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Wingword Poetry Prize

It gives me great pleasure to share with you that my Marathi poem, सरळसोट, has won the Wingword Poetry Prize.

Here's the poem recited ( Hope you enjoy it.

- The Last Nomad
Recent posts

Poem: Life and death in five minutes

It was the year 2020, when we did this crazy thing, Gathering on rooftops, balconies, and all places we could. To play gongs, plates, whistles and clapped for everyone who helped us survive a deathwave.
This moment did what many could not. It brought us together, different people from distinct worlds, To experience the flip of a coin. One flip and our world will change. Before we assumed our differences again, we realized we are life.

- The Last Nomad

TLN Merchandise on Writersgram

My select quotes are now available on Writersgram. With simple and elegant designs, the folks at Writersgram Publications have done a fantastic job.

A perfect match for a thoughtful moment over a cup of tea or coffee or a cool t-shirt to grace your casual moments, I hope these products will add to your :-) moments.

Here are the links:

Mug 1
Mug 2
Mug 3

T-shirt 1

T-shirt 2

T-shirts are available in 4 different sizes and 13 different colours in half/full sleeve varieties.

Cheers to thoughtful moments!

- The Last Nomad

Poem: Confined in freedom

How strange is the plight of humans,
Who spend years in self-confinement, Convincing their reasoning mind to wait for eternity, Before relishing the imagined moment, Where happiness awaits in abundance.
Multitude of such moments, They live in, unaware, Are moments like the ordinary, Where happiness seeks no yearning to readily bloom.
- The Last Nomad

Poem: Bloom

Vibrant flowers, Fall on the ground, As their sweet fragrance escapes into thin air, And intricate being becomes earth again. Memories we caress by framing their pictures, And reminiscing their scent, While the tree is ecstatic, With a thousand blooming buds.
- The Last Nomad

Poem: Unsold art

Year after year, Staring at hundreds of paintings hung in decorated frames, Basking in the glamour of handsome patronage, He wondered what made people buy art, And why his paintings never found their rightful collector. Devoid of their thick coat of affluence, The art buyers were everything but interesting.
All he dreamt of that night were empty frames, Hung on trees and burning bright. Startled, he rushed onto the streets in search of flaming trees, And all he found was a woman at the traffic signal, With a basketful of unsold earthen toys.

- The Last Nomad