I am Kritya. 
The intense word power,
which always moves along with the ultimate truth, which exists completely in accord with rightness.

Kritya is an international journal of poetry publishing contemporary Indian & world poetry Besides, it also features poetry in regional Indian languages in translation To keep continuity with our past, we publish the works of classical masters. Kritya is also a humble initiative from India to make use of the web and the internet as new platform of practicing and disseminating literature

) * All the legal application should be filed in Kerala, India, where the Kritya Trust is registered.
 

(ISSN 0976-514X)

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The Poetic Craft - The Said and the Unsaid

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

-- Walt Whitman "Song of Myself"

These words are perhaps some of the best penned ones that clearly establish a connection between the soul of the poet and that of humanity as a whole. There is no doubt that it is the innate nature of poetry to reach out to a kindred soul, celebrating some aspect of life, death, divinity, immortality and what not! Genuine poetry never fails to touch a chord in the listener's heart.

The poet "sees and handles that which others dream of, traverses the whole scale of experience, and is representative of man, in virtue of being the largest power to receive and to impart." Given this, one is led to think of the 'poetic experience.' One can never say when the poet is going to plunge into the ocean of his inner being and emerge with unique pearls of wisdom; when he is going to sing the song of sacrifice; or when he is going to dwell on the harsh realities of this material world. The poet is akin to Nature --

Dr.Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair
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*
The morning is cold and cruel.
I rub off sleep from fogged-out glassy eyes.
They keep seeing
the icicles hanging from eaves of dreams.
They freeze thoughts that leave the mind,
words that escape the warmth of mouth.

Reenu Talwar
*
My time is not before or after but now
It is that time I will not abuse
because many men died trying to beat this time
a free man yet still doing time
in his imprisoned mind
depression is the name of his bride
but time didn't let him show his culture's pride
The hands that link us to day and night
night and day never stop moving
even if I stopped breathing
you will still hear the clock ticking,
time and time after my existence
the face of earth will change but not its hands

Mak Manaka
*
In the depths of mind's ocean
An alien particle pricked
Like a microscopic irritant.

A poet chose to shut himself
For shelled life is to create pearls,
Isn't it?

Then a window would be an innovation
When the whole mind could be free
For how else
Can a roof be without walls?
Abhishek Behera.

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Bashir Athar

Broken Plate

Both of us ate
Rice and curd together
Off the same plate, and
Still you preserved your own entity
I my own.
But eventually
The plate broke apart
Spilling rice and curd on the floor.
And then
You established your own house
I my own.
We bought new plates
And thus
Divided became rice and curd.
But alas!
We didn't care to see
While eating from the broken plate
That underneath was
A snakeling silently thriving
On seeping milky juice
That grew into a huge python.
And
Devoured both of us mercilessly.

Where Will I go?


You thought:
Your exodus
Would make me glad,and
I would
Become wealthier
By grabbing your share.
Seize your land
In my closed fist,
Destroy your past
Build a dream-house
On your memories, and
Imprint my mark on your
Belongings.
Yes,I did it all-
But in the process
My own self,my own identity perished
Like footsteps on sand.
You thought:
I gulped down your existence
But in the process
Where did my own self go?

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Dwelling

Undoubtedly before the walls
they were everywhere
with their disastrous faces
in that ruinous dwelling of unexpected angles.
Certainly they were there
with their calamitous presences
they were everywhere
for a final concert.

*

A gracious eagle

A young beggar pleaded me for mercy
pushing me closer to his misery
I wouldn't dare being replaced for a sorrow or a blossom.
It was full moon day of March and it was visibly in the air
then life exigency uttered its uniqueness
where the souls roam without end and cosmos is not alien
but quietness as inexplicable as a gracious eagle
flying openly in the glossy air.

Days of tempest

Wang Wei gets totally confused wondering about
what disturbing occurrence brings Li Yuan in his mind
if the tempest like a rat gnaws the Tang dynasty from the back.
The twirl resists with the ruggedness of silver grass beneath
a layer of chilly frost
and no excuses at all
when the disaster whips over Chanxi.

Sergio Badilla Castillo:

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Bulleh Shah

Who I am

I know not who I am,
I am neither a believer going to the mosque
Nor given to non-believing ways.
Neither clean nor unclean,
Neither Moses nor Pharaoh.
I know not who I am.

I am neither among sinners nor among saints,
Neither happy nor unhappy,
I belong neither to water nor to earth.
I am neither fire nor air,
I know not who I am.

Neither do I know the secret of religion,
Nor am I born of Adam and Eve.
I have given myself no name,
I belong neither to those who squat and pray,
Nor to those who have gone astray.
I know not who I am.

I was in the beginning; I'd be there in the end.
I know not any one other than the One.
Who could be wiser than Bulleh Shah
Whose Master is ever there to tend?
I know not who I am.

Come my Love, take care of me

Come my Love, take care of me,
I am in great agony.
Ever separated, my dreams are dreary,
Looking for you, my eyes are weary.
All alone I am robbed in a desert,
Waylaid by a bunch of way wards.

The Mulla and Qazi show me the way,
Their maze of dharma that is in sway.
They are the confirmed thieves of time.
They spread their net of saintly crime.

Their time-worn norms are seldom right,

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VOL- VII / ISSUE -IX
(March -2012)
 

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

Editor
Dr.Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair

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