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 impulse to create begins… in a tunnel of silence” -- Adrienne Rich

How one longs to escape from the cacophony created by the Noise monster! A noisy environment is the greatest deterrent to any kind of creative pursuit. Even a song you love may become an irritant when you are involved in some creative activity, the frustration largely stemming from the fact that you tend to get distracted. Or think of dissonant voices talking over each other when you want to listen to some music, and when listening itself becomes an artistic quest. By and large, it is reasonable to say that unless you sit down calmly, without distractions and interruptions, and give a free rein to your imagination, you generally can’t give excellent expression to the artist in you.

Pablo Neruda in his poem “Keeping Quiet” has beautifully and succinctly expressed this importance of silence with regard to looking into your innermost being, connecting with fellow beings both human and non-human, and producing inspired creations. He says that the cherished period of silence would be
an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

However, he is quick to point out that the silence and sitting still he is talking about should not be confused with inactivity or death. He laments that the too busy lives we lead gives us no time to pause and try to understand ourselves. We are scared of death and are in a constant state of “rush” because we fear that we may not be able to finish our tasks in time. To Neruda, Nature is the best teacher in this regard, teaching us how moments of inactivity may be the richest in terms of nourishing the thought process and enabling the best artistic output.

Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair
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An Oar Went Through Water in a Whirl Of Black Icy Needles

I entered the room and found you asleep, so still
I thought you were dead.
There would still be things we could say to each other
Even if we lived two hundred years.

TOMICA BAJSIĆ
*
We chatter at the senses
multiplying by zeros

be it sight, of fertilized toxic fields
be it smell, of inscribed cancer filled horizons
be it taste on the fruit of words
be it touch of cyber continents without recycling
be it the music of dissonance, of a spacial future we envision, limitless

We subconsciously await the hexagonal
wall of forgetfullness
Gabriella Gutiérrez y Muhs
*
St. John’s Night

The point of the matter is that the scar would remain
for your whole life,
so if you let the glowing poker
burn the mark of St. John’s on your back
while chewing a shashlik spit to numbness
so the cries of pain wouldn’t ring all over Värska
then the point of the matter
precisely is
that the scar would remain
Eeva Park

*
her hand stretched out
to his face
and touched the stars

an immense void
filled their
loneliness

his shoulders
whitened by the speed
of the comet’s tails
leaned
tired
crying
on the milky way
peter sragher

*
She was pretty
In the way she thought
The simple contours of a simple mind.

She was pretty
In the way she looked
The twinkle in her deep eyes.

She was pretty
In the way she smiled
In touch with the Almighty.
Nirjhar Datta Chaudhuri
and More »

 
Afrizal Malna

earthquake of peoplecontinues

peoplehit people
peoplehit an alectric
peoplehitwalking
people hit mosquito
can’t grow like the grass
peoplehitgrass
peoplehit money
peoplehitwatermelon
peoplehitland
can’t seep like the water
peoplehitwater
peoplehitsky
peoplehitsand
peoplehitsea
can’t blow like the wind
peoplehitwind
people hitlanguage
peoplehitreligion
peoplehit internet
firehave made a home out of plastic bags

Translation: Sartika Dian Nuraini

garbage of darkness
- a rewritten poem

the land where I stood,your land. the sun shone,your sun. the air i breathe, your air. the windtouched me, your wind. the rain falls, your rain. i drank a cup of water, your water. i ate rice, your rice. i ate mango, your mango. i never knew how old they are. i received the leaves, were still falling and growing again. idid not understand how to calculate it. not a grain of sand could i create. and i don’t know what i have given to myself. the silence began sitting beside me. she wore my clothes, my watch, and my mobilephone. she looked like me. she started sleeping with me. she asked where i hadmyself hidden. and i told her i hid it in every farewells. then she took my pillow. everything, everything, slowly seeping to the bottom of the floor. iwas like sleeping in a 7am of watery mirror.

7am later, later, i’m going to take a shower.
the pumping machine whistleda noise, filling up the tub.

7am later, later, you’ll find a wet mat on the bathroom door.
its color is white. white. white. white.

Translation: Sartika Dian Nuraini

conference of agriculturalpatrimony

september 92003,there were scissors. there werescissors in WTO conference. incancun, mexico there were scissors. pictorial papers of the worldwere cut.farms were cut.rice seedlings were cut.
horsesandbuffalos were cut.ratsandsnakes were cut.ancient heritage were cut.southkoreanfarmer, leekyunghae, committed suicidein conferenceof scissors—cutting farm fieldsto be fieldagreement. indianfarmers committed suicide. balinesefarmers commited suicide. hoesandsickles fell out intosteamer. javanesefarmersbecame cheap migrant workers. eatingasphalt. stopple. translucent. burst. replacingmaterialism, objective. inthe killing fields ofcopyright, objective.

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S MORE IMPORTANT


have found love
feels as if off
the rack it fits

Translation/ Übersetzung: Helen Hutchens


NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT


have found love
feels as if off
the peg it fits

Translation/ Übersetzung: Sylvia Petter


PATRON SAINT OF MISMATCHED LOVERS


tower to ant after 100 meters turn left
as seen from tower to ant as seen from tower
ant to tower left where the thumb is right

left where the thumb is right confirmed
ant straightahead straight away into
the arms of the ant tower to ant: mismatched

Translation/ Übersetzung: Sylvia Petter/ Helen Hutchens

SCHUTZPATRON DER MISMATCHED LOVER


ameisentower an ameise in 100 metern links rum
vom tower aus gesehen an ameise vom tower aus!
ameise an tower links wo der daumen rechts
links wo der daumen rechts bestätigt
ameise geradeaus geradewegs in die arme von ameise
tower an ameise mismatched


PATRON SAINT OF MISMATCHED LOVERS



tower to ant in 100 meters turn left
100 meters from tower over from tower to ant over!
ant to tower left where the thumb is rightleft where the thumb is right confirmed
ant straightahead straight away into
the arms of the ant tower to ant: mismatched

Translation/ Übersetzung: Sofie Pfeifer


Judith Nika Pfeifer


More »
 
Ancient Chinese Poetry

1. Thoughts in the Silent Night — Li Bai

李白《静夜思》

床前明月光,
疑是地上霜。
举头望明月,
低头思故乡。

Thoughts in the Silent Night
By Li Bai
Translated by Yang Xianyi & Dai Naidie

Beside my bed a pool of light—
Is it hoarfrost on the ground?
I lift my eyes and see the moon,
I bend my head and think of home.

Thoughts in the Silent Night is one of the most well-known Chinese poems written by Li Bai. This short poem uses only a few words and is quite concise in wordage, but it is endowed with the passion that stimulates the bottom of one’s heart and arouses an intense feeling of nostalgia very naturally.

2. A Poem By A Leaving Son— by Meng Jiao

孟郊《游子吟》
慈 母 手 中 线,
游 子 身 上 衣。
临 行 密 密 缝,
意 恐 迟 迟 归。
谁 言 寸 草 心,
报 得 三 春 晖。

A Traveller’s Song
By Meng Jiao
Translated by Liu Jianxun

The thread in the hands of a fond-hearted mother
Makes clothes for the body of her wayward boy;
Carefully she sews and thoroughly she mends,
Dreading the delays that will keep him late from home.
But how much love has the inch-long grass
For three spring months of the light of the sun?

A Traveller’s Song is one of the most famous classical Chinese poems. The poem was written when 50-year-old poet Meng Jiao was appointed as a county official in Liyang, Jiangsu Province. He then brought his mother to live in the county. This poem presents people how mighty the love of a mother is and at the same time expresses his gratitude to mother’s sincere love. This poem has been passed down from one generation to another and almost every Chinese knows this poem. Especially the last two verses are now a common metaphor of motherly love.
 

VOL- IX/ ISSUE -VII
(September-October-2015)
 

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

Editor
Dr.Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair

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