Poetry Books
By
Kritya publication
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KRITYA2007
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It was the month of April, the heat in
Kalady was in its peak, and the trees standing both ways to the
road were naked. Instead of flying, birds were hopping on the
grass, as the grass was still not very dry. I was walking on the
road with a very heavy heart. The next morning, I was a little
surprised to see the tiny red leaves on few branches of most of
the trees. They were so beautiful as if a number of flowers
blossom on the branches. I was astonished as on the previous
day, all the trees were naked. Oh it rained for a few minutes
last night, I remembered. A big lesson by the nature. A drop of
rain is a bunch of life.
I started working in two directions -
collection of funds and public relations. We succeeded in
gaining the interest of Governor of Kerala, Princess and the
culture minister of Kerala Government, but we could not get any
sponsorship. I could understand that poetry does not have any
stand in the society, so no public sector can provide money for
it in any form. This was also the time when my mother-in-law was
brought here in a serious condition and I was running between
two poles- hospital and Kritya sponsorship hunt.
Rati Saxena
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mother is sleeping, facing
the table he is writing on
she sleeps, he writes in late
Summer, quietly. his tongue
excites a high child voice:
be glad, be kind, be good,
and where, and when,
and why, and get, go; on
the balcony, too, playing.
loved Warhol lived yet:
listen, now, go, do, you, too.
Massimo Sannelli
*
Snatch
There is a song
that comes between us.
I listen to it in silence.
He listens in sorrow.
I never ask him what it means.
I know.
And so, between us the song sits,
a mute accomplice,
a shred of doubt
between my teeth.
Sampurna
Chattarji
When I stand on the rocky cliff at the dark dawn,
the bare feet stick on the rugged surface.
The swift motion of an white antelope
in the running game of no cliff in naked feet.
The slow walk of a child who wears no shoe
extends its hand and asks me to hold it.
Right at the moment, to hold it after gluttonous
ascent,
I fall off the cliff downward into the voidness.
Tae Ho Han
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"The Poet"
Words flow onto paper like rain , forming giant rivers
of unseen lands.
The very force guides us along a journey
that holds of great adventure.
We are the explorers of the literary world.
We must find the courage to write what
others are unable to, with the greatest
of passion.
A poet dreams. and then must portray his
visions upon the page that lies before him.
It is the beauty of all things that inspires us
to communicate in such a way.
A man does not wake up one day, and
decide to become a poet.
It must live in the very blood that courses
through his veins.
He is the creator of a world, only he has
known.
He is the actor and director, of all that
speaks out through his pen.
He is a man of all men, Visionary of all
visionaries.
What you haven't seen, he has.
What you can't say, he can.
For he is the poet.&
Robert
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Poetry
I can never find a pen when you come,
when you snap me up on your lizard tongue,
and wrap yourself around me as if I were a spool.
Vague as metaphors you tease, trawling
rour shadows as feathering clouds do,
shedding infant vowels in your vaporous image.
You will never be perfected,
and while you are half-born I will never sleep.
In pickling ink I preserve all your fruits;
perhaps you are a prophecy,
a mouthing of the boundless,
or some God or other Minerva festering
like secrets in empty lines.
Years gone now, labouring to drain
the reddest blood from your throat,
and I am none the wiser.
*
The image grew there,
just as a child would grow,
a private hope in that tunnel skin
of my mind. I saw I existed.
I saw two where there should
have only been one.
Divided, the image
climbed into my head
and that foetus flooded
my guilt, until nothing explained
my life better than these
clothes falling to the floor.
Leanne
O'Sullivan
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Death! that struck when I was most confiding.
In my certain faith of joy to be--
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing
From the fresh root of Eternity!
Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,
Full of sap, and full of silver dew;
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.
Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;
Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride
But, within its parent's kindly bosom,
Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide.
*
There should be no despair for you
While nightly stars are burning;
While evening pours its silent dew,
And sunshine gilds the morning.
There should be no despair--though tears
May flow down like a river:
Are not the best beloved of years
Around your heart for ever?
They weep, you weep, it must be so;
Winds sigh as you are sighing,
And winter sheds its grief in snow
Where Autumn's leaves are lying:
Yet, these revive, and from their fate
Your fate cannot be parted:
Then, journey on, if not elate,
Still, NEVER broken-hearted!
dir="ltr">
Emily Jane Bronte
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