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)

Poetry Books
  Kritya publication

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Poetry – the Means to Unite

Poetry is perhaps the more natural and spontaneous medium of expression. We tend to express our heartfelt emotions in a few lines of verse than in sentences. The poetic form is more capable of reaching out and touching the hearts of others. The thirst to connect, to express and listen is ingrained in every poetic heart. It is this unique quality that qualifies poets to be the ideal agents to promote peace and unity.
The poet’s vocation is a free one – it just can’t abide any kind of fetters. The words have to necessarily flow, bridging the diversity that is characteristic of the world. Though poets sing in different tongues, their themes are universal, they are bound by a unique camaraderie. Freedom is a natural by-product of peace, and being by its very nature free, the poetic spirit will necessarily foster peace.
The poetic sensitivity is there in each of us. Maybe it is dormant in some. We only need to awaken this natural compassion that lies deep within – then there is no more war, strife, jealousy or hatred. It will be the awakening of our inner spirituality that runs like a thread through each of us, uniting one and all.
Dear friends, let our poetry festivals be the venues where poetry can speak to us in words loud and clear, where each of us get to see what we need to see and help others to see, where we can put our heads together and understand our responsibilities. Let us capitalize on poetry’s inherent capacity to soothe, comfort and instill hope even in the most troubled times, and at times of loss. Let us wield the power of the spoken word to craft a more meaningful, “brave, new world.”
Enjoy reading this issue of Kritya.

* Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair

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FiCathal Ó Searcaigh

Mount Errigal
(for Derek Ball)

On sunny evenings
you exude
pure gold
a cascade of loveliness:
alms bestowed
on the poor

of the windy gap,
filled with battle sap.

Upstanding, faithful, courageous,
our protection, our heart’s desire,
fighter of storms
and winter’s ire.

Champion of unwavering mind
the moon shield you hold
in your right, in your left the spear of gold.

Standing erect
in battle fury, wild,
what need we fear

you are in the gap of danger
ever alert –
mountain bare.
More than words, it’s your pauses
which fall between bricks,
cement silence, build a wall,
which I’m trying to understand.

Or how the wordless stare
of the enlightened mirror,
reveals everything about me
with just one glassy cold glance.

And my own hushed silences
A mole on the face of the ocean
I frantically try to drown
my unknown unquiet islands.

To the calm with which
time keeps moving, in a clock,
in safe, but uneven hands,
a second not dropped back.

Minal Sarosh
Though bought with borrowed money
there is grain in the house
The lady of the house is happy
she has mud-coated the courtyard
The rolling pin and bread board
are flapping their wings;
the lady is happy.
There are no vegetables to
go with bread,
but the lady is happy.
Divik Ramesh
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The Ghost Man

Confused Days

Eighteen. Gale force rising.
Eighteen. The heart of the fire.
Storm-fanned flames lick at eighteen-year-olds.
But my storm passed quickly, contemptuously,
As if I was no more than a drop of water.


Plane trees ululate in a red blizzard
Like green wolves howling in a scrub fire
Or like that unspeakable explosion that blooms
Gaudily, into a diseased mushroom.
Hailstones of shrapnel clatter from the sky.
Pedestrians are grey cars, and race in all directions.

The God of Death Speaks to Men of Evil

Yes, I am Azrael!
But do not number me among your kind!
When you intrude on gentle lives
You use your fists and whips and bullets
To build a house of death.
But I, with pity, spread snow-white sheets for them.
And even when it’s to your hordes
I come to gather up the souls,
I use my fingers lightly, to close
Eyelids that still throb with your crimes.


Uncle, how can I shelter you?
The storm’s battering has transformed you.
Thunder hacks at you with its black axe,
Lightning stabs you with its silver sword.
Uncle! You must withstand it, you cannot leave me.
Against volleys of rain I run to you.
My long wild hair flails with your tree-top,
My pliant arms are grafted to your branches.
This one tree will have the strength of two.
Let us protect each other and endure, Uncle. Endure!

Zhaˉng Yè

trans;ation by Paddy Bushe

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The Studio

She is nude

if you call the flower freshly blossomed nude.


soft as a rose apple.
Round her

is a yellow snake.
Its head

touching the right of the belly button,
moves up between the breasts,

round the shoulder

and down back from around
the right shoulder,

now round the right breast,
now round the left breast,
and then up from behind

five times loosely around the neck,

once tight round the trunk above the breasts,
covering the nipples,

and then up back from the forehead,
and again down back

eight times round the buttock
to disappear

down beneath

the navel.

She is awake.

Her lower half is termite-infested.
On her right thigh,

in the part clear of termite cover,
is a blood spot.

Snake slough in the left leg.
Blood-stained sheaths
between the parted thighs.
She has the .eyes of a snake.
Her head is the garuda

that bites at a thousand hoods.

The left palm a blooming triangle
with fingers turning into boughs
that partly cover the sun.

The fingers of the right palm'
brushing the stars gently

as on the strings of alyre.

She is awake

in the canvas that fills the room.
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Poets, come out of your closets,
Open your windows, open your doors,
You have been holed-up too long
in your closed worlds.
Come down, come down
from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills,
your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills,
your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses,
down from your foot hills and mountains,
out of your tepees and domes.
The trees are still falling
and we’ll to the woods no more.
No time now for sitting in them
As man burns down his own house
to roast his pig.
No more chanting Hare Krishna
while Rome burns.
San Francisco’s burning,
Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning
the fossil-fuels of life.
Night & the Horse approaches
eating light, heat & power,
and the clouds have trousers.
No time now for the artist to hide
above, beyond, behind the scenes,
indifferent, paring his fingernails,
refining himself out of existence.
No time now for our little literary games,
no time now for our paranoias & hypochondrias,
no time now for fear & loathing,
time now only for light & love.
We have seen the best minds of our generation
destroyed by boredom at poetry readings.
Poetry isn’t a secret society,
It isn’t a temple either.
Secret words & chants won’t do any longer.
The hour of oming is over, the time for keening come,
time for keening & rejoicing
over the coming end of industrial civilization


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( January --2013)

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

Dr.Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair

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