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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Once, while driving on the highway I saw a number of advertisements. Some of them were for jewelry and some for dresses. Last time I saw an interesting board advertising “sari”. It had a beautiful woman wearing a beautiful sari - and lines were written on them - sari is poetry on the body of a woman. Another advertisement about jewelry said almost the same lines.
Among common people poetry is always related with beauty, flowers, rose, cloud and birds. All beautiful things come in the category of poetry. Here everything is changed into beauty or love. But in the world of poets, poetry talks about pain, sorrow, war and even hatred. Poetry is another name for life, and life contains everything - good or bad, love or hate, beauty and no beauty. All the contradictions! In other words, the definition of beauty is different in poetry, and the approach is also different.
Death is a difficult thing for everyone, but poetry tries to go beyond the death. It explains different dimensions of the death, the death in war is cruelty but death in old age is liberation. Poetry goes beyond the relief even and tries to go in search of a new world. Poetry walks towards liberation through pain; it searches for beauty in every pain and sorrow. Poetry is not short-term emotions, which survive only for some time, but it is a combination of thought, emotion and life experience.
In the time of marketing, when physical wealth is dominating every aspect of life, poetry is losing its real meaning. Isn’t our duty to bring back its position in society? Kritya is trying to relate poetry to common people. We invite you all to join us in this noble cause.
Kritya entered its forth year with support of poets of whole world, and I am sure we will go far.

 
Rati Saxena
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CAIN


Cain is not just an other person
narrated in an old story
but he is also told inside us
when the rising envy
burst out in anger
and the desire which devours the others
is a mantis which is mating.

Roberto Piperno

*
As you leave,
I feel empty.
My whole being
has been taken away,
I only feel a strange numbness,
which every empty vessel must feel.
I am filled with a painful resonant sound,
which increases with your every departing step,
waiting,
to consume me completely.

Hutashan Vajpeyi
*
Forgotten

There's a scented silence here,
that's broken only by the ticking of the kitchen clock,
and the sound of rain.
As I sit by the window,
watching drops of rain chase each other
down the windowpane,
a cup of warm tea sits on the table,
forgotten.

Priya Prithviraj
*
I wanted perfect circles
Which are concentric.
I wanted perfect squares
With four equilateral sides.
I wanted straight lines
That curve not till infinity.
But Oh.. this damn world
Defies every geometric law.
Where are those perfect men
Or women I dream of?
So imperfect, so impure
So vile, so fragile..
Every single moment
Hearts get broken here,
Beliefs change colour,
The living turn dead.
They say, love takes us
Closest to perfection.
But love ascends and descends
Like stock market index..
Life has no affinity to geometry
That's the truth I accept with a sigh

Nasim Malik Sarkar
 

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Time and man are interrelated. When time subdues the man, there is chance of delusion and when man tries to hold time, the time gets set to teach him a lesson. Very interesting thing in this relation is that time remembers only those, who can stand straight in front of them. Kurukshetra is one of the literary approaches in this direction.
When I was trying to learn about Malayalam literature. I heard about Dr. Ayyappa panikkars long poem Kurukshetra that was considered very complicated one specially for translation. I was told that it is impossible to translate this poem. This make me interested in this poem to read and understand and bring it in to Hindi through translation. Naturally this was a big challenge for person like me who had limited knowledge of Malayalam language. But good poems cannot be limited in the boundaries of languages. Language is only medium of expression core of the poem can not kept in the brackets. I tried to read this poem with help of other people. I was careful that the people who read for me should not know Hindi much as there interpretation could misguide me. I wanted to understand this poem independently that is why I read it line by line. Surprisingly every line of this poem had strong identity. They are interrelated but same time they could be read separately. That is why translation and correlation between meanings have to go together. That makes translator's job difficult. But same time it give space for understanding and reach in heart. For a translator who does not interested in mere language translation, who wants to reach in heart of meaning, this poem is very significant.
The period of this poem was 1951 to 1957. This was the time when people started realize the test of discontentment after freedom. 

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KENNINGTOM ROAD

From the pub’s womb music emanates
through the west windowspane
violins and acordeons
xut the sunlight into polyhedra
and lay the last diamonds
on the afternoon’s lap.

I have just been watching the swans on the Thames
been hearing the elder-trees that filled
the air with a white odour
and listening to the wind’s pianos
in the fingers of fir-trees.

And I tempted by the pub
with its hot hubbub breath,
with music spilled through ale foams
and the invitation to the dances I danced as I May girl,
when he let music pour out in cascades
over the wisteria along the alleyvays
that cast the shade
where I stood for Spring.

How much time you lost! Says the blood
shed from crystal’s wounds
dropping over the faded contours
of things and tastes
and its reproach echoes
in the spreading fainted colour,
in an harmonious accord of final cadence,
in the last drop of liqueur
that slides down the glass and the lips.

For I knew how to mark each world-changing poem
whit a rose petal
and I knew how to carve calendars on the barks of trees
to signal love
but could not note down the day
nor the hour
when he played for mi
his final music.
*

FRASILIA

“Frasilia will forever be young
because the gods took her with them
when she was in her bloom
like spring”.

Frasilia was the daughter of a noble father
who paid a poet
to write this epitaph
and paid a sculptor to recast her body in the whitest marble


Helena Villa Janeiro ( Galician Poet )

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*

Blessed Saint Anthony,
Grant me a man
Even if he kills me,
Even if he skins me.


My saintly Saint Anthony,
Grant me a greenhorn
Though he be the size
Of a grain of corn.


Bring him, my saint,
Even if he has lame feet
Or both arms missing.


A woman without a man—
Blessed saint!—
Is a frail, soulless frame—
Feast without wheat—
Fresh bread gone stale—
That wherever it goes
Goes walking-stick kale.


But with a greenhorn for mate—
Virxe do Carme!—
The world isn't big enough
For relaxation;
Bowlegged or knock-kneed
It's always good to have a man
For a remedy.


I know of someone whom to see
Is to covet,
Spare of body,
Red and ruddy,
Smooth skin of cream
And words as sweet
As counterfeit.


For him I ache by day,
By night ache I,
Brooding over his eyes
The colour of sky,
But he, already savvy,
Knows a lot about love,
Little about getting married.


Bring him to me,
My Saint Anthony,
To marry me,
A maiden child;
I bring for dowry
A spoon of iron,
Four of boxwood,
A new baby brother
Who has teeth already,
A dear old cow
That doesn't give milk...


Please, my cherished saint!
Bring it about
As I ask you.

Blessed Saint Anthony,
Grant me a man
Even if he kills me,
Even if he skins me.


Bowlegged or knock-kneed
It's always good to have a man
For a remedy.

María Rosalía Rita de Castro

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VOL- IX/ ISSUE -VI
(July-August -2015)
 

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

Editor
Dr.Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair

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