Endless Voyage | Himanshi Jaglan

In the vast expanse, I’ll keep up the fight,

With hope as my compass, guiding me through the night.

Though the waters are treacherous, I’ll push through,

In the midst of fear, I’ll find strength anew.

For deep within me, I know there’s more,

Something beautiful waiting on the distant shore.

The waters continue to rise, it’s hard to see,

But my heart urges me on, “Keep going, be free.”

I don’t know what will happen, what’s in store,

Will I find solace on the distant shore?

The waters are relentless, I’m losing my way,

But still, I keep pushing, trying not to sway.

The journey is uncertain, the destination unclear,

Yet, I’ll keep swimming, even through my fear.

Will I reach the shore, or will I meet my end?

In this vast sea of uncertainty, I must transcend.

I don’t know what’s next, what fate has in store,

But I’ll keep swimming, striving for something more.

falling out of (the language of) love | Atika Kulkarni

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

My mother tongue is muscle memory between my teeth

But I don’t know how to love him

without reverting to a language

neither of us have in common

//

But when we woke from our slumber

Your tongue spoke a different dialect

Of the language you carved into my mouth

And you no longer understood my yearning

//

My lover’s language feels like foreign defeat on my tongue

Yet I say the words like I’ve spoken them for a millennium

And they sound like they’ve been plucked directly from his larynx

~A series of unfinished snippets // falling out of (the language of) love

The Devil and I | Indu Prasad

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

I'm the wrong chord you played on your guitar

For your lover in the summer of '23

I'm the ugly meteor among the stars

That no one wants to see

I'm the rotten egg among the perfect dozen,

The one you throw away

Please don't break me, I'm already broken

And there's nowhere for me to sail away

Far away, so far away

Do you see me fading out?

There's no other way,

Nowhere to go, nothing to shout

"But you look just fine!"

My screams are muffled, Honey,

confined to my mind's shrine,

Somewhere dark and lonely

I've built this wall around me,

It's not breaking down anytime soon,

I'm burning in my hell, you see,

It's burning like the scorching heat at noon

I'm alone, I'm so alone,

I wish someone would break down this wall,

For all my sins I'll atone

If only someone heard my call

I don't need a Prince Charming,

I don't need a beauty or a beast,

Maybe I'll fall for the Devil's calling,

Touch his outstretched hand at least

I've been good all my life and got nothing

Maybe I should switch sides

I want to feel something, anything

I don't want to hide

Teach me to sin, Devil,

Teach me your ways

Show me how to be evil,

Set my soul ablaze

Maybe I should drown in liquor,

Maybe I should rob,

Maybe I should try murder,

Or maybe I should just sit and sob

But no, I cannot flip like a switch

I'm not inherently bad

Maybe I have a glitch

Maybe I'm driving myself mad

So, teach me to drink; drink the liquor of art

Teach me to kill; kill my insecurities

Teach me to rob; rob bad memories from my heart

Teach me to hit; hit anxiety and be at ease

Or I can think of a million ways

that you can end me

I've learned the error of my ways

Heaven or hell, just send me

It's time to turn my nightmares into dreams,

Time to befriend the monster, Frankenstein I will be,

In this still, black lake I'll freeze,

Until you shove my head in it and drown me

Choke me with your ice-cold fingers,

Scale me like a fish, whip me till I bleed,

Let the stench of my blood linger

A little longer than you need

Chop me into pieces like wooden logs

Throw me down a deep, dark well

Or feed me to the wolves and the dogs

After all, I'm a mere animal

Oh, Devil, these men won't love me

The way you will; fatally

They're far too scared of me

And how I talk of death so casually

Oh, Devil, I can't feel anything, I'm numb;

Won't you love me right and then end me?

To you I will submit, to you I will succumb

I'd rather that than live like this, you see.

Dance with me, take over me

Take my body and soul

Lonely, I'm so lonely

End me and dump my body in a hole

Only stagnant water is still,

And I've been still for far too long

When I see all these pills

I can't tell right from wrong

Please, come, supreme demon,

Touch me, for no one else will,

Teach me to burn like the sun,

I'm so tired, tired of staying still.

Stars Die | Devyani Achyut Deshpande

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

Stars die, but no one kills them

Except maybe gravity

With which they struggle to hold themselves still

In their own astronomical spaces

Wonder why the brothers in orbits

Yearn to swallow each other up all their lives

Why these simmering surfaces become brighter and brighter

Only to inevitably return to their original states

Why some take a billion years to explode

Why some remain the dim stellar corpses of their former selves

Nothing kills these giant masses of particles

Only slightly younger than the universe

Except what always binds them in a lethal pull towards each other

What binds them till the end of their lifecycles to rotate in the defined circles

What slowly consumes every last bit of light attempting to escape the horizon

Claws of Flaws | Himanshu Ahuja

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

One morning, while walking alone in the park,

A thought crossed my mind, igniting too much spark!

My mind asked when would India be a developed nation?

A distant reality, it seemed, due to its extant commotion!

A country whose jewel was once its cultural diversity,

That diversity is now facing a lot of adversity!

With battles on grounds such as religion and caste,

The fire of animosity is spreading at a pace too fast!

With so many political parties fighting for power,

The real issues remain unresolved, making the nation sour!

A country where marriage was once based on love,

That love has now been replaced by money, dowry, and white-glove!

With women being expected to work and look after ménage,

Victimized by domestic violence, she resorts to camouflage!

A country that was grounded on its strong educational scheme,

Unable to focus on practicality, that system is now losing its sheen!

With white-collar jobs still being the first choice of the masses,

Art and creativity take a backseat across all classes!

With less focus on facilities, welfare, and health,

The government now runs on selfishness and stealth!

It seems the nation is engulfed within the claws of its flaws,

A sea change is sought in its regulation and laws!

My mind asks when will India be a developed nation?

A distant reality, it seems, due to its extant commotion!

look inside of you | jayati rajgarhia

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

keep your strength

tied tightly to your bones.

do not let it escape

through your tears

and despair

and vanish in a sigh.

you need to hold it close

and feed it

with the thought of you

getting past this, yourself.

people always say

they are going to help.

very few do.

so its prudent

to be your own hero.

your own goddess

and use every fibre

to hold onto that dying strength within

that hasn't been fed for days

with any consideration

for its presence.

pull it out.

look at it.

that mangled shrivelled

ball of nothingness

is your force.

your rib cage

has kept it guarded

from your own thoughts on life.

it shrank

from the darkness of your mind

but it refused to leave.

it will stay

if you just see it.

it needs to be seen

just like everything else in life.

love is demonstrative.

it needs just a nudge

but strength and hope

lie quietly in your vertebrae

waiting for you to call them

for a meal

with despair and tears for dessert.

they will eat that

to swell

and become pink

with fresh blood.

your blood.

and settle in between your eyelashes

so you can see the light.

they will pull back

the curtains of darkness

and clean with vigour

so your mind's room

looks like a new place to live.

call them forth.

dust them out.

fatten them with your mind's

wanderings.

and they will turn out to be

the companions you were seeking all along.

they live inside of you.

and you are their force to survive.

quench yourself

with the waters of

strength within

that has drunk

your tears to live.

call to it.

call to them both.

they always come when you are

ready to fight life.

and my lovely,

they always win.

Oh Mr Right | Kaya Parasher

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

I was never really good at writing a poetry, so this one took a little time.

The words were created so that I could write about your smile,

So that I could express, how you made me feel for that little while.

Love, that’s what I hope, and that’s what I ask from above.

You see me sitting and you see my eyes water.

The only thing I thought of, is that I lost my Mr.Right

but its okay because i found myself, and when the times right I will see you again from the right sight.

You were afraid of hurting people who were impossible to replace, but I guess that was not the problem in this case.

Its okay, I understand, you found someone better who lets you be whoever you can. But rewind and see at time did I stop you from becoming the best.

Today I lost you butIi guess it okay because now you’re off duty and I won’t force you to stay.

Im not sad about it, or maybe a little but I guess that okay because I won’t go around and littler. Litter with the pages you gave, because I think that they should stay.

Having good memories will take me back to that place, where you said “I love you, forever and always”

I think you did mean it but the time was wrong, you were in love with the idea of having a perfect sunrise and not a bad storm.

I think i’ll live with that feeling for just a little while long because even when you are gone, I will be surrounded with all the flaws.

Beauty Standards | Prisha Narang

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

In a world obsessed with beauty,

Where standards dictate what we see,

People often forget to see

The beauty that lies between you and me.

Magazines and TV screens, all show, an image of beauty,

we're expected to know.

Slim and tall, with perfect skin, No wrinkles or no acne, no extra chin.

Long luscious hair, and sparkling eyes,

A perfect nose, and lips of perfect size.

But who decided, what beauty should be?

Why can't we all, just be free?

Tall or short, thin or curvy,

Society's view is often blurry.

Photoshopped bodies on display,

Perfect skin, no flaws to betray,

but the real beauty lies within,

and loving yourself is where to begin.

So, let's break free from beauty's Mold,

embrace our uniqueness,

be bold,

for real beauty is not just skin,

It's the confidence that lies within.

The Mustard Tree | Irene Jose Kalapurakkal

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

Belief grew in my uterus,

until it ballooned

for months and months

to deliver the harvest

I wanted.

The cycle continued.

Belief grew deeper

like a tree growing;

its roots in me.

From the thinnest strand

of hair atop,

to the the tiniest

twig of the foot imprints.

A construction so solid;

foundation strong,

for the house of life

I always wanted to live in.

Underneath it lay

the crushed fears

conquered demons,

venomous snakes

and squashed vermin.

I watered it everyday,

like a mustard tree growing

into a majestic tree,

Underneath it,

I sat,

in the shadow,

in peace, in light.

A smile from within

adorned my face.

I saw a butterfly

fluttering away,

from the coccoon

hanging from the tree.

So long it took,

but never missed the flight.

Rejoice I did;

bliss I indulged in.

An old chapter closed

forever.

By him; faith.

The Nocturnal Lovers | Arshpreet Kaur

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

Dark is an emblem of a silent and serene life

Mostly back home to rest for the next day, a stint of life.

On the contrary, many are there who change such placid nights into vibrant vibes.

Their hearts beat only in the dimness of light

They are just waiting for it to come out from their abides.

Look! Mr.Owl is full of thrill and delight to seek his beloved

who is somewhere hidden in the dense Woods of pine

Longingly waiting for the nightfall to fabricate the endearments every night.

Those Hoots of Love evoke desires in She-Owl’s Heart

She swiftly pierced the veil of darkness to connect her Sweetheart.

Both’s bright eyes are gazing at each other on the black night.

Finally, He-She has started their Radiance life.

On the different side, A moth has only one day of life

He doesn’t want to waste a single piece of time.

Therefore, he delved into the love of light.

And whispered no interference between my admirer and I.

Somewhere far away in the twilight, a pretty girl looking steadily at the gleam of moonlight.

Waiting eagerly for the call, to hear her inamorato’s voice.

The rhythms of her breath expose the yearns that she conceals from the world.

Here, the sea waves are hysterical when the moon shines

The Beams of the moon create a flutter in her body and suddenly she turns into tidal rides

Crossed all the boundaries to muster her Man, despite knowing about the spurious love that he is showing.

Shameless waves, still urging to extinguish the blaze of her deep feelings

However, she realised it was all a lie and started crying on the lonely nights

Her sounds of tears gave voice to the soundless nights.

Such resonating motifs the beauty of night but nobody knows someone’s pain lying behind.

See the other Senophile, only moonlight makes her alive

She blooms in the shimmering nights and calls herself a flower of moonlight.

Her love is unconditional, she doesn't bother about the love of the other side.

Whether he loves her or not, that can’t make her cry.

Unlike, a gorgeous girl always in the realm of dreams

In the attainment of a pristine lover that rhymes with the soul of her.

All of them are the Nocturnal Lovers, Lovers who make dull nights live.

Mighty Mountains | Ananya Hazarika

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

Majestic, mysterious, and mighty.

Some green, some blue, and a hint of purple.

Crowned grey from dawn to dusk,

You offered a symphony, I may have never heard.

An obscure echo and voices from a distance.

A murmur in the wind; of transitory freedom, of vague liberty.

An absolute abyss that you are-

You absorbed me in the aura of your fresh and crisp,

You deluded me, with your grounds unshaken and head unbowed.

Standing tall with heaven as your cape.

You stand taller, taller than the sky.

Like a vigilante- watching and protecting.

Like a father- struggling but smiling.

We’ve cut you, We’ve harassed you, We’ve torn you— apart.

You protected, You nurtured, You watched carefully as we grew.

You shielded.

We overlooked.

Yet, You still stand, head high.

After days of toil, after nights of torment.

Clothed with pines and rustic trees-wild flowers and humming bees.

I tried to follow,

the whistles of some occult bird, the chirruping of some exotic fowl.

Your breeze so calm, it astonishes me.

I could hear you breathe — Or is it just me, still and quiet?

I hear the whispers, the echoes in your ridges.

The silver lining- not on the cloud, but at your foothills.

The stream, that dresses your ground

Like an anklet on your feet,

Pushing through moors, moving the doors.

You make a picture, surreal, strong, and sensible.

Dahlias in a Windowpane | Aditi Mishra

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

Exactly five years ago

I lived in a city of dreams-

the city of my struggles,

quite an imposing brand you'd say

but apt for a girl in mid-twenties.

I crawled against my inertia to move,

dragged outside every day.

At exactly half past eight

with roads being swept

I'd hop on a bus to work

recognize every face in there

perhaps I seemed mundane to them too.

I tried to look for novel pictures

relaxing on a window seat

peeping out to find familiar traces.

Just before a lazy traffic signal

the bus screeched to a halt,

cars groaning more than their owners,

the cacophony seemed unbearable.

A wearied building giggled

at the opposite end and

my eyes paused at a window

marked by mauve dahlias

spraying hope on me.

Their owner, a man

strumming his grey years

watering them with tenderness

glanced once or twice at me

as if protecting his darling dahlias.

I laughed and moved on

forgetting them again.

Then at exactly half past six,

with wearied gleam of dusk

the bus sighed at the same stop.

The dahlias, lilac in shades

proudly beamed with joy.

The owner reading next to them

caught me red-handed

staring at his dahlias

then laughed at

my sheepish grin and waved.

I waved back to the gentle old man

and this became our routine

for the next four years.

On melancholic days

he waved them at me

in joyous moments

he greeted me with a smile.

Then my struggles in that city

came to an end

I moved to another place

forgetting that trend.

This year I visited someone nearby-

the building devoid of laughter

dilapidated with charcoal shades

had been ablaze last year

now abandoned with memories.

I hopped on the same bus

saw the broken window

from where they used to wave at me.

A memoir of my diary in days of vain

now symbolized by a forgotten windowpane,

but I noticed something else

a tendril with a single mauve dahlia

creeping from a moist wall

reaching the old man's broken windowpane.

Perhaps in that corner remained

a fragment of the frayed phases in my journey.

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.