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Words are very clever and understanding, they change colours
according to the occasion. When our heart is sad, they dress in
dark colours and when the heart is happy, they take all the
colours of the rainbow and seem to outshine the rainbow.
Sometimes they are as pale as death and at other times they are
as dark as a night without moon. ..
I do not know how my control over words transformed them into
poetry. I know that readers and poets of Kritya must have unique
associations with words. So this issue of Kritya is devoted to
the world of words.
Rati Saxena
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I behave well.
But I don't understand it;
I noticed a brick in my pocket.
I couldn't remove it; the pocket was sewn closed.
The doctors didn't undo the stitches.
One blow with the sledgehammer.
The brick broke in half.
A few more blows. I was bruised.
There's no way out, they said.
Joop Bersee
Taut night/ slumped morning
Battered back by walls flee-ings raise
What’s this?
These hands know not what a pen is
or a spoon. Not a hand,
(a seedy poem)
a bent fork. Burst ears,
scorched eyes. The heart stammers
A detailed plot?
WAYNE AMTZIS
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*
Poetry generally involves two roles, readers and writers. There
is a symbiotic relationship between the roles, and with only
one, poetry, simply does not happen. The locality, in
time-continuum existence, and transcendence of meaning in poetry
depend on both these two elements. Both are essential
components. Poetry does not know causes and effects; it is
something that only comes into being when it is
written-AND-read. The reader's function, in the assembling of
poetry, is to unlock the poem, the writer has preordained and
free it into the source-pool of the Literature Generalize,
........Argo Spier
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#
Poetic are flowers
Prosaic are leaves,
In all, harmony breathes,
Is there any meaning
That this grass underfoot
Cannot unfold?
Surrender is symphony, devotion- music,
Compassion is refrain - love of humanity.
Seek not for the pause;
Egotism itself is a pause
Continue the fight with yourself,
My friend!
***
LIFE
All singing,
All rejoicing,
Ceases here itself.
Thereafter,
An unanswered quest,
A lidless vigil.
**
Agyeya
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My House is Cloudy
the entire earth is cloudy.
Above the narrow pass, the shattered and desolate and drunken
wind whirls downward.
The entire world is desolated by it
so are my senses!
Oh, piper who has lost the road entranced by the melody of the
flute,
where are you?
My house is cloudy but
the cloud is on the verge of weeping.
In the memory of my bright days that slipped through my fingers,
I cast a look upon my sun on the threshold of the ocean
and the entire world is desolated and shattered by the wind
and on the road, the piper continues to play his flute,
in this cloud-filled world
his own path stretching out before him.
Nima Yushij
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