NaPoWriMo'21 Best Entries

Updated: Sep 13, 2021


Dear readers and literati,

Wordcraft held its very first National Poetry Writing Month in April, celebrating thirty consecutive days of prompts and poetry. Here, we present before you, the best-received entries per week, judged and picked by a board of professors.





Identity Crisis by Padma Parija


I'd put my words in a rich marinade

since dawn

that folded ingredients

from a cupboard in the kitchen

of my mind

With select few ingredients

That remind me of home

I've built within myself.

A tin of metaphors,

subtle, sordid, capable of smoothly smothering anyone who inhales it,

Spoonfuls of adjectives in a marmalade of sunshine tied up with the grapevine slithering up my backbone,

A dash of stories I've loved to have lived in,

A bit of hurt

Cloves of nostalgia for my poem

to be as fragrant as petrichor saved in the fibre of my being

Where it rains every alternate day,

A spice mix of roaring oceans crashing on my spine, an accumulated storm of tears I'm mostly running out of,

Freshly squeezed love oozing from the cracks in my heart, too much to give, too less to receive.

I'd put my words in rich marinade since dawn,

Handpicked the herbs from the garden of narratives,

Cranked the oven in my palms

To make a dish

I've relished as an illusion

Never as a reality

Always as a reminder

Never as a memory

Of the poet I was

Of the poet I am

Of the poet I could be.



Photograph by Anwesh Banerjee


No you weren't in the photographs

But you were in my memories all the same.


I remember putting them together

In the rosewood box grandma had gifted

Me on my fifth. It still contains a wrapper

From a candy I bought but hated. A cigarette,

Half burnt like the friendship that was lit, and

Lost over it. The dried wisteria petals in an

Envelope bordered with Danae sleeping.

And the polaroids. Each reel. Expensive.

Decadent. Aesthetic. Cold.


You aren't there in any. Because of course

You hated being clicked. Moments. Fleeting

Moments. And you would capture them. Unfairly

Enough. But there is one photograph where I

See you. Like the ship that rolled past the

Falling body of Icarus, like the movement of the

Minutes hand, like the suddenness of your wayward

Glance on my skin. There with the sunshine. And

Gone into the secret stardust the next second.


Yes you are there. In the mirror behind us.

Reflected as you reflect on the smiles of those

Who you click. Smiles hiding milking breasts.

Smiles hiding the beginning of something new

From what was an accident. We spoke later. You

Asked me to get it aborted. And I walked out

Into the darkness that bled into the one

In my heart. Into the mists that are the embrace

Of the stars.


Photographs. They capture ghosts of course.

But your last one of mine did. The ghost of a

Love that can now only be kissed from tears

That have long stopped rolling down.



Shore By the Sea by Aranya Sahay


But do you believe like an Oasis in the desert, There's a shore in the midst of the sea? Enticing a fatigued sailor Astray from the supposed path to be?

Where the dry sand glitters in the rays of the sun

and the balmy winds sway the trees.

Where the ship can refuge and reside Whilst the storm passes through the sea.

Where they can enjoy the rich delicacies of the greens

Whilst the mermaid sings her melodies.

But do you realize like the oasis in the desert

The shore by the sea too is but a figment of comfort The shore, a whirlpool in reality, With skeletons and bones

not the destination to be? For like the oasis turns out to be a marshland

And treasures and masts Burying everything deep within the sea.

Rekindling the travellers will to live Just before engulfing them to another realm.



A Room With a View by Anany Dwivedi


Behind the window, an average street,

Busy with people, in scorching heat!

A sea of people, a frenzy wild,

Among the faces, there stood a child.

His face was dusty, his eyes bright,

Dressed in rags, a pitiful sight!

He looked here, and he looked there,

Begged for money, stood in despair.

Safe in my room, away I look,

A loud thud, and the earth did shook.

The sky turned red, and the voices loud,

A pool of blood, and a gathered crowd!

The next day, back was the noise,

A sudden reminder to us, time enjoys.



All My Lovers in a Rose by Anwesh Banerjee


A rose is a use, but a rose is a rose,

is also not a rose. It is a spiralling, intoxicant,


A series of lovers I choose to remember,

remind the self of each time I put.

the value of myself below the crushing weight

of the bottomless ocean of my lovers words

being fired like a bullet towards the heart

of my dying esteem


You thing of beauty you Rose!

When I looked at you, I saw a


Pair of eyes staring back. I saw

poetry scribbled in numbers

And Greek alphabets and symbols.

Funny how, unknown to him and me, we

Loved things of ground sea shells

And salty airs exceps his numbers

Were an insolvable paradox and mine

The bloodbath of an Oedipal tragedy.


When I looked past, the opiate layers

of the second series of blood burning petals

my loens burned with the guils of second love

that is unforgiving in its capacity. We burt knowing

That we will be hurt back, but hurting

Is just another style of arranging flowers


Is satisfies the gut and ultimately dies a slew death.

But then life wasn't all sommer


Across a third sea of lies and the history

Of space there was the fourth promised land


of stolen glances. Brushing caresses.

Hidden loves. And life is not a balcony

In medieval Rome. It's a city being divided

Roses make ballets which are bullets


In the midst of fires and blood. Poems

Are spun with words and guns


Nonetheless. The breast springs and

And light. And finally

It's scarred you explain

We entwine our flesh. You whisper.

"What's with poets and sunsets

Sunrises can be beautiful too


Heaves in eternal west, till the sky

Splits in a stroke of singular thunder


I see him again.


Freckled Callosed Piercing


Pollen covered. Seene inducing

But maybe the moon wasn't for us.



Forgotten Bookshops by Soumya Jain


There lived a vellichor,


In it's atmosphere.


The place didn't get visitors any more.

Just once in a while inquisitors.


All was different yet strangely same.

The dusty greasy surfaces of the pale brown books,


Left a prominent mark on my fingertip.

And suddenly a rush into the past:


A long gone mystical time zone.


Where feathers were used as pens and leaves for paper,


Where history wrote it's present.

Oh how so many:


Would have embraced these shelves,


Would have sat in the corridor for hours ruminating.


There still echoe in the air,

Murmurs of a reading session,


Exclamations of a climax!


Sobs of an end,

Sighs of romance,


Awes of wonder!


All in the air.


Of that rustic, yet traquil space;

That forgotten bookshop.



Everything Burns Up by Ruchira Mandal


Everything burns up.


Great Roman cities.


Fabled libraries in ancient Egypt.

Meteors crash with the weight

Of impossible dreams.

Our forests burn, and histories,

And the air we breathe. and lives.

The world turns ashen

On the flames of hate.

The stars you see may

Burned their ends.

We burn, so we may live again.



Self Portrait by Anany Dwivedi


Sitting in this pit I dug,


I gaze upon

your aura and your form.


standing tall

on this pedestal beneath you,

there exists an idea in there


somewhere.


Yet, it escapes me


Unfathomable

Indecipherable


Infinite


in your jumbled threads.


Which parts must I pick


to complete this self portrait?

Every inch that I grab

is a false positive, it's a paradox


of my own design.


or rather the result of this air I breathe?

Inconsequential, however, for it remains incomplete.


Ever melting from my grasp.



Vinyl Records by Ruchira Mandal


Grandfather's house, long ago.

Discs too big for a child's hand

And a machine that just won't

Roll back time. Some music

Must remain in memory's eye.



Why Poetry? by Anisha Bhargava


In the wee hours, just as you kill time

to see the moonlight disappear from your palms and a bubble of warm light take over the shadows disappear, to let the first rays a

of the sun peep into your room

onto your palms

I hope

when you hold poetry in your palms

it makes its way between the gap of your fingers

and finds its corner

for you to wrap fingers and make a fist

I wish there's a room for the poem you're holding to,

in these dark times

the poem's edges don't hurt you

the ink doesn't stain your fingers

and they make a home, in your palms like the bubble of warm light

into your room

onto your palms

in your heart.



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