See the link
contend, is the original social media.
--- David Erickson
Facilitating Poetic Communication in This Globalized World
It is remarkable how social media is working for poets. Often,
when I log in to Facebook and see virtual conversations being
carried out in poetry, and that too, some of the finest verses,
I feel elated. The flight of the poetic spirit can be witnessed
even in the haiku poems that appear in Twitter.
The greatest asset is of course the relationships you build with
kindred souls – technology has made it much easier to relate to
each other. The platform allows you to create your own page,
create events and invite your friends to these. There is no
longer a feeling of distancing or alienation. Gone are the days
when you needed to travel to meet fellow poets and artists. And
considering this has come about within the span of a few years
Not only poets, all artists are reaping the benefits of this
potential to communicate across borders. It is promoting,
connecting and enabling artists to unite on a global level.
The words of David Erickson regarding poetry and social media
are very significant. He argues that poetry is the original
social media, emphasizing that poetry as social media starts
with the oral tradition where knowledge was shared via space and
time through oral poetry. Over the ages, poetry has remained a
continuous conversation that is so characteristic of the current
Dear friends, let us reflect on the power of poetry to relate,
sympathize, empathize, cleanse and inspire. Let the potency of
social media facilitate continuous poetic communication for
individual as well as social betterment.
Here’s Kritya once again in your hands. Enjoy reading!
Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair
My voice is
Than a deep dug hole of grief
It travels under my skin
Touching the anguish
With its pores
Awaits a moment
Then rolls back into my eyes
Someone wipes away the tears
I turn away and shut my face down
Again I breathe you this season,
And smell the smells around.
That was rains when you left;
This is winter.
They don’t make spring anymore, my dear.
Your smell haunts me,
Fresh, crisp… and blue…
Smell that has colour…
Smell that is munchy;
Smell that haunts…
Smell that talks…
Smell of those happy days…
Smell of what could have been.
Just wanted to tell you friend …
This smell would last me a lifetime.
I don’t wait for the spring,
‘ coz you are all my seasons.
You, my love, are real.
This pain I feel tonight without you
As the train rolled out of the station and cradled you to sleep,
every mile you traveled
no fairy tale.
in my life,
you, my love,
I became, after death, even more intense
I ran away leaped down
as a boy remarkable, in my fifties inspired
with flight that same night
boasted I can, how I ran hell flew
in terrific shape, sturdy naked sides so
his bones crumbled, nothing but soot
I had the
opportunity to participate in the Kritya International Poetry
Festival, organized at the Mahatma Gandhi Hindi International
University at Wardha from 15-17 September 2013. Poets from
Argentina, Chile, Estonia, Finland, France, Greece, India,
Ireland, Italy, Norway, Palestine, Sweden, Turkey read their
poems at the festival. The poets at the festival included Anne
Addolorato, Zingonia Zingone from Italy, Müesser Yeniay, Metin
Cengiz from Turkey, Helena Sinervo and Nillas Holmberger from
Finland , Aurélia Lassaque from France, Anastassis Vistonitis
from Greece, Sergio Infante, Sergio Badilla Castillo from
Argentina, Gabriel Rosenstock, Liam O Muirthile , Mark Granier
from Ireland, Trim Soomets and Margus Lattik from Estonia.
Indian participants included a number of Sahitya Akademi award
winning poets such Sitanshu Yashaschandra, K. Satchidanandan,
H.S. Shivaprakash, besides them Subodh Sarkar, Sudeep Sen, Vinod
Shukla, Rituraj, Ramesh Dvik etc. The festival was a soulful
event as it was organized with passion for poetry by Rati Saxena,
a poet who along with her tiny and selfless team has been
putting together Kritya International Poetry Festival since
2005. Rati's efforts have paid over the years and has given
India its first annual poetry festival.
The festival lasted for three days, each day with four poetry
sessions, two before the lunch break and two after the break.
Each session had four poets on an average, who read four to five
poems. All poems were translated into Hindi and were read after
the poet read them in its original language. Each session had a
mix of Indian poets and the poets from the foreign countries.
A World Class Poetry Festival for South Asia
To The Window
I see through the open window
A poor who sees but hope
Through the open window.
The beautiful in the window of the beloved
Is that it divides nature onto two sides;
The inner one is more beautiful.
The prisoner's window is like a cheating hole;
Equals between the prisoner and
Who prisoned him meaningfully.
The window has told me:
I saw the shades going to bed slowly
In the mountain's lap.
When you are alone
You can share the neighbors' weddings
Through the window.
The window has told me:
Yesterday a daylight passed by
looking for its last week as if it was doing
What the day before yesterday had done.
I say to the window:
My house is full of oxygen,
But I prefer to open you
When the mother of Jeryes visits me.
I say to the window:
Nothing separates between you and the wall
But it is meaningful.
The window and I say together:
Thank you dear reader!
Translated by Turki Amer, 2012
What I want from Al-Quds
isn’t what God wished for;
not streets visited by history
to the dance of a quick sacrifice and grown crowded.
Al-Quds contains sweeter things,
like evening gathering its kin to the bar
to make sleep bloodshot come morning.
In the city I have a girl-friend
not from the same stock as me,
a real honey
of the crab-apple confession.
Weekdays in the city are fine
but my intoxication is undone by the weekend
which resembles me in growing more dangerous
Ode to my Socks
Maru Mori brought me
knitted with her own
two socks soft
my feet into them
with threads of
and sheep’s wool
my feet became
two long sharks
of lapis blue
with a golden thread,
two mammoth blackbirds,
that for the first time
my feet seemed
unacceptable to me,
two tired old
of the woven
of those luminous
the strong temptation
to save them
the way schoolboys
the way scholars
the wild impulse
to place them in a cage
and daily feed them
and rosy melon flesh.
Like explorers who in the forest
surrender a rare
and tender deer
to the spit
and eat it
I stuck out my feet
and pulled on
and then my shoes.
So this is
the moral of my odes:
and what is good is doubly
when it is a case of two
Ode To The Lemon
by the moonlight,
aroma of exasperated
steeped in fragrance,
drifted from the lemon tree,