Result of Poetry Competition 7th Edition
Category: English

Title: Judas

Been incarnate beautiful and Ethereal on the inside.
Copious innocence and immaculate face personified.
Intentions were pious and clarified; grabbing me down and selling me out,
Better escape and run away from this cannibalistic cloud.

Trembling and terrifying like December snow,
Carving out the soul that is made up of stone.
Reverting the call of trust and summarizing what's left behind,
Making up the summers look like indomitable kryptonite.

Embracing the darkness and gradually loosening the light,
Crawling in the cage of filth and covering up with smiling eyes.
What is happening back in the mind?!, seems like betrayal becoming the only pride.
I'm becoming Judas ,O yes, Judas back in my mind.

Carrying a heavy cross of guilt and tolling upright,
My shoes tapping the blood on the floor, nothing smells to be alright.
Each step that i take is haunting me beneath, pass on this torch of wound and make me baptize.
I'm becoming Judas,O yes, Judas back in my mind.

The chruch having no chorus or chords, neither candlesticks nor gongs.
Failing to ask the priest- "Will i be able to make up my wrongs?".
Vagueness prevailing and vividness drowning in the swamp of sins,
Is it time already, to wake up and lay in the coffin?.
I'm becoming Judas,O yes,Judas back in my mind.

I negotiated with lust and greed for few ounces of silver coins,
Dappering my loved ones in the pit of fire seems justified.
Pleading my dwarf mind to settle now and set me free from this bolstering mayhem,
Causing me everything i ever cared for and dumping my life in the grave of pandemonium.
I'm becoming Judas,O yes,Judas back in my mind.

WINNER

Mayur Parashar

Poet's Instagram: https://instagram.com/mayurparashar37

 Title:  I, Aeolus

When on my hearth, alone, I lay still,

And no air bears sweet scent, no bee sweet honey,

No flowers bloom, no star any shinning,

When, in my eyes no joy, in my heart nothing to fulfil,

Oh, when sweet despondency creeps through and bleats my skin,

And wicked traces of my grief in dark vapours fill within,

No one stays near, as if a vile disease has bleached my soul,

A curse is shed upon my heart, as if I'm  from the one to stay apart,

As if mercy has not shed its light upon me, oh I'm on my own!

 

When alone along the road, I wander,

With no shelter near, no temple or mosque far,

My jaded limbs too meek to walk an inch, or stand at least,

In this vast wilderness, oh, where would I sleep?

Not in the laps of the loved, not leaning on their shoulders,

Not too drunk to sleep in the mud, not to walk, much sober!

My face is wreathed by anguish, but I feel no shame, feel no pain,

For I'm all alone this way, all else went in vain, all in vain!

 

If only I could be with you, if only the sorrow reached your eyes,

I could see you running to embrace me, to come

Sing me my favourite song, until I start to cry,

Until you sing me to sleep, until the sorrow is overcome!

Only if you could hear the raving tempest caught within,

I bet I'd be bequeathed by your joyous company,

And you'd caress my hair, until the fright is gone,

Oh, until my cold feet are warm, until the night sees the sun!

If only you could see the horde of despair, how they steal

The light behind my eyes, how in merciless plunder, they kill

All the fruits of a lovely season of faith's perfection,

You'd have embraced me, you, you, you all! The emotion

Would have burned in my ire and again born as love in my lap,

Yet did you choose for me to drown, oh merry, oh clap!

 

Yet I love you, like a crippled plume floating in free air,

Even after being detached from a bird, still wishes to fly in vain;

Even though my soul has been overhauled by agony, plight and despair,

I still long for you like the flicker o' blitz long for showering rain!

I must live on and be yours, even if the world is dead,

And carry the torch of faith in this charade of masquerade!

Even that I've fallen short of grace, even though I'd have to wait

For another life to be perfect, I'll take another century to be dead,

Then be born again only to be yours, and then one fine day,

Behold this poem I write today, and die another day!

1ST RUNNER UP

Souranil Biswas

Poet's Instagram: https://instagram.com/nacreous_necromancer

Top 10 Poets (inclusive of winners)

Title: Satan in Eden

unknown to it we are not;

 

what the past maytime escorted to gardens of earth?;

 

stung by an unease conceded were breaths;

an upheaval weaving garland of deaths;

screams were confined within the walls of mere chambers, who could hardly endure 'em..

it startled us, the sirens of ambulances roaming about in our neighbours;

where we would've beheld the reflections of sweets meadows overflown with sunflowers among gentle breezes of the far east;

where picking up garden fresh strawberries at grand pa's, we would've stumbled up suns in hayfields; but,

clothed in soot were the dusks enchanting last rites of grandfather who got hospitalized and the ashes were burried aside of those very sunflowers!...

where pitter patter of downpours would've eavesdropped at our balconies ushering the cravings for fritters and red teas;

where it would've doused us in solace, soil's ver whiff, but,

stagnant were streets with no vendors hawking;

no red signals ever saw any taxis stopping;

clans of homeless men awaited for postponed last locals;

with no place to repose, to taste no supper, no network for calls;

to go somewhere obscure they marched barefoot anyway;

but were ridiculed by an overlying rain storms, which would've been a sweet sight any other day?...

humming lullabies the very nature sent us off to hibernations, which not only consumed the winter tide but exceeded the summer solstice even;

and when we were interrupted by falls in our depressions, those shed just like maple leaves, there nature was our only optimism!..

gods in white coats with folded cuffs and unironed foreheads,

most lived among and some as deads;

after months of labour;

resurrected the souls through ventillators;

satan was expelled from edens, sooner or later,

a new world crawled in the lap of mother nature!

2ND RUNNER UP
Poet: Jagdeep Singh

https://instagram.com/jagdeep_singhbuttar

Title: YOUR PRESENCE SMELLS LIKE

Your presence smells like the first fragrance of petrichor,

When the cerulean heavens were tormented by the amber decor!

For ages; the timid earth so brimming in heat dwelled in anguished austerity,

Only when the dark clouds of sullen grace bestowed dribbles on mundane posterity.

 

Your presence smells like the burning fumes of incense; wafting through my air,

So draped in zephyrs of sublime aroma; it makes me bask in its layer.

Myriad emotions enlivened by your warmth; bring me a breath of resplendence,

Encircled by the aura of blessed divinity that embellish words of my cadence.

 

Your presence smells like an odour carrying wings of profound nostalgia,

Getting me drenched as an immortal whole in elixirs of ambrosia.

I seek for erotic hunger in the darkness of the pristine night, 

But your intemperate sobriety plunges me into the abysmal ocean of tranquil delight.

 

Your presence smells like the sweet fragrance of ink on my infantile pages,

Perfumed in melodious symphony that kept me a child for unknown ages.

Fiddling with the antique crust; blanketed with viscous soil of innocence,

Your smell keeps me away from the sombre ashes of uncensored vehemence.

Poet: Dipanjan Bhattacharjee

Title: The Goat Got Kicked Twice

A hoary, chubby-tubby puny goat,

Sat at ease by a narrow dusty road:

Unaware, unconcerned, unsuspecting

Of wordly affairs that are tormenting.

 

Least did it expect to have a rendezvous

With a brat who wore brand new shoes.

Sloppily was he roving with his grandpa,

Head in the sky and legs both seesawed.

 

The kid nagged the goat involuntarily

And landed it a rapid kick substantially.

But oh boy! Look, what happens next!

The goat is kicked anew by the pest.

 

Poor feeble goat maintained ignorance,

Gave no regard and retained negligence.

The view left me dismayed and ice-cold,

Watching the goat being kicked twofold.

 

Hardly had I got over the incident when

Came another lass with similar opinion.

Romping in the street with grandparent, ready to thwack even a ghastly tyrant.

 

So engrossed was she in her prattle that

Her limb wellied the mammal outcast.

Angered by this unforeseen impediment,

The girl leased one more kick irrelevant.

 

The two kids went on with their delight,

Leaving the buck in a needless plight.

What more shocking was the grim fact-

The goat didn't seem annoyed or piqued.

 

Watching such a dumbfounding sight,

How completely was I left stupefied! 

Honestly, it's still not clear to me why

The goat was kicked by the tinies twice?

Poet: Sofia R Dhodia

Title: Fire and Brimstone

Ages and aeons have sung sagas of

How from verdant wombs, took birth

Civilizations great, grand and glorious

Jewels of the Crown of Mother Earth

 

The bequest of the wise souls of yore

Noblest of values imbibed and ingrained

The mortals, into kinship, thus knit

Humanity flourished, Grace reigned 

 

With loving ardour, were raised

The bastions of cultural development

But none can but yield to

The Dark Angel’s advancement

 

Our bloodlust had them smothered

Hatred triggered widespread ravage

Oh, woe! How the “civilized” heart

Made itself so unbelievably savage!

 

Unfettered passions, running amok

Cities turned into funeral pyres

Unbridled spread, the flames of Wrath

Unquenchable like Hell’s raging fires

 

Innumerable lives untimely snuffed out

Grieving hearts profusely ached

As Vengeance went on a gleeful rampage

Our World with darkness plagued

 

Battlefields soaked with sacrificial blood

Every arsenal of destruction fervently tried

While warfare “evolved” and “modernized“

Witnessing its own desecration, Humanity cried

 

Unanswered questions hang heavy in the mournful air

Echoing in the widow's lament and the orphan's wail

Reveling in the annihilation of its own kind

How could Humanity so catastrophically fail?

 

Era to era, generation to generation

The Devil’s legacy, readily handed down

Agents of Devastation, leading the way

The world in agony, their minions drown!

 

Wounded empires, bleeding souls

Civilizations’ death-knell shall forever ring

Games of power, of malice and greed

The world, to this fate, shall surely bring!

Poet: Priyanka K. Tiwari

Title: HE TRIED HIS BEST

He lost himself when he was eight
Everyone hated him, he hated himself but he acted fine
He lost the one who mattered the most
It was as if everything was being run by a host
He never found the courage or strength to say
How he was broken, dying inside every day
He would joke around to cope with his pain
His life was hard at home and school,
It was a constant strain
It was like the same constant rule
You never cry, you never smile
If you do then you'll be a disappointment too
He tried his best to seem okay
He laughed he cried he said nothing
He talked to the one person who mattered the most
They left him when he needed them most
He thinks its his fault years later and years to come
No one cares though
They think its dumb
They say it's all in his head
Depression isn't real, you're just making it up
"I'm sorry" the last words he said
He tried his best, and now he's dead
He tried his best and no one cared
No one saw him broken and in despair
He begged and pleaded he cried for help
But you heard nothing you dint even hear a yelp
He acted, he hid his arms, and he would blame the cat
The cat did nothing,
The cats would watch him get called a brat
The cats saw his pain, the pain he hid
The cats saw everything that he did
He tried his best, but now he's gone
He's gone..

Poet: SHIVAM SONKAR

Title: WOE OF A VERSE

I picked some words to build a verse,

Blanked, rhymed – I know not.

Lofty, rhetoric, gliding, terse,

Whatever my soul caught.

I first sprinkled some Caesura

With a sparkling mix of Couplet,

But when meter warned of Endura,

I sensed I was in deep threat.

Then shunned the sprinkling-sparkling –

And handpicked vocables.

Not for aesthetic calling,

Neither for parables.

A time came when I left hope,

I couldn’t see me failing,

I couldn’t hear me called a “Dope”

And the readers’ wrath assailing.

I dropped my pen; all in vain

And buried my head in cushion.

A word came bobbing, though least profane

And gave his introduction.

It addressed – “My lord! Make use of me”,

I am kith of Ophelia.

Then bowed his head and stooped on knee

And said, “I am “Onomatopoeia”.

My defeated spirits restored and healed,

Blood boiled in my temper.

Re-picked my pen – passioned and zealed,

Destined now to conquer.

A spark suddenly flickered on,

I dropped my pen instantly,

Lifted my head and gazed yon –

Towards Onomatopoeia violently.

“You have no tongue, you’re fool and dumb,

You’re devoid of eloquence.

Your speech maimed, your lexis numb,

You utter nothing but non-sense”.

With folded hands, like a summer storm

There came flood of tears.

Then he told his tale of deform,

And how he suffered for years.

I sat having realized my goof,

I compromised my fame.

And used such words like Whoosh! Pow! Woof!

My verse thus got a name.

Poet: Kalparaj Chakraborty

Title: LIVING YET

I have lived in the sky for too long

Pleading, now let me die in its blue.

Please let my bruise get cut deeper so

as to reach my blood and water my ruby rose.

Breathing on grey all my life, desperate

for a light. Don’t appear now that I’m beaten.

This familiar abyss, familial to muse

on the only light, silver, the stars in my eyes.

Colours haven’t been my favourite since.

 

The forest once so enthralling- the dark and the woods

I’m now haunted by vines.

My uncertainty midst these chirping leaves-

“Thriving to die or dying to live?”

This is my ode to take me to that land, far away

It’s melted in scars anyway.

Stab my heart at once; I’d rather sleep peacefully

long in this enchantment and write myself into an elegy.

I sing my own lullabies.

 

Who was it that cemented my cradle while I was asleep?

Don’t keep to bestowing hope upon me.

I hoax my living, won’t anymore;

for the rattlesnakes in my lungs would wake, evermore.

Eulogy and wreath for parchment and ink

How many more poets in anguish should the soil see?

If any listens to me, a vanished poem

Pray you set me free.

I am, yet living, A debris.

Poet: Chandana Padala

Title: All Hands on Deck

 

"All hands on deck"

"But..

None left, sir."

 

I see it now:

the long years turning into hours flowing

minute by minute

backwards into standstill.

My ship, I built it from the straw 

I caught a heap of it

one by one in my beak once sir.

I built my ship out of it. 

"Is that all you built it of?"

"No.. not all, sir.

I also gave it my hours, age and

and soul, sir."

It sailed majestically into ocean 

wave by wave, into grandeur, into daybreak.

It sailed like none other from poverty 

into long long sails. It went to kings 

and Spain, around the Earth twain.

But the stay was short, sir.

I am caught in the whirlpool of fate, sir.

Time doesn't like sails, sir.

I see the hand of God, the same hand that 

gave me happiness

Heaps by heaps,

turning round, sir.

I see millions of hands rising out of sea

each burning my name, sir. 

What have I to gain? What can I gain? 

the God that is known from mercy 

has turned away from me to take, sir. 

I am a floundering man 

with a ship of straw, sir.

No hope from me 

no hope for me, sir.

None to give, none to take, not much, sir.

I have suffered twice, ENOUGH, sir.

Let me drown now, with my home 

in peace..... sir.

 

"Pull the sail, the storm comes."

"No hands left..... sir."

 

Poet: RIDDHI AGRAWAL

Like us on Facebook to stay connected and follow us on Instagram