Selected poems on the link below.
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Showing posts with label Poetry 2021 Shortlist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry 2021 Shortlist. Show all posts
Saturday, 25 September 2021
Sunday, 15 August 2021
Ermelinda Makkimane, Poetry 2021 Featured Writer
Mother's Song
I caught my mother's song, a piece
of yearning twisted with woolly bits of love,
and deftly put it in the narrow neck
of a memory jar that broadened
into highways to all songs she'd ever sung.
And when I need to sleep
all I have to do is uncork the wispy jar:
mother's song envelops me
like a snug hammock.
Sleep is not long in coming.
Sneha Gaud, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
Pen Warrior
She fell like a dew-drop on the fresh morning canvas..She took her pen
And was a warrior now...
And then she switched
into a warrior fairy,
tasked to sprinkle the effervescent fairy dust
Onto the words she carved...
And then she played Picasso
The colors she painted with those letters..
They motioned like a river..
Her text on the paper
Like a violin
played the symphony
Of a forgotten folklore
Her words - soothing
To the spirit of the conscience.
What a poet
She’s become
She could even change a heart...
Rhea Gupta, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
The Psychopathic God (Within all of us)
Through the comfortable complicity of the common,
timeless totalitarian terrorism spins
like rusted metal blades in
a mixer-grinder
mincing countless
human identities
to a bloody pulp;
the feverish frenzy of
fascism pervades through
the ordinary
brains, eyes, tongues,
reviving The Psychopathic God
within all of us.
Ishani Das, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
The Forgotten Goddess
Abstract: In the Victorian period, prostitutes were called the “Fallen Women” just like Lucifer was called the fallen angel. It is because prostitution was considered unholy and against the law. Here is a short instance by me from the life of a prostitute in 1890 London, her name is Emma.
When the rain tried to wash away
The darkness of the new-moon night
At one corner of the crossroad
Stood she.
Her back leaning on the damp wall
Eyes seeking for a hungry gaze
Yes, even tonight she is the prey
Yet how could she escape?
Her little girl lies in that cold room
Beside the fireplace
Too dim and pale.
While her starving cry is the only music
Of the tale.
Back in the streets
Throbbing with horror and pain
Emma kept pulling up a smile
For every passerby.
Although miles apart,
The sobs of the little soul
Kept echoing in her heart.
After ages of longing,
When her limbs grew tired
And she could stand no more.
A man came to her from
Behind the shadows.
She rose and spoke in
Broken weak voice:
Only a shilling Sire,
For my spirit and my sick little child.
Without a word of mercy,
The man held her by the hairs
And pushed her against the sodden wood
There in the dark, he fed on her.
She just wished for the feast to end
Kept counting every fraction of time
Then, she would grab some morsel And without wasting a breath Run to the fireside.
Just to hold her beloved in the arms And give her all the warmth
From this body,
So chilled and numb.
Maybe a few centuries had passed And when the man was full,
With an intense feeling of joy Emma extended her shivering arm For the coin of the bargain.
Instead, the beast gave a sick smile While thrashed her hard on the pillar. In a moment, he disappeared Into the mist once again.
And slowly the world around her Grew silent and dimmer.
In trance of the shock
She could hear her baby
Screaming with fear
If only she had a little more strength To wake up and take few steps. Yet she failed
And gave in to the ache.
There in the room,
The fire also has given up
An hour ago.
Now, the tiny body
Wrapped in the torn cloth
Has gone cold.
No more cries, no more tears All was calm and the rain was quiet. And again had returned
The peace of the night.
When the light came back
From the sleep.
Emma was sitting
In the frozen chamber.
With blood on her temples,
And a bleeding soul.
She couldn't cry nor yell.
Tied in an unbroken spell
She might have sat there
For a long long time
Holding the corpse in her hand. All of her paralyzed.
Today, after decades when
The lost story has grown old. Emma still visits the grave every day I see her and often wonder
Isn't she the Goddess
We all forgot to pray?
Elvin Lukose, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
THE BALLOON MAN
There was once a balloon man
who stood by the school gate
along with the cobbler and the icicle vendor
under the gulmohar tree
with his belly of helium
-the balloons perched on the stand
red orange green blue yellow.
a little man-made fountain of colors
a man-made rainbow for show
He stood there everyday
every season
even in the rain
and the scalding summer.
It was interesting to watch
how colors were exchanged
from his wrinkled hands
to the bony ones of the young.
colors converting to smiles
a little circuit of serotonin sparks
-a metamorphosis of a kind
No one knew about him
or his family
or his children
how much he earned
why he did what he did
The legend goes that
once a rich man even handed him
a wad of cash to buffer his miseries
out of appreciation
Enraged he tried to hit the man
with his crooked crutch
and no one dared again
to bribe him off his love for colors
Years went by
-monsoons came and receded
-winters left its misty afterglow
He stood there
everyday
handing balloons
for a dime or two
sometimes for nothing at all
One day he stopped coming
the children waited
the parents waited
days rolled by
months moved on
even the branches of the gulmohar
began to stoop
over the ghostly space that remained
under its leafy roof
There were
no more colors
no more signs of the old chap
and the helium tank
the other vendors also left that street
one by one
like coins disappearing into the slot machine
Life went on
his colored balloons remained a memory
its disappearance - a mystery
-the human presence
that made so much difference
even in its absence
Its strange
how a display of colors
-a bunch of balloons
could change the landscape
to the point
that everyone who walks that street today
no longer smiles
or says a word of gratitude
everyone rushing in and out of each other
not taking a moment to notice
that the gulmohar stopped bleeding red
that the children no longer stopped
for a minute of laughter and happiness
that once a few floating colors in their hands bought
A cloud still hovers over that space
everyday
every month
even after the monsoons have resigned
like a stage set all ready
in anticipation
for those blobs of color
for that little rainbow to show up
----------
Swastik Samal, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
Untitled
always, there are days
when words don’t make any sense,
read me those days too.
Soumyaa Somatra, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
ORDINARY
To the girl reading this right now,
I hope it finds you in peace.
Today I'm writing to your 'mediocrity',
To your discreet perfection, over and beneath.
They told you, you look 'ordinary',
'Run-of-the-mill', 'common', 'simple' too,
because of your skin like dripping honey,
because the sun shone brighter on you.
You mirror the color of the earth, of soil,
of home and of life, of your own turmoil,
Every bristle on your body, a sapling;
Every crease a rivulet;
The scars on your wrists form mountain ranges;
The lines on your palms, lightning, portray.
Your brows reach out to each other,
Like lovers long-lost;
Their union over eyes, tired,
Seeking the assurance they never got.
The eyes though, you wish, were ocean blue,
or maybe an unusual green,
"Brown is ordinary", you said,
Disregarding their angelic sheen;
How they glow up to gold, with flecks of fire,
But mundane, you call it,
unworthy of desire.
Your body is a battlefield,
Every scar a crusader,
The tear-stains are ruins from the holy wars
from nights you were your own hater.
•
We've ravaged your heart, beyond repair,
by making you feel halved,
Pushed you to the edges of confound despair,
Changed your worries, changed your laugh.
Look at yourself with love, love,
Look at the miracle you turned out to be.
You're more than just "good enough",
More than a mere estimate
of what they choose to see.
You've a cosmos within yourself,
with limitless, unfathomable features
and 'mediocre' was never one of them.
You're a work of art by nature herself;
Dare you call yourself ordinary again.
Surbhi Sharma, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
Lady Macbeth
There she sat, with a fluttering nerve
Ebbing in her alabaster slim throat
Black pearls clasped around
As if clutching on and revering
Her dainty head and dark mind.
Her bottom lip, wine stained
Nervously bitten, slightly swollen
Her ivory fingers choking the stem glass Red poured in; grief spilled out
There was a humming sound around
Humming it felt to her small ears
The wails of concubines and queens One king slaid for another in making The body passed her balcony in farewell, She raised her glass, not her veil.
Comes in the dreaded scenery
A black butterfly and settles on pearls Seems like what witches cackled to husband Now is whispered to her by a mute butterfly The wine tastes sweeter with every second
“Guilt is for weak, my will- be -queen” You hardly lifted a finger and behold! The throne is tossed to your feet
How could you have trodden gently? You were in love my loveliest!”
“Fear is for those subdued,”
Continues the mute fly-
“It’s for those who are beaten by Faith and stay awake in tossing dreams You have paid your dues, now celebrate!”
“Lovely, yet lonely… celebrate with whom?” Whisper back the wine-stained lips
The black butterfly spreads itself
On the royal lap and blends in
The black lace of mourning dress
The ships will sail from Arabia
The bottled scents may not reach What reeks now will remain
The stench of death and doom
Will only lift the veil, not the burden.
Maanya Oberoi, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
Flowers of Doom
Flowers of Doom is an allegory of the journey of mine workers who died in a mining accident, and were later reborn in the form of flowers. It signifies loss and renewal, and the perpetuity of hope and remembrance.
Flowers of doom
Sombre in full bloom
The mighty tale they're yet to regale
In the nightshade by the quarry
Wrought hands, of the toil they were wary
Atop the hills, beneath the skies
No one to hear their solemn cries
By the quarry they lived, in the quarry by night,
right afront their lovers’ eyes
Engulfed in the flame, screams unheard
They were born from the earth, their petals shedding
Rose from their ashes, the flowers of the night;
While those who remembered yearned and cried
Their solace was stolen by one final thought-
Reminiscing the flowers of doom,
and the might their full bloom brought.
Flowers of Doom is an allegory of the journey of mine workers who died in a mining accident, and were later reborn in the form of flowers. It signifies loss and renewal, and the perpetuity of hope and remembrance.
Flowers of doom
Sombre in full bloom
The mighty tale they're yet to regale
In the nightshade by the quarry
Wrought hands, of the toil they were wary
Atop the hills, beneath the skies
No one to hear their solemn cries
By the quarry they lived, in the quarry by night,
right afront their lovers’ eyes
Engulfed in the flame, screams unheard
They were born from the earth, their petals shedding
Rose from their ashes, the flowers of the night;
While those who remembered yearned and cried
Their solace was stolen by one final thought-
Reminiscing the flowers of doom,
and the might their full bloom brought.
Srijani Roy, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
THE TALE OF THE TREE GOD
The holy river in it’s rise and fall, treads through a small village unknown to all.
Amidst the fertile plains It humbly stands , beyond all hustle and time constraints.
An Old post office forgotten, unkempt; is the only relic the world has left.
At the heart of this forsaken place, stands a Banyan tree since ancient days.
Tales and legends often said, there lived a Holy man under its shade.
The stories of his Healing Hands, forayed to the farthest of lands.
His fame traversed to every vent , as the curer of all ailment.
Under this very tree he breathed his last, amidst the fading light and shadows cast.
Since then, the embodiment of his soul divine
Is the Banyan tree; The holy shrine.
Good days passed in full accord, as the villagers worshiped their TREE GOD.
One day , in their peaceful lives, Peril came like monsoon tides.
In an auction somewhere held
A company bought the land where the poor tree dwelt.
On a fine day, these men arrived, amidst the astonishment of bewildered eyes.
These dubious men set their eyes forth, on the gifted land they had wisely bought.
The best of lands in fairest of price, only a worthless tree to set aside.
A factory instead will be laid, of whatever it was the company made.
Their Men came with axe in hand, to cut the tree and spare the land.
Women cried and men swore, as the sentence passed from door to door.
Hundreds of them thronged that night, around the fated tree in faint moonlight.
With open eyes they refused to see
What was in front, was no God, just a tree.
The company men, now in a fix, resorted to their maverick tricks.
A factory they said would bring them work; end to poverty, their days of dark.
The village men, unbent, unbowed;
all night they stood on toes, aloof to reason and repose.
As the scene further tensed, the news spread of this resistance.
News men gathered under its shade; quoting the greatness of this holy crusade.
Now the company, at their wit’s end; coveted to means with ghastly intent.
But nothing could undo that was done, neither hefty goons nor police baton.
Unable to bend these resilient men in spite of all means they could comprehend.
At last the company lost all reasons, to indulge in strife with “barbaric” peasants.
Somewhere with a smaller sum, they bought another field, more welcome.
Finally the brilliant sun was shone, a marvelous battle had been won.
That night the dubious men had to flee to where ever that might be.
The farmers gave out a joyous yell but how much was won, Only time will TELL.
In one of the following nights, a violent storm did the last strike.
Next day, as the villagers thronged around
They saw the fated tree fallen to ground.
Uprooted beyond reform; hit by the thunderstorm.
The village men, in loss of word, for the sudden demise of their TREE GOD.
For once at last, did they see
What was in front was no God, just a Fallen Tree.
Leann Rodrigues, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
Querencia
An overthinker; her mind was bait
One to overshare; then memories were fate.
She walked through the alley
With footsteps in the back that echoed frailly
And seemed to ambit her wit’s old gambit.
“It’s your hamartia, dear
You think so harsh, it’s causing you fear.
A fatal flaw that’ll eat you raw
And leave you insecure to be the bullseye
Of matadors who seek spite so high.
She was told, she was warned,
Hurt, and terribly scorned.
Her thoughts turned intrusive, her lips
Spelled Judas as they betrayed, spilling the beans
That she had carefully quipped.
But it so occurred, one night
The alley that manifested her greatest fright.
Consumed, devoured, and concealed her plight.
She overshared, but the conundrum in her head
Was untangled by the words she overly spread.
She knew she felt safe
As long as the words fell out to get aid.
The voices in her head, found an outlet so great.
“It’s hamartia”- they said.
“Querencia”- Her lips, they shed.
Saptarshi Dutt, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
Taste
I imagine a gutted fish,
silvery skin gleaming, emptied of itself.
Hands in the sink, metal teeth
raking scales, water running from the tap.
Spine embedded in pale flesh,
translucent fins limp on the cutting board.
Slice ginger, shallots, and chillies;
make cuts on both sides of the carcass.
Drizzle rice wine and soy sauce;
place the whole fish into an enamel dish
and lower onto a metal trivet
perched over boiling water in the wok.
Put the lid on. Set the timer for
twelve slow minutes. The fish is ready
when its eyes turn a blind white.
Each steaming mouthful is salty and sweet.
I am careful to spit out the bones.
Vidhya Sankarnarayan, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
Mongrel
I come from many home towns
Songs sung in pidgins and mother tongues
Profanities that spill over borders
Family forged with bread and blood
My loves, they travel time
My heart, you walk into it
My roots, they stretch and leap and flow
Wherever I am, I come home
Tejeswini Nambirajan, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
The Melancholic Strain
He emerged in December
The invisible monster
Who invincingly devours people.
Diffusing families,
Sweeping off their near and dears,
He steers his chariot,
Far and wide
High and low.
Annihilating life as it pants.
He mops red on the white floors of time.
Yet, his hunger seems insatiable!
Floating panic in the air,
Painting panic everywhere!
He began with someone minuscule
Suddenly bursting to a Goliath
Nurturing through social gathering
Under whose sprawling shadow
We the humans
Lay locked amid domestic walls
Fighting the fear within
Failing to balance
Health and wealth
He floats panic in the air
Paints panic everywhere!
His fingers snapped
Deserting public places
Crowding coffins
Subtracting last rites from death
Adieus from lovely palms
Crippling the wheels of economy
Bombarding rigid dreams
With no sign of resurrection
He commands welcoming boundaries
To unwelcome guests
Floating panic in the air,
Painting panic everywhere!
Cruising through this thick and thin
Working round the clock
Saving as much as caring
Caring as much as saving
The physicians, the nurses,
The health professionals all crave
To fasten the widening grave
Yet despite all efforts
Oh! It aches to think
Life is just but a speck of dust
Awaiting to be dusted
By a melancholic strain!
Dan Kuriakose, Poetry 2021 Shortlist
Last Lines of Hope
The last few ants fell into place
After the fallen drops had disturbed their pace
The first among them braved the hurdles,
And led the rest on,
Only to fall in line, follow and disappear..
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