Fourth  National Poetry Competition :  1993

The Awards

First prize

Shampa Sinha for her poem Siesta

Second Prize

Tarun Cherian (Trivandrum) for his poem A Writer’s Prayer

Commendation Prizes

1. Mr. K. Ramesh (Bangalore) for his poem Guns and Walking-Sticks

2. Ms. Oby Nagar (Jaipur) for her poem Sannyasini

3. Mr. Ranjit Hoskote (Bombay)for his poem Altamira

4. Ms. Anju Makhija (Bombay)for her poem Can You Answer, Professor?

 Award Winning Poems

SIESTA  by  Shampa Sinha

After lunch

when the files had ceased buzzing

over the food-littered floor

and the air

was still and heavy

when only the soft plop

of drops from a leaky tap

into a half-filled tin pail

broke the quiet

my wrinkled grandmother

would ask me to comb

her long wet hair

and as the comb furrowed

through the dark shining mass

and the smell of her coconut hair oil

mingled with the warmth of

midday sunshine

her lips would tell me

of how an illiterate peasant

had obtained the gift of rhymes

from the Goddess Saraswati

of how the new-born Krishna

had escaped the wrath of

a jealous king

and of many other

such bygone things

I would look on

with sleep-drunk eyes

as she recited Sanskrit verse

in a grating sandpapery voice

and when

her eyes closed in comfort

and her breathing became as rhythmic

as the poetry she had chanted

through the long lazy afternoon,

I would tiptoe

Up to the old wall clock

to see

A WRITER’S PRAYER  by Tarun Cherian

Let my words have an unvarnished feel to them. Truth writ in the grain. Sentences that feel like bark and offer comfort like a bench after a long walk into the hills with a woman.

Let my words have the clearness of a stream – the seeing pebbles look. The kind through which you reach and pick a water-smooth pebble. Or better still, cupped in both hands, it’s icy coolness splashed on a sweaty face and arms dewed with a laughing run up a summery slope.

Let my words have a good taste to them, like warm stew ladled with loving arms, brown-gold as loaves snoring-soft in a basket weaved hither-thither with sentences and bible rhythms and the warm taste of grace.

Let my words smell like the tenderness of a woman’s breasts or a cupped hand raised gently, its fleshy plumpness to nostrils trembling as a race horse’s might. Or let the words breathe of iron-hot clothes, or a leather saddle, or a table being waxed by the arms of the carpenter.

 GUNS AND WALKING-STICKS   by  K. Ramesh

I remember an exhibition of

Guns of different sizes

Displayed on tables in a room.

Complete, dark in colour,

Shiny as the hides of horses,

And I loved to hold them in my hand.

The bullets too,

Beautifully shaped like

Small idols of gods;

The jawans explained about

Each to the men,

But I as a child just moved around.

I also remember the day

I saw in a shop,

Walking-sticks clustered in a basket;

One modeled like a snake,

The other stiff like a sentry.

The handles made me imagine.

Thin men with bald heads.

But now I have grown up,

And I know well about the guns;

That each one is more horrible

Than the snake of Eden.

But the walking-sticks amuse me more.

And my wish is-

To find myself with one

(Walking-stick)

sitting on the bench of a silent park

In the evenings

When I am old.

SANNYASINI  by Oby Nagar

Our eyes met

For a fleeting second

Binding us together

In a suspended animation

-That was my Yoga,

I, took deep breath

And filled myself

With your fragrance

And parted with it

Miserly, slowly

-That was my Pranayama,

Once,

Sitting quietly

I recalled your smile

And tenderly it played

On my lips too

-That was my Dhyana,

A dear friend

Called me twice, thrice

Then literally, shook me up

As lost in yours,

I opened my eyes

-That was my Samadhi,

Creeper-like

I climb

Your feet, your arms

Craving for support;

To reach your heart

Where I’ll repose

Morning wells like blood

in the stag’s hollow eye.

That horned fleece is yours, priestess;

this stone axe, mine.

I won’t wear my minotaur mask again.

I’ve spent the night carving

this ring of bone for you :

print your palm in vermilion

on this rock-face and today

spouts of fire will drive the bellowing wind

mad. Your name swells

in my mouth. Stop me

with the blood-rush of your hair,

CAN YOU ANSWER, PROFESSOR?

WHEN WERE YOU BORN?   By  Anju Makhija

Forbes dry gin, rum-flavoured pipe tobacco, sunflower seeds,

Mozart’s Amadeus, Milton’s Paradise Lost

The right mix for immortality... a flap and the fly is dead.

WHEN WILL YOU DIE?

Refilling the glass, lighting the pipe, peeling the seeds,

Lulled by the music, flipping through Paradise Regained,

Meditating on the bend of he leaf... a flap and the fly is dead.

YOU DO NOT KNOWN?

Empty glass, pipe dangling, seed skins scattered

Chanting a mantra, reading Path to Nowhere,

Fanning the Guru... a flap and the fly is dead.

WHAT DO YOU KNOW THEN?

Gin twice a week, pipe alternate days, twelve seeds at lunch,

Weekly concert, writing The Great Gibberish Novel