Selected poems on the links below.
| Poetry | Short Story | Prose 500 | Drabble |
| Short Fiction |
Showing posts with label Poetry 2021 Winners. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry 2021 Winners. Show all posts
Wednesday, 10 November 2021
Sunday, 15 August 2021
Simreen Siraj, Poetry 2021 First Prize
Boxes
Growing up I thought that people were born with their heads cocked,
Because that's how they’ve always looked at me.
They never failed to offer unsolicited advice.
Boxes: Check one, Check other.
People don’t know,
They don't furrow between the layers like I do.
They don’t switch and twitch,
And actively make the decisions of which.
Which part of me belongs today?
Which aspect of my personality will it fend the least and blend the most?
And work and succeed,
And bury the lead like a switchboard of traits that decide my fate.
And I'm always an imposter!
Always lost, Always asking for instructions.
And people point my way like a scarecrow;
Like tornados, blowing me whichever way the wind blows,
Well, Dorothy doesn’t want to play today.
She’s preparing for the JEE’s, just the Scantron.
The box is empty, and glaring and daring me to choose one. Well, I'm an expert at boxes.
My whole life can be fit inside it,
And I’ve got it down to a science.
I can pack my entire identity in under an hour.
Because where there’s roots, there is power.
But I'm all topsoil.
My blood runs like water and oil,
Refusing to stick.
Mom’s old books, read in secret nooks.
That camera, that locks all my memories in a flash,
Saved for when my recollection doesn't last.
All fit in a box ready to be carried from door to door.
But that’s not the kind of box people ever ask for.
So many lines in the sand, so many dos and don’ts.
I see both worlds so clearly,
And I skip and jump and run and fall between, never seen.
I belong in the spaces between.
Check all that may apply.
Srabani Bhattacharya, Poetry 2021 Third Prize
Exiled to Page
Exiled to four square page
From roads of comfort
That twist past buildings
piercing blue-white sky
that shade balloon sellers
with tricolour wares
standing before yellow-red
shops selling eggs on bread.
From tea shacks pouring
Mud-potions in smoky cups
sipped while watching water
from planters on windows
drip on man taking afternoon
nap on bundles of garbage
on iron cart resting
beside imposing mall.
From daring dogs crossing
the zebra and roadside
sculptures pointing at
party flags rustling
in footpath stores with
shoes advertised in hooks
beside which men fight
summer heat under tree
rising out of concrete.
From the curve of flyovers
which angle close to
skies to coo with pigeons
squabbling on electric lines
only to bend down again
to beggars who squat
on saffron towels with
the stone sage statue at
junction where hoardings
promote PUJA SALE.
From that quaint café
where we once bought
incense, inhaling sweat
and fumes from cigarette
and stove that burn omelettes
for lunch that hungry workers
slurp beside public toilets
where pink flowers scale
mottled pillar of petrol pump.
Exiled from myriad roles
of flaneur bus rider,
seat disputes reduce
to withdrawal signs
of masked delirium where
pencils brake before
metaphorical truck to
reminisce HORN OK PLEASE
and smog from automobile
pollute quarantined lines
of exiled rhyme.
Janina Shivdasani, Poetry 2021 Second Prize
Unclaimed*
The community recedes, yet it has
No place for me because the letters after
my first name didn’t grow in their god’s
Garden and half the blood that I now carry
as a fault didn’t come to me fluent in their
language. I look like them, yes, but at the
threshold of their faith’s residence I am but a
stray dog and on documents I fill I don’t check
their box, they won’t let me. I am told that my
prayers sing to vacant chairs, poured into teacups
no one will drink from, carried by birds that get
lost at sea. Their sky will not weep forgiveness
upon me, their sun does not keep me aflame.
And when I am oak riddled to the ash they
Sprinkle on their children as armour, they will
Not send me off as one of their own
The community would rather wane to
a Memory than claim me because it was
My mother’s breath that tried to make the
Willow bend when it would bow only for
A man, just like they all do
*According to Zoroastrian tradition, it is enforced that if a woman marries outside the community her children will not be recognized as Zoroastrians, whereas if a man does so, his children are still considered as such.
The community recedes, yet it has
No place for me because the letters after
my first name didn’t grow in their god’s
Garden and half the blood that I now carry
as a fault didn’t come to me fluent in their
language. I look like them, yes, but at the
threshold of their faith’s residence I am but a
stray dog and on documents I fill I don’t check
their box, they won’t let me. I am told that my
prayers sing to vacant chairs, poured into teacups
no one will drink from, carried by birds that get
lost at sea. Their sky will not weep forgiveness
upon me, their sun does not keep me aflame.
And when I am oak riddled to the ash they
Sprinkle on their children as armour, they will
Not send me off as one of their own
The community would rather wane to
a Memory than claim me because it was
My mother’s breath that tried to make the
Willow bend when it would bow only for
A man, just like they all do
*According to Zoroastrian tradition, it is enforced that if a woman marries outside the community her children will not be recognized as Zoroastrians, whereas if a man does so, his children are still considered as such.
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