough of dos,

go out, embrace the don’ts,

it’s time now to raise a storm.

You are free to choose your Gods,

faith is supposed to make you stronger.

But if they try to colour you red or green,

give it back hard to the hate monger.

Be respectful to your elders

and bow down to touch their feet,

but when that old uncle tries to grope you,

don’t spare him, make him bleed.

Ask your questions, push the boundaries,

the road to your freedom will always be steep

Wear hijab or a skirt, or dress like a cowgirl,

your choices are yours to keep.

Be kind to the needy,

gentle to the weak,

lend your shoulder to the feeble and old.

But don’t be a Cinderella or a Snow white,

It doesn’t quite work these days

Make yourself fierce and bold.

Break the limits they put in your mind.

Why just fly when you can soar,

Why believe in a myth called equality?

Why settle for less you are many times more.

The Endless Loop of 'Maybes' | Jyothi Swaroop Makena

I’m thirteen,

And although we’ve been living together

For as long as I can remember,

I still talk about it through maybes.

Maybe it’s like being stuck in a labyrinth;

No matter how hard you try,

You can never find your way out of it.

Maybe it is having four cookies in your evening snack

Instead of three;

Not because they taste good (Sorry Mom)

But for the sake of your own mental peace.

Maybe it is being forced to view

Every human touch

As a source of infection,

Rather than as a sense of affection.

Maybe it is obsessing over the heart-shaped birthmark

On her neck;

Or maybe it is kissing her lips again and again,

Till your mind conceives it to be perfect.

Maybe it is waking up at 5:55 exact each morning

And going to bed at 11:11 exact each night

And spending the six hours and forty-four minutes in between

Trying to convince yourself,

That your hands are clean.

Maybe it is coming all the way down

From your house on the seventh floor,

Only,

To end up back at your main door;

Just to ensure,

That it’s properly locked.

Maybe it is biting your lip until it bleeds

When your friend uses incorrect grammar.

Maybe it is the anxious look in your father’s eyes

When he takes you to a party,

Praying that your “disease” stays put so that

You don’t embarrass him in front of everybody.

Maybe it is quite evident,

Or maybe I’m very good at hiding it.

But the fact of the matter is,

I’ve been living with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder

Almost my entire life.

You see,

When you are at the mercy of OCD,

Rational thinking takes a back seat.

A feeling of impending doom grips your heart,

As if everything in your life is going to fall apart.

When you are at the mercy of OCD,

Your mind becomes a ticking bomb,

Bustling, with endless recurring thoughts.

But the only time

I am not at the mercy of it,

Is when I bleed poetry.

Maybe the only ritual I perform,

Not in response to my obsessions.

So, as these words come flowing out

From the bottom of my heart,

I have a small message to attach on my part;

Please, stop saying you have “a little OCD” just because

You prefer being organised and clean.

Let this poem remind you,

That OCD is no joke or a hashtag for a meme.

You see,

OCD can never be cured entirely.

But with patience and proper therapy,

You can control how much it controls you.

But if that day ever comes to pass,

When I can part ways with my OCD,

I’ll embrace it with open arms;

And start a new life without it.

The Peacock Plume | Sudesha Das

I woke up at midnight, I couldn’t sleep

I coughed and coughed and breathed deep.

Insomnia? Tuberculosis? Whatever you call

It was a mental malaise before all.

A legacy or an irony of fate?

I had myself lost in the Lethe land

Failing to recognize my familiar look!

The Peacock Plume, long and delicate

Stood against the wall, sprouting from a pen-stand

Amidst the dust smelling pile of books.

I had bought it from an antique shop

Without a purpose. It looked grand

With the sapphire blue sparkling atop

And the flickering, emerald strands.

“It has a divine power!”- The shop man

Tried to lure. I held it gently

Between my fingers and my fate.

Since then, the Peacock Plume, higher than

The mountains and the peepal tree

Stood between two successive sunsets.

It glowed during my eclipse

With its innate radiance,

Its’ shadows loomed large

To have all the evils, purged.

I stared and stared, before I could dare

Ask what divine power it bore.

I couldn’t help feeling awe!

Unmoved, it kept swinging in the air -

O Krishna! My health and heart restored

Amidst the world’s wonted woes.

portrait of a woman on her deathbed | Sonal K

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

picture the following: august 2020,

the country still in the first blush of disaster.

my grandmother, lying still and pale,

pale wires streaming from her wrists, her mouth.

the lower edge of her hospital gown had crumpled,

from my seat, I could see the starburst of scarring

at her ankles, the skin violently red and tight.

my mother explained to me, later, that my grandmother

had tried to get a job once, and had been burnt for it

by her family. this was hard to imagine: my grandmother

had never struck me as progressive. as a child,

she had forbade me from playing too long, warned me

against making friends with boys. only a few days before,

right before the ambulance had come for her, she had

only stopped crying long enough to grip my hand,

and beg me to obey my parents and to marry a good man.

she had never been the kind of indulgent grandmother

that my friends bragged about; she was irritable and strict,

loudly suspicious of everything and everyone. but now,

I couldn’t help but think of how everyone said

that i looked just like her – was that what she feared,

all those times she told me to be obedient, to be quiet,

to sit still? did she see me, and think of that scar,

still unfaded 50 years later? in the end, there wasn’t time to ask.

she was gone the next morning, quieter than she’d ever been.

Love Left Unrequited | Aanya Bajaj

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

I can't see those pink skies anymore,

Clouds don’t wanna pour rain anymore,

Cheery blossoms don’t bloom anymore,

The birds don’t wanna love anymore.

I don’t exist in your life anymore.

I wake up and fall in love with you every day, every hour, every minute, every second

I wake up and think about your fav things

your red jersey,

Our cute pics,

And that “1’ song

I wake up and choose to read your fav childhood book

I wake up with the hope that today will be the day we can talk again,

While getting ready to get even more attached -----again

I signed up for Love,

Not for a 1-month subscription or a heartbreak,

I did not sign up for a story of us that couldn’t even write its first page.

“If you love something, let it go, it will come back to you if it’s yours”

But I’m scared if I let you go I will never see you again

And I can’t afford to lose and never see that

beautiful smile of yours

That wavy hair

Your pretty eyes and that red phone

You said "forever" with a smile,

But in a month, it was over, with a knife inside my heart and mind.

"I don't wanna go to sleep tonight," you said,

"Let's stay up and talk instead."

I stayed awake, lost in your eyes,

With open wide eyes,

Thinking this love would never die.

But now I’m left alone with the part of me, my heart that’s missing inside you.

The only thing that makes me not want to get over what we had is the “hope”

Hope that one day you would actually text first,

Hope that I start seeing those pink skies way more,

Hope that the clouds start raining downpour

Hope that cherry blossoms bloom,

Their soft pink petals, a lovely plume.

Hope that The birds become the love birds they are supposed to be

And I Hope that 1 day you would like to complete the book

, so pure and sweet.

A book with hundreds of chapters, just us,

A tale of two hearts, bound in trust.

Sky, Moon and Stars | Riddhi Sharma

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

Illuminating Moon,

Sparkling Stars,

Making Sky Beautiful.

The Stars Shine Bright,

Moon Lighting Up,

But None Knowing

Their Pain.

So Today The Sky Recites

Tales Of Moon And Stars.

A Huge Particle

Getting Burnt

Fragment By Fragment

Then Becoming A Beauty

With Hidden Pain - The Star.

A Body With No Light

Filled With Scars

Yet Borrowing Light

Just To Illuminate Happiness

In Spite Of Being In Darkness - The Moon.

You Can Never Know

The Pain Of Star and Moon.

They Accompany

Each Other In Sorrow.

But Now The Sky Is Born

To Hold Both Of Them

In Its Endless Space.

A Message to Moon And Star:

Now You Can Rely On Me,

The Sky.

I See A Rainbow | Sunita Sahoo

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

Rainbow up there, why do I see?

Oh! Don't bother, a dream it must be!

Muffled screams, handcuffed hopes

Lekker memories splotched with concupiscent gropes!

Rainbow up there, why do I see?

Have the angels finally heard my plea?

Scarred and bruised, tattered and torn

Forever wondering, "Why was I even born?"

Rainbow up there, why do I see?

Someone must be playing naughty tricks on me!

Devoid of colors, my wretched life stinks

They must be right, addressing me as jinx!

Rainbow up there, why do I see?

A sanguine sign, perhaps? But no one will agree!

For rainbows are only for maidens chaste

Impious they call me for having satiated a devil's carnal taste!

Rainbow up there, why do I see?

Ah! Breaking the shackles, I'm finally free!

You can call me a whore, a scum

I no longer care, for my soul has sniffed the smell of freedom!

Awaiting Your Homecoming | Dr Krishnapriya Sajith

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

As I glance upon your pale face,

Whilst you lay enclosed in a box; your eternal personal space,

I refuse to believe what I see,

I cannot accept reality,

For I still remember the first time I saw you;

You were crying, so full of life.

Dear daughter,

You were my bundle of joy...

You grew up to be intelligent, beautiful and coy,

But you grew up way too fast...

Wherever you went, you attracted the crowd,

Of you, dear daughter, I was so proud...

On that fateful day,

As I packed food for your journey

And ordered you around,

When you were, for your first flight bound,

Little did I know,

That down to you, one day, heads would bow...

When you were in a rush,

Reassuring me with a playful hush,

Little did I know, dear daughter,

That I would never hear again

Your lovely voice, your lively laughter...

As I wished you luck and brushed your hair,

And told you once again, to take care,

You smiled, nodded and kissed my cheek,

Little did I know then,

That it was the last time

That you performed that mime...

As you packed your bags

and left for the airport

You looked so pretty, so smart.

Little did I know then,

That, of history, you would become a part...

As I awaited your homecoming,

I grew restless and agitated,

For a mother's instinct told me

That doom was impending...

The news of the hijack

Struck me like a thunderbolt!

The agony, the despair, the restlessness,

Nothing can compare to the helplessness

That weighed down my heart, my very soul,

As I prayed for your safety,

Pleading with every single Deity...

As I look upon your lifeless form,

Dear daughter,

I can only curse the blessed bullets;

They took your life, but spared many others,

In the process, making you immortal...

Dear daughter,

Oh how I wish I didn't have to bid you farewell!

I would much rather await your homecoming,

Even if it meant waiting forever...

Night Blooming Jasmine | Rajni Tiwari

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

A brave soldier, won several battles

Several bruises and injuries,

Mark the history of Aryavarta.

One whose footprints, shake the earth beneath.

Whose sword, as swift as the wind.

One who smells of dried blood.

The armour encircling his firm chest.

The curly hair, drifts along the wind.

Eyes sharp as a sword.

Coming back home after the victory,

Missing the old flames of love.

Awaiting the soft touch from the beloved.

Trespassing the mind with the touch of wind.

The sudden usurpation of mind and soul,

But, night having a different plan ahead,

With the victor being abducted.

Losing the battle, and himself.

The hands and feet, tied,

Blindfolded under the sky,

Thrown at an uninhabited Island.

Like caging a raging lion,

He screams to ask for help,

All efforts in vain!

The seagulls making noise,

The gravitating drizzle,

Dancing on the topsoil.

The soil smells rainy,

I hear light footsteps approaching.

Slowly and steadily,

I ask for the identity.

The visitor keeps silence,

And takes a round around me,

While I feel the presence known.

The visitor throws liquid on my chest,

It smells of the known fragrance.

And takes the sword out my waist,

Slides it around my throat,

Hurting a bit!

Making the victor feel vulnerable,

Unarmed, tied, kneeled and blindfolded.

The sudden burst of flowers,

And a tilak between the brows,

And the red color all over the face.

Perhaps, the preparation to sacrifice.

The visitor unties the hand from the sword,

Keeping the sword on my throat,

Not allowing the hostage to unblindfold.

I, pretending to be scared,

Turn the table around,

Holding the pretty visitor in my arms.

The only one who could dare to abduct,

The Victor!

Hugging from behind, giggling together

Her night-blooming perfume,

Making the surroundings fragrant.

Her warm eyes, my cold blood

Meeting after a long dry spell.

The swan shaped wooden ship,

Awaiting the sailors on the shore.

I lift the night-blooming in my arms,

And take her to the ship,

The oceanic gales await,

To drench the voyagers.

Making me sit on the throne,

She dances around me.

Filling my colourless soul with colors.

The Ocean of love!

Drugged by her whirlwinds,

Like the Earth dancing around the Sun.

The white-golden dress,

The golden jewellery around her neck,

Sparkling around her olive Asian skin.

The bioluminescent oceanic waters,

Sparkling with the raindrops,

Jealous of her effortless luminescence.

She comes close with her light,

To perform Hindu ritual of worship,

With a lit earthen lamp, flowers and tilak,

Celebrating the coming of beloved.

The raging oceanic gales,

The rising tides of love under the Blue Moon,

Drench the visitor and the victor.

The battlefield of love!

Await the love making amidst the ocean,

Just below the blue sparkling skies.

The raging water, getting colder with night.

The dolphins dancing around the ship.

The darkness of the night,

Dark enough to see,

Only eyes, meeting eyes.

The Moon and stars know the stories,

Unheard and unseen to others.

Forgotten Joys of Life | Shruthi Puthran

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

One evening after a busy day,

I sip my coffee

as I look outside my window

at this huge tree

with squirrels moving around...

It seemed as if

one of them wanted to

have a squeak speak with me,

reminding me

It's okay to be a little nuts.

After all, we forget to appreciate

little moments of joy,

rather spend more time

cribbing about

shortcomings of life.

Remember the Misty morning walks?

when we watched glassy dews

dance on the edges of the leaves!

The rainy evening snacks

while we sailed along

those tiny paper boats...

Flying kites during summer holidays

giving a devil may care attitude

to the bright sun!

Climbing those huge trees

with no fear of falling

and breaking bones!

Piling up seven stones

while running from the opponent

in the game of Lagori!

Pelting random stones

at those delicious mangoes

on the way to school..

These memories never fail

to bring an instant smile

on our face and in hearts,

healing us within,

as it takes us back to

those beautiful days...

I opened my eyes

reminiscing those days,

grinning from ear to ear

As I sat down

and started staring

at my laptop again!

My Beautiful Lady | Chitra Kohli

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

Supreme and white,

Bright like the first sun sight.

Calm and composed,

Pretty as a rose.

Sweet and Supple,

Iridescent as a bubble.

That's how dreamy,

Is my beautiful lady.

Chitter and chatter,

A voice that could flatter.

Round and pale ,

Eyes with a heavenly glaze.

Sculpted and fresh,

A face so perfect.

That's how charming,

Is my beautiful lady.

Sensitive and quite,

An ultimate delight.

Rough and tough,

A woman that tenderly love.

Respectable and humble,

Can make your heart crumble.

That's how crafty,

Is my beautiful lady.

Warm and Compassionate,

With hugs so great.

Lyrical and playable,

Like a good night fable.

Devoting and nurturing,

A universe within.

That's how motherly,

Is my mother, My beautiful Lady.

would you call it hope? | Chinmayi Gummaraju

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

standing on the edge of a balcony,

a thought climbing up

and another climbing down

half way through,

contemplating on the easier path.

courage could get the feet back on the ground

or might make it in disrepair as intended to;

shaking, kind to self yet impervious.

having chosen a different direction,

they walk with sheer will,

hoping someday that the heart wouldn't tremble.

विच्छेद | Sunita Singh

THE FOLLOWING POEMS WERE SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

प्रेम जितना मोहक रूप में आया था,

उतना ही दर्दनाक रूप से ओझल हुआ,

धीरे - धीरे, आत्मा में अनगिनत सुइयां चुभोते हुए

एक - एक नस की, एक - एक बूँद निचोड़ते हुए।

कलेजा चीरती आह की आखिरी सीमा

गले में विराजित स्वर-ग्रन्थि ही तो थी।

उस सीमा के बाहर तो सब सामान्य था

जैसे सुबह काम पर जाते और शाम को घर लौटते लोग,

जैसे किसी बिरहन की अनसुनी फरियाद,

जैसे असाध्य रोग से पीड़ित का धीरे-धीरे

अपनी ओर बढ़ती मौत की प्रतीक्षा,

जैसे निर्दयी शत्रु के आगे की गयी हृदय - विदारक प्रार्थना।

प्रेम मांगने पर नहीं मिलता, सच है साथी

पर बिन मांगे भी तो ठुकराया जाता है,

विस्थापन और निष्कासन का दर्द झेलता है।

कहाँ तो चाहत तुम्हारी आत्मा पर आधिपत्य की थी,

गहरे अन्तर में एक ठोस सार्थक जगह की थी,

लेकिन मिले क्या, आग में तपकर सुर्ख लाल

ज़हर बुझे अनगिनत शब्द-बाण

गहरी उदासीनता के बरसते काँटों से बने कोड़े

जो कलेजे पर ऐसे लगते कि गहरा आघात दे जाते

नासूर बनने वाले घाव दे जाते।

मन से लेकर आत्मा तक छाले ही छाले, फूटते फफोले,

पतझड़ के मुरझाये फूलों की तरह

चारों ओर धूल - धूसरित दृश्य ।

चाहत की अदृश्य बेड़ियों के

मोहपाश में जकड़ी विवश आत्मा

जिस के पास आगे बढ़ने का रास्ता नहीं

और पीछे हटने की शक्ति नहीं

अपने ही अस्तित्व को ठोकर मारकर

आँखों के सागर में ज्वार-भाटा उठा देती,

आश्चर्य ये कि सतह तक तूफान कभी-कभी

और वह भी छद्म वेश में ही आ पाया।

बाकी तो सब ठीक रहा साथी।

ठीक इसलिए भी, कि तुम्हें कभी समझ ही नहीं आया

या आकर भी अनजान बने रहे तुम ।

प्रेम की लौ बुझने को है साथी,

बुझ गयी तो किसी जतन से जला न सकोगे।

दफन हुए दुख की आहें सम्पूर्ण सृष्टि में फैल जाएंगी

भले ही तुम्हें सुनायी न दें

पर मुझमें कुछ हमेशा के लिए मर जाएगा।

सामन्तीपन से तुम प्रेम में भी उबर नहीं पाये,

अब गये हो, तो कभी लौट के मत आना,

क्योंकि अब पहले जैसा कुछ भी नहीं रहेगा।

Father and Son

So sweet sounds the relation, 

Between a father and a son, 

Father from the falling rain, 

From the sore of soaring pain

Saves sibling, put umbrella, over son

Gets wet with, weather’s cloud- gun.

Caring the quite cute,

With noble intentions mute, 

What not the fathers do?

For advancing further to, 

At the height of the sun,

For the kid’s prospective run.

No one can pay the debt, 

In the mind all accept,

Early or when father left, 

Need is a pleasure inject, 

In life of that living god, 

Before he goes far - abroad.

Temple bell ring echo sound

Pecking sparrows on ground

coal smoke from tea stall

Bargad Neem or tree small

Eve diyas in earthen pot

With father became a lot.

My thoughts often recall

All events big or small

For me whatever you did

Since I opened my eye lid

As told by mom to me

and later as I saw thee.

Every morning very early

When sleep was awesome dearly

Mom unable to make us rise

Sweet dreams were in surprise

One call from you O Father,

Blankets thrown by us with power.

Respect as well was there

Wrapped in fear's sphere

Brushing or washing the face

All cores were done in pace

We sat around the study table

Books opened muting in-rebel.

Muttering then tough formulas

History Lat long science clause

In between taking some nap

When found your presence gap

Untill got some pat and slap

Laziness then had to wrap.

From the office when you came

Our play-end time was the same

Daily you brought some snacks 

Sat with us to fill up gaps

Talking on what matters to us

Showing ways and holding thus.

Mom was soft but you were hard

Made us tough rough and smart

Mom sighed in tears when I got wound

From you 'nothing happened' sound

I and sis were lucky to have you both 

In balancing match to smoothen growth.

That chat stall or toy's shop, 

Winter fog and Ram-Leela stop

In rush I sat on your shoulder

To see the Act and Mela wonder

Or holding one of your finger

Ah, that feel of safty from danger.

You never imposed your ambition

Nor told to follow family tradition

Saved us from breaking stuff

Pain, grief or surface rough

You made us search our space

To find ourselves with grace.

Deepu, my friend committed suicide

I knew he was his father's pride

He was more talented than me

Had in Kota coaching distinct glee

But a high dose of expectation

Led him to acute depression.

Alas! he wouldn't have suppressed his plea

And would have told something to me

Certainly I would have shared it with you

So that his father you may have talked to

So he would have been today with us

Would have surpassed pressure thus.

The Thought of Knowing Home | Mallikarjun Pandya

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

And I no longer look for you.

I no longer look for you in form,

with your white walls coated

in a fading paint of green,

or linens hanging on windows

that let the sunlight seep in.

And I no longer look for you,

in the alleys of restaurants and bars;

in the old buildings,

and the million stories that live within,

or the one's outside,

flashing past me on this river

of concrete.

and I never looked for you in churches,

in temples, in mosques,

in idols, or the images of the gods

and I no longer look for you in shapes -

in flights, in cars, in bikes

arriving and leaving from the coffee shops,

and I no longer look for you there,

when I hear her sing

nor when she leaves,

and the air is vacant for a moment,

till a new voice fills,

and even in that moment vacant -

I do not look for you.

I do not imagine you as I wake,

I do not remember you as I sleep,

I do not recall you in my dreams -

I do not dream of you, and if I do,

I remind myself that you are a dream,

and as

I no longer look for you,

the winds bring you to me -

and I find you in the whiff off an idli

from a roadside store,

and I find you in the scent

a story flashing past me wore,

and I find you

when the earth smells of the earth,

and I find you

when someone laughs a little hoarse.

And as I no longer look for you

in shapes or in forms,

I find you,

and I smile at the thought of knowing home.

Serve Me With All of It | Mishika Gandhi

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

Serve me with all of it

Not just with flowers and wine,

Make love with my sweating flesh,

And gushing soul

Making sounds of utmost delight

Let me rise slowly

And breathe in the freshness of your vibe, of your chirping in my ear in the dim starry night

Serve me with the sweet odour

Of your fingers crawling through my cheeks, finding their way in my messy hair.

In every whisper I hear a voice

Through your mesmerising eyes, through those lips parting slowly placing them on mine

Serve me with the power to move down

the gulfs of your soul

With all my rushing heart and letting the tears flow

Making it clearer to see through the eyes

Let me serve you with all of it

All of it this time

محفل خوشرنگ | Iqbal Ahmad

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

یہ گل کیوں محفل خوشرنگ مے خاموش رہتا ہے

گلستاں مے نہیں کھلکے یہ کیوں صحرا مے کھلتا ہے

اسے آتا نہیں کیوں اپنے ہی نازیوں پی اٹھلانا

ہے اسکی آرزو ظلمت مے اپنی خوشبو پھیلانا

بڑا کمظرف پیمانہ ہے خود کو آنکنے کا یہ

کی ساری امر اپنی رنگ و بو پی خود ہی اٹھلانا

ہر اک دن بولتا ہے مجھسے کچھ سورج کا ڈھال جانا

سفر کر کے کسی دن بستروں مے تھک کے سو جانا

بہت دوری سے آوازیں بڈی مشکل سے آتی ہیں

مجھے ہے یاد میرے ماں باپ کا کھانسی سے مر جانا

میرے گھر کے کی کونوں مے اب تک رات پھیلی ہے

کہاں ممکن ہے جگنوں کا پھر اپنے گھر سے اد جانا

اقبال احمد