Poetry Books
By
Kritya publication
See the link
International Poetry Festival
Kritya2010
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It is in this
context that one is forced to reflect on another kind of
exile—the mental exile experienced by many in our society. These
are people who inhabit strange worlds of their own, often of
their own making. They experience all the distress of the
geographically exiled, maybe in a more excruciating manner.
Psychological or mental problems are of course experienced by
the geographically exiled, but these are not of their own
making. On the other hand, such problems are offshoots of their
sad predicament of having to leave their homeland and root
themselves in alien territory. The mentally exiled community,
however, is in such a predicament largely because of some
inherent negative tendencies that may be called their tragic
flaws. Common feelings such as guilt, jealousy, suspicion,
possessiveness, and haughtiness have wreaked the ruin of many.
Living in the midst of society, they are isolated. Caught in
their own fancies they lead lives in hell. Very often, the
actions they indulge in might be impulsive, hasty or
thoughtless, but the price they have to pay is enormous.
Jayasree
Ramakrishnan Nair
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*
Twice she looked away from me
Making sure I don’t see her
Looking at me
That was how I came to figure out
The girl she had been
How those curves
In her face smoothed to make
what she is now
SAIKAT DAS
*
Thou shalt not steal
Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not commit adultery
these are the commandments,
but nobody told me
what I supposed to do
if the woman of my fellow men
is longing for me.
Peycho Kanev
*
Anyone can write poems
Hundreds and thousands in
The silence that make up words
Among blue skies hot suns sweat
And semen among breathless breaks
That makes up time and the stuff
Of life that
Like a moment trapped in
The sound of a clap spreads
Hundreds and thousand endless
Poems that write
Rewrite themselves
Priyadarshi Patnaik
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Exile at both the
physical and mental level is characterized by the feeling of
inhabiting a strange world. The sights, sounds, experiences are
all unnatural in the sense that they are different from what one
is at home with. The Shakespearean figures pointed out here
persuade one to think of the real reason for their tragedy. It
all boils down to the mind-the mind can make or break an
individual. As Camus stated, if each of us could successfully
fight our negativities, not unleashing them into the world, this
would have been a "brave new world." It is the large scale
influx of negative emotions and feelings that poisons and
weakens the human mind, making it vulnerable. Weak minds cross
the fine line that divides sanity and insanity and pass into a
land of no return. They inhabit the twilight zone, an unreal
world where they are totally dislocated with no scope of
relocation. When the writer in literary exile can at least try
to give expression to her innermost thoughts and feelings in a
world that is totally foreign to her, what can such real life
characters do? Jayasree Nair
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Chatter
As I recall, I said something stupid,
like, "Imagination is a good thing".
Even then,
even as I watched the sun wolves gathering
near the edge of green sky
and the whole world was heavy
with your compliments.
The rain
all that next day
silent and constant as a marriage.
*
Early Spring
Nuthatches sing.
Their rusty bedspring prophecy
scrapes through the window casement
with the draught
to prickle your neck.
The iron kettle snags
the wooden spoon.
Oats rise and belch as they cook,
and the whole world goes soft,
obligating you to stand here, waiting
in your wool socks,
your flannel robe.
*She yelps, squirms against me
when I come in the front door.
The puppy can't be still,
when I sit, she makes clumsy circles
in my lap, she bites and tries to stand
on my head...
ren powell
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Stalwart as
a tree,
His deep embrace
Squeezes the vine
With branch-like arms.
When I want to sleep,
Krishna makes love
The whole night through,
Like a bee that lingers
On the fragrant malati.
He sucks my lips.
The forest has burst open
With white kunda blooms,
But the bee is enraptured
By malati and her honey.
*
Clouds break.
Arrows of water fall
Like the last blows
That end the world.
The night is thick
With lamp-black for the eyes.
Who but you, 0 friend,
Would keep so late a tryst?
The earth is a pool of mud
With dreaded snakes at large.
Darkness is everywhere,
Save where your feet
Flash with lightning.
*
Your eyes droop with sleep
Yet still your face
Outshines the lotus.
Who was that fool
Who scarred your breasts,
Marring their god-like charms
With savage nails?
Your brow no longer wears
Its mark of scarlet.
Your lips of coral
Are drained grey.
Who has raided, my love,
Your house of treasure?
Vidyapati-
Part
II
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