POETRY WITH PRAKRITI - 2009 CONTEST WINNERS

I Prize: Parthashila by CS. Bhagya  

                      I

Before taking you to my village 

let me warn you:

You must not exclaim at spiff mynahs, 

shoals of duckling or sand-puddled 

cobblestone forks devoured by heat. 

On the way to my house we may sight 

resinous trees weep sap, spathes 

masking congealed amber.

Under humming electric poles feel balmy,

jasmine-scented summer breeze roll.  

We may pass a temple and a dry well.

You will see dreaming acacias, somnolent

drifts of sugarcane sighing in their sleep.

If lucky, a lone elephant. 

You must not ask me to kiss you amid 

such beauty. Old men, towels draped 

on heads, leer at every road-turning. 

These could have been cows I drove, 

singing, to a sheltered cove full of fresh grass.

These, bicycle tyres I whipped on pensive days

at the tail of our frumpy red village bus. 

My house stands numbed. And look my room, 

agape, as if someone wishing to enter

silently opened the door but forgot to step in. 

                                               II

My schoolmaster, that old harpy, swore 

nothing good would come of me when

as a boy I filched his pocketwatch. 

Pretty, shiny thing it was. 

If we have time we can visit him, although

he may be dead by now. 

Or I could sit with you in our empty barn 

and tell you stories. I could begin with the

jackfruit in our backyard; not picked ripe

they fell like minor bombs splicing dust 

into wet yellow craters. Alarmed chicken 

scooted towards bracken, rumbled out

of their dizzy afternoon siestas. 

                        III                     

Evenings, we could walk. You and I,

we could fuck slowly in a hiding of 

glabrous root till the sun rises next 

morning to roast the Arundhati's 

teeming waist a flaring golden pink. 

You will prefer we giggle, maybe,

ankles immersed in shallows, 

watch fish flit beside cut-rock steps.

Deliriously kick water, avenge 

bitten toenails. 

Should we leave before long-armed 

seaweed choke our feet? 

Or sit by her, my river, and burn. 

II Prize: Innuendo in the Cinema Theatre by Nabina Das

For Robert Hass

This a story of two opponents

who face each other, count

silence with just an ‘ahem’.

One guesses very well

something hanky panky

went on indoors, curtained;

while the sheepish other

is embarrassed but sure that

his mate of henna beard

has cheated behind his back.

They believe, she can see,

love and kingdom is a game.

The trot of the horses and

the thundering canons are

only a few of the things

that make her chest rise

higher than the hillside on

the tremulous silver screen.

With this scene where

Satyajit Ray’s chess player

is caught unbuttoned

after returning back to

the game from a quick

love tiff with his silly wife,

the girl knows there will

never be such parables

for her even in the twilight.

In the story, trumpets play

in technicolour hands

hundred horns hoot away.

The magnificent blare

ascertains someone has

cheated and yet, has won.

Men and parodied mules,

women fleeing with babies,

roll like a carriage song.

It remains unclear who

will blink first to disentangle

overtures with their hands.

The script is in a language

she speaks but is remote

for an innuendo in her heart.

Elephants in gold brocades,

climactic chatter, tingly rosewater,

turn her lips butterfly wings

because she will see them

again and again on a screen

of her unbridled dreams.

Lastly, the soldiers march

in and the players stare:

two split fish stranded

unable to remember any

moments of lovemaking

or cheating on a pawn.

They half-rise, she waits.

Her lover leaves through

a door he takes with him:

like shadows mingling dark,

countries drawn in lines,

the two separate.

Copyright: Nabina Das

III Prize: Dy(e)ing Craft by June Nandy

Remember? After completing the designs,

you stretched the cloth across the frame

and fastened it with pins.

You always had beeswax-bars

in your pocket; smudging the silk

to avoid pigmentation. It looked

pallid with the paraffin etched on its skin.

I took up where you left. Picking

colours—one or two, with a hint

of gloss. I daubed...daubed; colours rich

in subdued shades. Mixing and separating.

Nothing could seep in

through wax.

I wrung till the veins didn’t

crack. Dye-bathed till the colours

didn’t make seepage patterns.

The thousand suns has melted

the surface. The fabric now

 is a vintage batik, mounted

on the walls, for the people to marvel.