Poetry Books
By
Kritya publication
See the link
-Please check for -
KRITYA2008
An International
poetry Festival
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We will bring out Poetry Festival Special Issue next month, but
now in this issue let me take the opportunity to talk about this
exciting festival that is coming up soon. Friends, Kritya's
poetry festival 2008 is going to be held in Punjab, which is a
rich land of culture and tradition, love and dedication. Its
history dates back to the Harappan civilization (3300 - 1500 BCE
:) and the state enjoys a unique culture and vitality, which can
be felt immediately on arrival. This place is famous for its
Gurus, warriors and lovers. The Punjabis are loving, caring and
hardworking by nature. I am sure that when poets from other
countries come here to take part in Kritya poetry festival, they
will certainly like the Punjabi culture, the people here and the
values they uphold.
We are happy to say that
most of the great poets of our time have accepted our invitation
and so we have a long list of great poets of our time from most
of the Indian languages.
Rati Saxena
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an old book
reading between the lines
a silverfish
Sunil Uniyal
**
Be like the earth
When it rains
Let men dig
And pour cement
Install glass fiber
Into the network
Lay pipelines
Sink beams and oil rings
Let jets
Bore and tunnel the skies
Luigi Monteferrante
**
It's one of those years.
Walking barefeet in the heat
will bring autumn spinning to your toes,
and clouds of cotton will collect
at your knees, refusing to let go.
As you walk,
the leaves will smell secret,
*heedlessly,* unashamedly secret,
the green veins pulsating as you pass,
Trina Nileena Banerjee
***
Memories come:
tiger spoors, jasmine
scents, and lemon grass
by damp tea leaves.
He has four fingers
for each half of his bowl.
Krishna, a blind monk:
sees wheels in wheels
Burgess Stanley Needle
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Lazy
insecurity is scraping about
and three reasons may stand for
1) Suppositions are likely to be no cancelable
for production of char-coal at the case
: Wood gets fire
In exact , fire is imposed
2) The currency I have to have are counterfeited notes, or
patchworked, are not always jobless as in my pocket
3) Love for me does not whisper plus fifteen days
because char-coal formatting process, usage of char-coal past as
fuel
to resolve the stack
Is not the right equation
Dipankar Sen Gupta
Poetry, as
compared to prose, is marvelously evocative, full of depth, rich
in texture and complexity, startling in its revelations and warm
and throbbing with life. The poems of great poets exude warmth
of love, embody sparks of societal unrest and goad the readers
to a plan of action. Hence, Poet is called an unaknowledged
legislator of mankind.
Dr. Leo Rebello
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You tell me
I make loud animal sounds in my sleep.
I am an animal. I'm a buffalo-unicorn. A bare bear.
I eat the depths of meat and bite its lips. I swell
with smitten and yoga on the belly of your sex.
I am sated with emptiness as in a sutra. Let's face
it: the best of us is Buddhist, the vestigial
bone of the bone of shmoogadoo I smoked last
night, made love with you, slept ten hours
gloriously without any animal sounds, and so
can't sleep tonight without writing this poem.
Want another? I'll give you another anytime.
I’m a man. Past a point I'm afraid of nothing.
O for those Floating Bear days when we wrote
hugs and published our syllables along with our feet.
***
Listen, this is the sound of my sleepless breathing.
I never intended it, it fell into my arms, a silent
Jack Hirschman
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###
The girl to the friend :
I'm anguished. My eyes shed tears
Which bum as they stream down my sunken cheeks And
my lord whom the gods have named
To dry my tears is not present
To perform the task; he left on his travels
Condemning me to anguished tears.
***
The girl to herself :
Dark is the middle of the night
All talk suspended, people
Have settled down to slumber
With passions calmed, the world
And all that lives now sleep Only poor I
Cannot sleep a wink.
(Kuruntokai 6)
****
he boy to himself:
Lament, 0 heart, grown lustreless
Like the heads of bards who strum the lute,
Heads bereft of golden bloom
On the death of Evvy, patron of arts?
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