KRITYA2007
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Kritya completes a joyous second year and here we are with this
last issue for this year. Kritya is released on the first day of
every month. The journey of Kritya was not exactly trouble-free,
but was made possible because of the wholehearted love of our
readers and contributors. We keep on getting support from all
quarters, in terms of encouraging words and praise as well as in
the form of excellent submissions of creative material from
poets and artists. In the course of the last two years, Kritya
could bring out several unique issues like – a special number
for Australian poetry, another as a tribute to the Indian poet
Ayyappa Paniker and yet another for Italian poetry. Moreover,
Kritya is now registered as a foundation for Arts, Culture and
Literature.
Rati Saxena
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I shall begin cutting out that future
now with my teeth. It is what
women of the future do. Until
I have arrived on the flowery breast
of my new mother.
Lisa Zaran
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She covers her head
With her mother's scarf
Made from Vilna's dreams -
Its lace tattered from age.
She covers her eyes
And prays over the candles
At a table set for one.
Between the breath of ancient words,She visualizes what could have been
And wishes her life were different.
Patricia Carragon
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How could I forget that when I breathe,
it is still of that same breath that sod out planets,
suns, and satellites for the aging pieces
of creation's darker case?
Ray Succre
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Carved among the names of the
dead, where the voice grows old, images lie underneath
awaiting other roots to be sucked up. Ants climb slow. All
falls into the seasons of your face, for all comes as a
season. Spring time is yet as perfect for death as the
imagination of winter hacked by the axe. The tongue of the
dead in the mouth of the living, while Time succeeds Time,
unheard and reconciled. The ear is a trap. The mouth as well.
All words grounded down lie bare, flesh-compelled, start
meaningful occurrences. They came to this side in a twitch of
nerves, across a doleful distance in the brain wires, to pursue
the pattern as ever before. The body is where one starts from.
This you like to think of in the general mess of every kind of
other failures. At first to deal with some abstraction in all
manner of thing, visible and delightful, .....
Antonio Diavoli
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Feelings in humans
Are like time in space:
The former moves
While the latter stays.
Time is forever.
Space doesn’t live that long –
It requires updates.
Though imprescriptible,
Time is still wrong
For space.
Space is suicidal. It tends to an end.
Time has no goal –
Like this evening that no one knows how to spend,
Or the clock on the wall.
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Another evening, another finished-up day.
The clock-face ponders
On the expansion of π.
How much time has already passed away?
How many grammatical tenses
Have passed by?
The room is empty with things
And full with thoughts.
The habit to write
Aches in my right hand.
Do you think it’s easy?
Each letter inside me has fought
For the freedom of speech,
For the freedom “to be” – to the end.
Vera
Zubarev
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When I love
I feel that I am the king of time
I possess the earth and everything on it
and ride into the sun upon my horse.
When I love
I become liquid light
invisible to the eye
and the poems in my notebooks
become fields of mimosa and poppy.
When I love
the water gushes from my fingers
grass grows on my tongue
when I love
I become time outside all time.
When I love a woman
all the trees
run barefoot toward me...
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I conquer the world with words,
conquer the mother tongue,
verbs, nouns, syntax.
I sweep away the beginning of things
and with a new language
that has the music of water the message of fire
I light the coming age
and stop time in your eyes
and wipe away the line
that separates
time from this single moment. Nizar Qabbani
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