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

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.