Yes, we are ready to welcome you all dear Poet friends with lots
of poetry and with lots of love and fun. This festival is a
dream project for Kritya, which is a very young and totally
independent organization. We are not rich in kind but very rich
in heart. We wish and hope that all our guests will enjoy our
When I dream for Kritya I did not dream about an International
Poetry Festival. When I am working for this international poetry
festival, I do not have any idea about its future. But I am sure
Kritya is now, not only my dream but also the dream of so many
poets and artists who are helping Kritya in so many ways.
So I will pray—Let our dream grow into a universal dream.
This issue of Kritya is dedicated to our dream for poetry.
We hang stars outside our bedroom
windows, watch them in the dark
and wonder how to reach them.
We wait until that sensible,
kind-hearted person points out
that we are the ones who hung
them up there to dry (and with
them drying, evapourate our dreams).
We throw stars out like dice
and wait to see our fate,
forgetting (always forgetting)
that we are the ones
who rolled the dice.
We look to the stars
and past the heavens.
Laala Kashef Alghata
God, My Friend !
The sky is blue
And the earth is green today
Let the cattle enjoy
Put down your “Sotha”
And give me a “Biri”
Have a cup of “Chai”
Let us sit together and chat
Poetry, even with its element of play, is no mere combinatorial
game that a machine can play. It is more than a mere permutation
of a restricted number of elements and functions. It always
tries to say what it cannot say and its power comes from its
willingnes to give a voice to what is voiceless and a name to
what is nameless. Poetry becomes important, as Italo Calvino
says, not when it reproduces established values, given truths or
ready-made slogans. It is an ear that hears beyond the
understanding of common sociology, an eye that sees beyond the
colour spectrum of everyday politics. It promotes self-awareness
through a criticism of the staus quo and the cultural and
material violence it perpetrates....
Dread symbol of distress
Clemency in another guise
your colour dark, cold your touch
Your nature awesome, intent grim
Oh death, what indeed are you?
Are You a spiritual, mystic changes
class="tip" align="j The soul most
secret jealous guards?
class="tip" align="juIn transmigration as it moves on;
Or crises afore transcendence
class="tip" align="juFrom one frame to
Balancing out sweet romance of life.
Thirunal Gouri Lakshmi Bayi
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.