See the link
"At the 21st Medellin Poetry Festival, directors of 37 Poetry Festivals
worldwide discussed the relationship between poetry and peace
and reconstruction of the human spirit, nature reconciliation
and recovery, unity and cultural diversity of the peoples,
material misery and poetic justice, and actions to take towards
the globalization of poetry."
I, from my Indian background still don't understand it very
well. Can poetry change the world, or at least the hearts of a
few people? Did we ever use word power against any type of crime
in modern times (especially in India)? Isn't it true that very
often the wrong words used indiscriminately are the root cause
of most of the problems we encounter? Is it possible that the
right words spoken in the right manner at the opportune moment
bring about positive outcomes?
Can we create at least peace through poetry, though we have a
number of spiritual poets in different languages? The poetry is
used as prayers in our society, but are we able to bring peace
through poems? Forget about unity, we poets do not have unity in
our country; we talk about our different ideologies, but never
try to search for and identify a common thread linking all the
ideologies. We have cultural diversity, which is the most
beautiful thing in the world, but do we have unity?
Is it possible...?
Is it impossible ....?
You are the allure
of a bihu geet
the mystery of matsyagandha
you are turmeric, you are plantain plant
and I a pure virgin girl
you are the secret in the folds of this mekhala
the mad fervour of the bordoisila
you are in my ahom stole, in my ahom bag
but I can reach you only in translation
you are poetry, bihu dance and melody
hiding in the clining mist
you hug the Luit river in your fold
you kiss me, caress me fleetingly
I feel you, love you, wonder you
But I do not know you.
A spring, like no other
The Arab Spring has begun
Ribs of Buazizi at flame
Caging the tyrants in the fields
Incinerating their statues in the squares
Here is the revolution
The poor refuse to eat gateaux
Here is the revolution
The time: This Spring
The place: From the Arab Gulf to the Atlantic
Safaa Sheikh Hamad
Today Sun hid somewhere in the heavens
Ashamed of yesterday's vulgar behaviour
It ordered the clouds to cover up
A weary man blames the innocent damsel
Of the eternal losses
Fire sticks out from the cracked body
Like radiant fireflies under the clear starry summer night
And along the breeze they sway
At the 21st Medellin Poetry Festival, directors of 37 Poetry
Festivals worldwide have
conducted a 5-day meeting on the status of poetry and poetry
festivals across the
world, analyzing and discussing human concerns and issues
regarding difficulties and
achievements as part of local organizations promoting poetry in
each of our cities and
The first sessions discussed the relationship between poetry and
reconstruction of the human spirit, nature reconciliation and
recovery, unity and
cultural diversity of the peoples, material misery and poetic
justice, and actions to take
towards the globalization of poetry.
Participants decided to establish the World Poetry Movement,
whose main purpose
would be to increase cooperation between poetry festivals, thus
The World Poetry Movement recognizes that:
+ Poetryprovides meaningful insights into the human condition.
+ Contrary to the idea that languages divide the world, it is
precisely the diversity of
languages that enriches poetry festivals.
+ The World Poetry Movement will strengthen each festival in
their local and global
A drop. Acid and balsam. Poison and its antidote.
A drop in the liquid caldron of hours passing.
Others before me have said it better:
I went towards the door/without turning back on my soul asleep
/I heard the ancient tinkling of her steps and the bell stroke
of my heart.
Or else, people unknown to me
have explained the redness of my chest
that was unknown to them: I am alone./The weight of love
/Has buoyed me up/Till my head/Knocks against the sky.
/See me!/My hair is dripping with nectar—
Starlings carry it/On their black wings.
The weight, the anvil of memories, a wine press
where to grind the minutes spent without seeing you.
Lingerie kept in drawers, sealed,
sealed by the padlocks of time passing.
This firearm wound you have on your head,
it looks like it fades away every morning
by the kindly waters of dawn.
And what a wound you have!
I am no traumatologist -what would I know
about femoral arteries and swelling,
platelets and septicemias?-
so I go on stitching as best I can
the small marking of half-opened lips
with the shape of an "o"
delimitating its hems.
The boy to the
friend of the girl
Those in whom the seed
Of love has taken root
Might ride a horse of leaves,
Wearing round their heads
Garlands of the bloom
Of even the arka plant,
Might welcome being riled
By crowds in the public streets,
Might do all these things
And other things besides— Those men with hearts assailed
By the deadly darts of love!
The friend of the girl speaks
I grant you love her, 0 chief of the hills!
But you don’t see how she wastes away
With all this delay in your coming together
In holy wedlock her love has grown
Almost too great for her slender frame
To contain it. Havn’t you seen
Gigantic jack-fruits in your native hill
Hanging by their slender stalks?
A touch may fell them, the littlest breeze
A careless brush by a passing beast
May send them crashing down to the ground.
If you fail to secure her
Through a proper wedding, mountain chieftain.
The fruit of her love growing great
May well snap the slender stalk
Of her fragile life, crashing down,
A useless mass that will rot away
The boy to himself:
Lament, 0 heart, grown lustreless
Like the heads of bards who strum the lute,