Showing posts with label Poetry 2017 Shortlist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry 2017 Shortlist. Show all posts
Thursday, 25 October 2018
Monday, 25 September 2017
Poetry 2017 Shortlist, Tanya
To you, my special poison
Let me rip off the sanity badge and come out in the battleground,
Let me soak my hands in the blood that runs in my veins and paint you a picture today,
Take a backseat for once baby; sit still, while I create a piece of art
You’ve had your days and your nights and you did well,
You’ve been able to null my senses and enslaved me for days and nights, without an ounce of doubt
Yes, the smell of victory is a treat of sorts, isn’t it?
But tonight, I am not folding in, tonight; I am not letting you cripple my bones,
Tonight I am not letting my mind lose itself to the chaos of your music
Tonight I am not letting you lift my hand and put it over my lips to stop it from making a sound
that disturbs the noise that identifies with you in my head
Tonight, my love, I am not letting you crawl into my bed and sleep next to me
Tonight, I am high on my flaws, my rage and my demons,
Tonight, I am drowned in myself and I refuse to look up.
Let me rip off the sanity badge and come out in the battleground,
Let me soak my hands in the blood that runs in my veins and paint you a picture today,
Take a backseat for once baby; sit still, while I create a piece of art
You’ve had your days and your nights and you did well,
You’ve been able to null my senses and enslaved me for days and nights, without an ounce of doubt
Yes, the smell of victory is a treat of sorts, isn’t it?
But tonight, I am not folding in, tonight; I am not letting you cripple my bones,
Tonight I am not letting my mind lose itself to the chaos of your music
Tonight I am not letting you lift my hand and put it over my lips to stop it from making a sound
that disturbs the noise that identifies with you in my head
Tonight, my love, I am not letting you crawl into my bed and sleep next to me
Tonight, I am high on my flaws, my rage and my demons,
Tonight, I am drowned in myself and I refuse to look up.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist, Smruti Mahankali,
Clocks
In a gush of silence from the percussive noise
And the psychedelic lights of the city,
I shut out the world. The only sound –
Like a heartbeat, a wall clock.
My constant companion.
The ticking clock reminds me that nothing stops
For me to catch a breath.
There was a clock then too:
His grandmother’s. Ticking like old clocks do,
It sat there measuring a newfound dampness
In the meeting of thighs.
It must have struck three,
As he brought his lips down on mine.
I grinned at the possibilities,
As my fingers found his neck.
The whispers of confused hopes,
Long lost fantasies, and
Heartbeats like tribal symphonies
For a ritual dance.
The next time I saw him, his arms around her,
I knew that I would plunge
into the jaws of an unknown beast.
That when talons would rip through me
I would know how his hands must have touched,
That with the taste of blood, how
His lips would feel.
And the incessant warm throbbing
At the temples, the planes of my chest,
The rips and tears in time.
I lived in the spaces between the clock hands
Forever balancing tricks of the ticking staffs;
One that thrust forward,
And one that pulled away.
There was never enough space to fit us both
In one time, always too much day
At the end of our moments.
Like every hour in every day,
And every day in the year that I knew him,
we moved. Like pendula
that can never stop, swaying between
the ever parting hands, the lips,
and the colliding of wits.
Until finally,
The seconds slipped,
The minutes slid forward
The hours dragged and bodies
Catapulted into each other.
Slick,
Smooth,
Spilling into the pores of one another
The crevices of the mind,
Like corridors of prison buildings,
The rivers of blood to quench our thirst,
The pole star propelling south;
A beacon to mark ritual love,
That has, stubbornly, persisted through darker days.
At the edge of time, the universe shattered.
Distant stars leaned closer
to watch. Weightlessness.
In ripples and waves
The skin stretched, and then stitched
Itself back. And then suddenly,
As if remembering gravity,
We fell together:
Two bags of bones,
Assorted organs, and heightened senses.
The dust had been moved,
From the resting clock,
Time had been snatched,
The fabric of the universe torn.
And then it was done.
Like clock-work feet touched ground,
Arms pieced back and stretched,
Rushed, happy whispers
A prelude to bittersweet goodbyes,
Meaningful, far-sighted glances
That have travelled time and distances
Until the last shuffling of feet.
The curtain falls, life goes on on either side;
A constant reminder that time doesn’t wait
For you to catch a breath,
That there is always a clock, ticking, like clocks do.
I sit in quiet now,
The echoes of my journey
Coursing through my veins,
Pushing blood off the edges,
Past the bits of skin we got all mixed up.
I sit in silence, that weighs
Like your body on mine.
But this time, I sit still,
The only movement, that of the clock hands
As one pushes to meet the other.
In a gush of silence from the percussive noise
And the psychedelic lights of the city,
I shut out the world. The only sound –
Like a heartbeat, a wall clock.
My constant companion.
The ticking clock reminds me that nothing stops
For me to catch a breath.
There was a clock then too:
His grandmother’s. Ticking like old clocks do,
It sat there measuring a newfound dampness
In the meeting of thighs.
It must have struck three,
As he brought his lips down on mine.
I grinned at the possibilities,
As my fingers found his neck.
The whispers of confused hopes,
Long lost fantasies, and
Heartbeats like tribal symphonies
For a ritual dance.
The next time I saw him, his arms around her,
I knew that I would plunge
into the jaws of an unknown beast.
That when talons would rip through me
I would know how his hands must have touched,
That with the taste of blood, how
His lips would feel.
And the incessant warm throbbing
At the temples, the planes of my chest,
The rips and tears in time.
I lived in the spaces between the clock hands
Forever balancing tricks of the ticking staffs;
One that thrust forward,
And one that pulled away.
There was never enough space to fit us both
In one time, always too much day
At the end of our moments.
Like every hour in every day,
And every day in the year that I knew him,
we moved. Like pendula
that can never stop, swaying between
the ever parting hands, the lips,
and the colliding of wits.
Until finally,
The seconds slipped,
The minutes slid forward
The hours dragged and bodies
Catapulted into each other.
Slick,
Smooth,
Spilling into the pores of one another
The crevices of the mind,
Like corridors of prison buildings,
The rivers of blood to quench our thirst,
The pole star propelling south;
A beacon to mark ritual love,
That has, stubbornly, persisted through darker days.
At the edge of time, the universe shattered.
Distant stars leaned closer
to watch. Weightlessness.
In ripples and waves
The skin stretched, and then stitched
Itself back. And then suddenly,
As if remembering gravity,
We fell together:
Two bags of bones,
Assorted organs, and heightened senses.
The dust had been moved,
From the resting clock,
Time had been snatched,
The fabric of the universe torn.
And then it was done.
Like clock-work feet touched ground,
Arms pieced back and stretched,
Rushed, happy whispers
A prelude to bittersweet goodbyes,
Meaningful, far-sighted glances
That have travelled time and distances
Until the last shuffling of feet.
The curtain falls, life goes on on either side;
A constant reminder that time doesn’t wait
For you to catch a breath,
That there is always a clock, ticking, like clocks do.
I sit in quiet now,
The echoes of my journey
Coursing through my veins,
Pushing blood off the edges,
Past the bits of skin we got all mixed up.
I sit in silence, that weighs
Like your body on mine.
But this time, I sit still,
The only movement, that of the clock hands
As one pushes to meet the other.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Romila Chitturi
The Typewriter
In the auction yesterday I got my hands on an old typewriter;
Someone was giving it away to run away from reminiscences of it.
All the letters it must have written,
I am sure, have told some striking love stories.
For me these typewriters are more passionate
Than the leather bound pricey journals and blue pens.
But there is a little bit of something about my cursive script that feels like
I’m just writing all my unsent loving words from my wrist to you and to me
That is a piece of my soul which I can offer to you.
In the auction yesterday I got my hands on an old typewriter;
Someone was giving it away to run away from reminiscences of it.
All the letters it must have written,
I am sure, have told some striking love stories.
For me these typewriters are more passionate
Than the leather bound pricey journals and blue pens.
But there is a little bit of something about my cursive script that feels like
I’m just writing all my unsent loving words from my wrist to you and to me
That is a piece of my soul which I can offer to you.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist R G Kaimal
Springtime
A gentle breeze blew into the room.
It ruffled the leaves and the
flowers in the garden;
her hair, as well.
She smiled, reminded of
her father’s fond gesture.
The breeze strolled through her house
toying with the curtains.
It turned the fans the other way.
The flowers in the vases danced like
those in the garden.
Then, a woodpecker began to call
punctuating the silence
with exclamation marks.
She walked to the window.
A smile adorned her face.
She located the bird
perched in the tree outside.
It was close enough for her
to see the graceful movement of its head
in time to its call.
She settled with some tea on the balcony.
In the distance
there were green fields massaging
her eyes.
Beyond the fields
there was the beginning of
a forest – a line of tall trees
that seemed like sentinels
guarding a secret beyond.
She did not want to know the secret.
She felt that, sometimes,
the unknown was the
cheese on the pizza.
It was Springtime out
in the world,
in her garden,
in her home and
in her heart as well.
A gentle breeze blew into the room.
It ruffled the leaves and the
flowers in the garden;
her hair, as well.
She smiled, reminded of
her father’s fond gesture.
The breeze strolled through her house
toying with the curtains.
It turned the fans the other way.
The flowers in the vases danced like
those in the garden.
Then, a woodpecker began to call
punctuating the silence
with exclamation marks.
She walked to the window.
A smile adorned her face.
She located the bird
perched in the tree outside.
It was close enough for her
to see the graceful movement of its head
in time to its call.
She settled with some tea on the balcony.
In the distance
there were green fields massaging
her eyes.
Beyond the fields
there was the beginning of
a forest – a line of tall trees
that seemed like sentinels
guarding a secret beyond.
She did not want to know the secret.
She felt that, sometimes,
the unknown was the
cheese on the pizza.
It was Springtime out
in the world,
in her garden,
in her home and
in her heart as well.
Poetry 2017 Featured Pragya Joshi
Canopy of Colours
An infinite expanse of swirling colours,
like a surrealist painter’s palette
Starting off as a transparent gray
until the sun infuses it with its vibrancy,
giving the clouds not a silver, but a golden lining
The red and oranges of the morning
dissolve into the bright blue of the noon sky,
and as I squint against the harsh light,
I can see the cotton candy clouds wafting by.
But the picturesque view must go
as purple begins to dominate,
allowing just a rebellious streak of pink to pass through.
The clouds have sunk lower, forming fragmented rows
by the cool winds.
I see a man clicking a photograph
of this harmonisation of hues,
and the mood is just right,
So I pick up my pen and try to capture it with words.
An infinite expanse of swirling colours,
like a surrealist painter’s palette
Starting off as a transparent gray
until the sun infuses it with its vibrancy,
giving the clouds not a silver, but a golden lining
The red and oranges of the morning
dissolve into the bright blue of the noon sky,
and as I squint against the harsh light,
I can see the cotton candy clouds wafting by.
But the picturesque view must go
as purple begins to dominate,
allowing just a rebellious streak of pink to pass through.
The clouds have sunk lower, forming fragmented rows
by the cool winds.
I see a man clicking a photograph
of this harmonisation of hues,
and the mood is just right,
So I pick up my pen and try to capture it with words.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Poorvasha Kar
Our Imperfect Existence
Whisper to me endlessly, drunk
On a strange concoction of
brazen reality and truth
Dignify the death of the
hideous esse,
that was a sore sight for eyes
And run out in the streets
naked,
Just as you were the day you came here.
Scribble love ballads on
deserted streets
Paint every door with graffiti
proclaiming your insanity;
For only the insane
live life without metal chains
snapped across their neck,
Not being,
branded as civilized beings
bearing several witnesses-
Culture, Religion, Politics
Nothing more than mere pretense,
Nothing more than pawns.
Feel the little things
And breathe in their ferocity
And their existence will enshrine yours
Being complimentary to your insanity.
Hum melodies,
For the bulbs that flicker every night,
Always dying, but never dead.
For the strands of hair that
curl indefinitely,
For the rum whisked down in a breath
That spewed melodies in
raspy whispers of death,
For the overgrown climber across the wall
That grew to the rust
and dusty bones of nightfall.
And your melodies,
rejoicing our imperfect existence,
will be carried by the west wind
And reach my ears as a whisper,
drunk on our existence- raw and unrefined.
Whisper to me endlessly, drunk
On a strange concoction of
brazen reality and truth
Dignify the death of the
hideous esse,
that was a sore sight for eyes
And run out in the streets
naked,
Just as you were the day you came here.
Scribble love ballads on
deserted streets
Paint every door with graffiti
proclaiming your insanity;
For only the insane
live life without metal chains
snapped across their neck,
Not being,
branded as civilized beings
bearing several witnesses-
Culture, Religion, Politics
Nothing more than mere pretense,
Nothing more than pawns.
Feel the little things
And breathe in their ferocity
And their existence will enshrine yours
Being complimentary to your insanity.
Hum melodies,
For the bulbs that flicker every night,
Always dying, but never dead.
For the strands of hair that
curl indefinitely,
For the rum whisked down in a breath
That spewed melodies in
raspy whispers of death,
For the overgrown climber across the wall
That grew to the rust
and dusty bones of nightfall.
And your melodies,
rejoicing our imperfect existence,
will be carried by the west wind
And reach my ears as a whisper,
drunk on our existence- raw and unrefined.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Pitambar Naik
The Nile
The Nile, a silent art on a stormy heaven
Blessings down the eons, what counts bigger than this?
The pyramids, sculptures and mummies!
Certainly for some, it’s more than a shaft of solace
A treasure of centuries, may be moksha
Tranquil, pensive sky, the cerulean horizon is the Nile.
Glory of heaven and pride of earth
The stroke of a genius
Torso, turquoise of a craft and yielding valley
Masterpiece enamelled with ritzy ruby.
What didn’t flow in the Nile? Everything
Red history, luscious livelihood and saccharine honey
Fame of Everest, green longevity
Congenial, very intertwined euphoria
Luscious oxygen, milky life and auspicious serenity
Holiness of the last word, benediction, the Nile
The etymology, the blood of life and glory alike!
The Nile, a silent art on a stormy heaven
Blessings down the eons, what counts bigger than this?
The pyramids, sculptures and mummies!
Certainly for some, it’s more than a shaft of solace
A treasure of centuries, may be moksha
Tranquil, pensive sky, the cerulean horizon is the Nile.
Glory of heaven and pride of earth
The stroke of a genius
Torso, turquoise of a craft and yielding valley
Masterpiece enamelled with ritzy ruby.
What didn’t flow in the Nile? Everything
Red history, luscious livelihood and saccharine honey
Fame of Everest, green longevity
Congenial, very intertwined euphoria
Luscious oxygen, milky life and auspicious serenity
Holiness of the last word, benediction, the Nile
The etymology, the blood of life and glory alike!
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Parvathy J
Waiting
Like a weed smiling
sure of the sunshine on its little leaves
caught unaware
crushed under the sole of a boot
imprints itself bleeding,
lamenting the last breath that never would count as fragrance,
into dust brought from distances
and earth meets earth
in death;
I melt
through an open sultry summer window
that brings in no air
as the ocean breathing somewhere near
calls out me.
The ocean calls out to me, I melt
break into water.
Broken bits of myself
tracing names scribbled on the spine
crawl down my back
lose themselves in the leftover of a rain
clinging on to my curls
shimmer in the dark
bursting into contours of the sweet salt other
holding on and letting go
of moistness of distances and places
people and names
time and moments,
die longing for the ocean.
Soon, sighs
the part of me left back to write.
Like a weed smiling
sure of the sunshine on its little leaves
caught unaware
crushed under the sole of a boot
imprints itself bleeding,
lamenting the last breath that never would count as fragrance,
into dust brought from distances
and earth meets earth
in death;
I melt
through an open sultry summer window
that brings in no air
as the ocean breathing somewhere near
calls out me.
The ocean calls out to me, I melt
break into water.
Broken bits of myself
tracing names scribbled on the spine
crawl down my back
lose themselves in the leftover of a rain
clinging on to my curls
shimmer in the dark
bursting into contours of the sweet salt other
holding on and letting go
of moistness of distances and places
people and names
time and moments,
die longing for the ocean.
Soon, sighs
the part of me left back to write.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Nupur Chowdhury
Crispy Fried Chicken
A thunderstorm beating against my ribs,
The sun glares into my eyes and screams –
Wordless terror; as claws, a monster’s dibs
Snatch her from the coop. ‘Take me!’ I weep.
‘Tsk tsk – too old. It’s a party!
I’ll need tender meat.’
The sun glares into my eyes and screams –
Wordless terror; as claws, a monster’s dibs
Snatch her from the coop. ‘Take me!’ I weep.
‘Tsk tsk – too old. It’s a party!
I’ll need tender meat.’
Stench of sweat, rotting flesh
Or minds, festering in metallic confines,
Crumbling feathers, dying babes
Snatched by demon hands from damnation’s cage.
Wings torn, breast ripped – she was mine!
‘Crispy wings, stuffed breast’, they wink and smile.
Or minds, festering in metallic confines,
Crumbling feathers, dying babes
Snatched by demon hands from damnation’s cage.
Wings torn, breast ripped – she was mine!
‘Crispy wings, stuffed breast’, they wink and smile.
Crimson hands feed crimson eyes
From the dinner plate of corpses;
Beat my wings, scratch my feet
As he too is torn and twisted.
That makes two; two gone four to go
Of the little ones I tended.
From the dinner plate of corpses;
Beat my wings, scratch my feet
As he too is torn and twisted.
That makes two; two gone four to go
Of the little ones I tended.
Their crimson blood must’ve reached the skies,
For it’s bathed in burning red;
The demon’s hand darts in again
Into our cursed little shed.
A wordless cry, twist, rip; the bloody flaps of dying wings
Into the butcher’s knife, I fly; one final remonstrance.
For it’s bathed in burning red;
The demon’s hand darts in again
Into our cursed little shed.
A wordless cry, twist, rip; the bloody flaps of dying wings
Into the butcher’s knife, I fly; one final remonstrance.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Neharika Kaicker
The Knives of Despair
Invisible to the human eye,
With a determination not known to the human mind,
Silently it preys deeper and deeper into the human body
A different make, a different style,
They all have their own knives,
Hidden not only from the whole world,
But also from their own minds
Some are razor sharp, penetrating deeper into the flesh,
Some have lost the edge, because of years spent penetrating the flesh,
Yet persistent they all are in their quest to win
Each to his own; in different ways they tear the souls of their makers,
Yet engraved on these knives are almost the exact same words,
These are the words of regret and grief,
Words of missed-opportunities, anger and scared souls
These are knives of different make and type,
Of lost times never to be revived,
Of dull souls who would never see the light,
Of ignorant minds who would never know the meaning of life
These are the knives of despair,
Its marks never to be seen on the human body
Just engraved on the souls that stay in those bodies
Invisible to the human eye,
With a determination not known to the human mind,
Silently it preys deeper and deeper into the human body
A different make, a different style,
They all have their own knives,
Hidden not only from the whole world,
But also from their own minds
Some are razor sharp, penetrating deeper into the flesh,
Some have lost the edge, because of years spent penetrating the flesh,
Yet persistent they all are in their quest to win
Each to his own; in different ways they tear the souls of their makers,
Yet engraved on these knives are almost the exact same words,
These are the words of regret and grief,
Words of missed-opportunities, anger and scared souls
These are knives of different make and type,
Of lost times never to be revived,
Of dull souls who would never see the light,
Of ignorant minds who would never know the meaning of life
These are the knives of despair,
Its marks never to be seen on the human body
Just engraved on the souls that stay in those bodies
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Mydavolu Venkata Sesha Sathyanarayana
BLINDMEN
None saw, none knew, none felt.
Blindmen still grope in space,
and walk through briary lanes.
Not even a brace by breeze,
no tender buss on brows
no sound, no scent, no sign!
But faith, a sticky thing;
doesn't loosen grip on bosom.
Ye try to pull it off...
deep pares the psyche's skin
and bursts the tears-vessel.
Blindmen still grope in space!
The stones don't talk or smile,
and burning wicks can't throw
their light on tenuous path.
Incense is sure no spoor
and camphor burns no gloom!
Blindmen still grope in space!
The earth is a lifeless rock
and ether is emptiness!
The planets plead nescience
and star glitters are stoic.
Blindmen still grope in space
but never look inside,
at hiding vast expanse.
Yes, faith is a sticky thing;
let it, let it...till fills
thy soul to full and melds.
None saw, none knew, none felt.
Blindmen still grope in space,
and walk through briary lanes.
Not even a brace by breeze,
no tender buss on brows
no sound, no scent, no sign!
But faith, a sticky thing;
doesn't loosen grip on bosom.
Ye try to pull it off...
deep pares the psyche's skin
and bursts the tears-vessel.
Blindmen still grope in space!
The stones don't talk or smile,
and burning wicks can't throw
their light on tenuous path.
Incense is sure no spoor
and camphor burns no gloom!
Blindmen still grope in space!
The earth is a lifeless rock
and ether is emptiness!
The planets plead nescience
and star glitters are stoic.
Blindmen still grope in space
but never look inside,
at hiding vast expanse.
Yes, faith is a sticky thing;
let it, let it...till fills
thy soul to full and melds.
Poetry 2017 Featured PMohan Chandran
ZOMBIE LOVE
Always, my heart, you steal,
But leave it in such pain, it can never heal!
Cocksure I was, my love would succeed,
Diagnosing my heart precisely, my love, you would accede.
Exacerbated, was my heart’s affliction,
Forever, once it heard your spurning diction!
Grief was running in my body, like blood,
Happy, I couldn’t be, as I was alive, but yet dead!
Insufferable was my heart’s pain,
Jetsam, I felt like, and otherwise, couldn’t feign.
Kamikaze act, I wanted to perform,
Locomotive power I lost, and drowned myself in an emotional storm!
Mellowing my trauma, was a Sisyphean task,
Nonpareil was my misery, which I couldn’t mask!
Outliving my abysmal melancholy, was a miracle,
Petrified was my heart, after this debacle!
Quagmire of emotions, was my heart,
Ruthlessly slew into many a quart!
Shell-shocked I was, by your love rejoinder,
Tempest ran through my heart, burning it to a cinder!
Umbrage I took, at my love’s repudiation,
Value of love you taught me, on every occasion.
Whammy, I suffered in love, which couldn’t be reversed,
Xoanon of love you were, but cursed!
Yin of love, you came as, into my life,
Zappy I was, but love made my woes rife!
NB: The above is an abecedarian poem, i.e., which has all the letters of the English Alphabet in order
Always, my heart, you steal,
But leave it in such pain, it can never heal!
Cocksure I was, my love would succeed,
Diagnosing my heart precisely, my love, you would accede.
Exacerbated, was my heart’s affliction,
Forever, once it heard your spurning diction!
Grief was running in my body, like blood,
Happy, I couldn’t be, as I was alive, but yet dead!
Insufferable was my heart’s pain,
Jetsam, I felt like, and otherwise, couldn’t feign.
Kamikaze act, I wanted to perform,
Locomotive power I lost, and drowned myself in an emotional storm!
Mellowing my trauma, was a Sisyphean task,
Nonpareil was my misery, which I couldn’t mask!
Outliving my abysmal melancholy, was a miracle,
Petrified was my heart, after this debacle!
Quagmire of emotions, was my heart,
Ruthlessly slew into many a quart!
Shell-shocked I was, by your love rejoinder,
Tempest ran through my heart, burning it to a cinder!
Umbrage I took, at my love’s repudiation,
Value of love you taught me, on every occasion.
Whammy, I suffered in love, which couldn’t be reversed,
Xoanon of love you were, but cursed!
Yin of love, you came as, into my life,
Zappy I was, but love made my woes rife!
NB: The above is an abecedarian poem, i.e., which has all the letters of the English Alphabet in order
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Minnu Varghese
I Don’t Dare To
A blank white paper
Lays before me.
Instigating me to taint
That pure,serene thing
With its ugly,
Penetrating blood,
Waits a weapon
Tempting me to imagine,
To carve there my rejected lines,
To unveil my suppressed faces,
To point out my languid finger,
To inscribe the unfavourable script.
I consult my heart,
Ruminerate.
In the backdrop of lub-dub,
It stays dumb.
Let the poor thing
Remain clean.
Lays before me.
Instigating me to taint
That pure,serene thing
With its ugly,
Penetrating blood,
Waits a weapon
Tempting me to imagine,
To carve there my rejected lines,
To unveil my suppressed faces,
To point out my languid finger,
To inscribe the unfavourable script.
I consult my heart,
Ruminerate.
In the backdrop of lub-dub,
It stays dumb.
Let the poor thing
Remain clean.
I don’t dare to...
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Midhun Noble
Goldfishes
I once gifted her a
pair of goldfishes,
red and orange in
colour and their tails
moving like mermaids.
I gifted her goldfishes
as flowers will die
and the chocolates
will melt in her mouth,
I wanted to gift her
something like me
drowning yet beautiful.
I would occasionally
Go to her house
feed those goldfishes
and watch them swim
together in that glass bowl.
I remember once while
changing the water
One jumped out of
my hand and was fluttering
for his life and she put him
back into the bowl
blaming my butter fingers
for letting him go.
When we let each other go
as she didn’t want us to be
stuck in the glass bowl forever.
I choked a bit, fluttered a few times
and pushed me into drains
and drowned me in bottles.
she returned me back everything
which was once a gift,
except for the fishes.
I dont know if they are still alive,
She might have broken the bowl
watched the fishes choke
Until their eyes turn pale,
and would claim she set them free
for all that I know her to be.
Or they must have been thrown
down the drains and she replaced
the bowl like her heart with
colorful pebbles and jelly balls.
Her hands would still smell
like a fish the one who
fluttered for life in her hand.
I once gifted her a
pair of goldfishes,
red and orange in
colour and their tails
moving like mermaids.
I gifted her goldfishes
as flowers will die
and the chocolates
will melt in her mouth,
I wanted to gift her
something like me
drowning yet beautiful.
I would occasionally
Go to her house
feed those goldfishes
and watch them swim
together in that glass bowl.
I remember once while
changing the water
One jumped out of
my hand and was fluttering
for his life and she put him
back into the bowl
blaming my butter fingers
for letting him go.
When we let each other go
as she didn’t want us to be
stuck in the glass bowl forever.
I choked a bit, fluttered a few times
and pushed me into drains
and drowned me in bottles.
she returned me back everything
which was once a gift,
except for the fishes.
I dont know if they are still alive,
She might have broken the bowl
watched the fishes choke
Until their eyes turn pale,
and would claim she set them free
for all that I know her to be.
Or they must have been thrown
down the drains and she replaced
the bowl like her heart with
colorful pebbles and jelly balls.
Her hands would still smell
like a fish the one who
fluttered for life in her hand.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Manisha Mahalingam
Insurgent
they said, don’t float your dreams
nor fly them on paper planes
(is it better to hold them close
and never let them soar?)
they said, the world’s too harsh
you’re too vulnerable
made of paper skin, easily ripped
better hide, they said, from too much rebellion
(if not ripped how else will I gain scars?)
entropy is near, better prepare
stock up and keep safe, they said
caution is better than cure
(the perishable must perish, mustn’t it?
Why then let it rot?)
don’t go eating forbidden apples, they said
safer to just take the road always taken
who knows, they said, of the dangers ahead?
(can one grow in stagnant water?)
do not argue, they said, it doesn’t become you
in civilization one must listen
walk hand in hand, one should not stand out much
(then why do my fingertips say otherwise?)
are you listening? they screamed
listen to us, we are the voice of reason, of advice
stray away at your own risk, they said.
(alright, I shall)
they said, don’t float your dreams
nor fly them on paper planes
(is it better to hold them close
and never let them soar?)
they said, the world’s too harsh
you’re too vulnerable
made of paper skin, easily ripped
better hide, they said, from too much rebellion
(if not ripped how else will I gain scars?)
entropy is near, better prepare
stock up and keep safe, they said
caution is better than cure
(the perishable must perish, mustn’t it?
Why then let it rot?)
don’t go eating forbidden apples, they said
safer to just take the road always taken
who knows, they said, of the dangers ahead?
(can one grow in stagnant water?)
do not argue, they said, it doesn’t become you
in civilization one must listen
walk hand in hand, one should not stand out much
(then why do my fingertips say otherwise?)
are you listening? they screamed
listen to us, we are the voice of reason, of advice
stray away at your own risk, they said.
(alright, I shall)
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Madhavi Katre
Unsaid
I wonder what you think,
When the pauses get too long,
Is it the same things as me?
Has it been like that all along?
When the pauses get too long,
Is it the same things as me?
Has it been like that all along?
When my thoughts chatter loudly
Wanting to slip out,
Do you notice the smile
That quietly hides it all?
Wanting to slip out,
Do you notice the smile
That quietly hides it all?
Maybe the minds converse
In a language of their own.
Yet I never fail to wonder
How it would have been
In a language of their own.
Yet I never fail to wonder
How it would have been
If we had just said it all.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Khyati Gautam
Untitled
wars,warriors and the defeatists
this is what we and our simple life is
living each day struggling hard
some with peace and some with sword.
flipping across the books of history
i thought what's the logic,what's the mystery
why a war of waterloo
or the one of panipat
creating a blood fall
accounting for a huge toll.
i wondered why a fight with else
when you have your own self
fight hard with desires
that ring aloud in your ears.
stand against those temptations
those may be alluring
my heart says you can
if you are willing.
when diffidence controls you
raise your spirits
self-motivation is the key
to get over it all through.
burn up your desires
futile the ones are
chase your passion
which will, for sure, land you somewhere.
find it tough to fight ever
''nothing's tough'', you must remember
be the masters of your destiny
be the warriors,chivalric and fierce.
people will talk of you
praise you,may bulldozz you
your soul may be defeated
speak to your mind,you have to fight
your heart may cry
but strive,coz you have to fly.
wars,warriors and the defeatists
this is what we and our simple life is
living each day struggling hard
some with peace and some with sword.
flipping across the books of history
i thought what's the logic,what's the mystery
why a war of waterloo
or the one of panipat
creating a blood fall
accounting for a huge toll.
i wondered why a fight with else
when you have your own self
fight hard with desires
that ring aloud in your ears.
stand against those temptations
those may be alluring
my heart says you can
if you are willing.
when diffidence controls you
raise your spirits
self-motivation is the key
to get over it all through.
burn up your desires
futile the ones are
chase your passion
which will, for sure, land you somewhere.
find it tough to fight ever
''nothing's tough'', you must remember
be the masters of your destiny
be the warriors,chivalric and fierce.
people will talk of you
praise you,may bulldozz you
your soul may be defeated
speak to your mind,you have to fight
your heart may cry
but strive,coz you have to fly.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Ketaki Lolage
No More A Persephone
“More wine,” she says,
and the tender fills her glass.
The splash of the liquer brings back
the memories of unforgettable days past.
A year ago this day, she'd sat
in this very spot.
Puffs of smoke coming out of her mouth
In her right hand, her fourth shot.
Slain, vanquished, defeated,
she'd felt betrayed by Life.
Once beaming with great content,
she now couldn't trust herself with a knife.
It was in that moment of despair
that a vow birthed from an epiphany.
To summon Destiny herself, she resolved -
To no longer play the trapped Persephone.
A battle against ruthless Hell ensued
She took every fall with pride
Walked out of the fiery pits of Hades
Tenacity emanating from every stride.
And now she muses at the glass
that once would've been filled to the brim.
A survivor of war and bloodshed,
the red no more makes her flinch.
“More wine,” she says,
yet knows when to say “Enough”.
Elixirs fade away, she knows.
“Get going when the going gets tough.”
Tall she sits – haute couture dress,
let-down hair and high heels
The girl who'd lived in the dregs last year
The woman who turned Fortune's wheels.
“More wine,” she says,
and the tender fills her glass.
The splash of the liquer brings back
the memories of unforgettable days past.
A year ago this day, she'd sat
in this very spot.
Puffs of smoke coming out of her mouth
In her right hand, her fourth shot.
Slain, vanquished, defeated,
she'd felt betrayed by Life.
Once beaming with great content,
she now couldn't trust herself with a knife.
It was in that moment of despair
that a vow birthed from an epiphany.
To summon Destiny herself, she resolved -
To no longer play the trapped Persephone.
A battle against ruthless Hell ensued
She took every fall with pride
Walked out of the fiery pits of Hades
Tenacity emanating from every stride.
And now she muses at the glass
that once would've been filled to the brim.
A survivor of war and bloodshed,
the red no more makes her flinch.
“More wine,” she says,
yet knows when to say “Enough”.
Elixirs fade away, she knows.
“Get going when the going gets tough.”
Tall she sits – haute couture dress,
let-down hair and high heels
The girl who'd lived in the dregs last year
The woman who turned Fortune's wheels.
Poetry 2017 Shortlist Kanchan Chatterjee
you know I'd
've said, "I would not care."
but here I am
with the second beer and
brooding
over your scent...
've said, "I would not care."
but here I am
with the second beer and
brooding
over your scent...
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