I am Kritya. 
The intense word power,
which always moves along with the ultimate truth, which exists completely in accord with rightness.














A few months back Kritya published “A Letter from Mad House” written by Peri (fictitious name) in the English section and translated into Hindi by myself, and I had also included a poem of mine as reply to it. We received a number of letters from our readers, and one Indian print journal/ paper published both poems in the form of a chapbook. Thus the agony of Peri reached the common people in their own language. Thus this poem became the focus of attention in a number of poetry readings. Some poetry readings were organized just for the reading of this poem. Ajey from Keylong says with a smile—women chose to keep this book in their bag in the place of religious books.

It makes me think - what is the power of that poem?

Rati Saxena
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When a whole people stammer
stammer becomes their mother-tongue:
just as it is with us now.

God too must have stammered
when He created man.
That is why all the words of man
carry different meanings.
That is why everything he utters
from his prayers to his commands
like poetry.
My mother was not gassed.
Much easier to accept, isn’t it?
Oops, I forgot:
for those who do not know,
we’re talking ‘bout
those camps of yore,
of 1940 - ‘46.
No, not the summer camps,
the other ones,
the ones of many stars.

Deborah Rey
A meritocracy may be
the surest possibility
to continue democracy,
since profit should not be the measure
of access to the public treasure.

Gary Beck
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Sun-struck mornings, rainy afternoons, starry nights of poetry, come back to me now, remind me. I stumbled upon poetry during my recent visit to United States. I was at sea and it offered me a raft, I have carried poetry with me like a flashlight – to illuminate lives, other worlds.
..............he rebirth of poetry is now incredibly diverse. Writers/poets come from every region and are of every race, age, ethnicity, and religion all over the world. The styles that these poets are writing in are also enormously varied. Take for an example the works of Sekon Sundiata and Cornelius Eady, where the language is shaped by the credence and dynamics of jazz.
Mohan Kishor Diwan

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Evening Song

I failed a little
Dip the wound in water
Wrap it in a redbird’s song
Climb into the canoe
And paddle out from the weeping
Let the failing fail
Let the stars bear trouble
Let the canoe carry
What we cannot bury.

I keep walking away though it has been an eternity
and from each drop of blood
springs up sons and daughters, trees,
a mountain of sorrows, of songs.

Yes that was me you saw shaking with bravery, with a government issued rifle on my back. I'm sorry I could not greet you as you deserved, my relative.

No. They were not my tears. I have a resevoir inside. They will be cried by my sons, my daughters if I can't learn how to turn tears to stone.

Joy Harjo
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 He wished and appeared
In full abundance,
How shall I name Him?
Let us go for the festival.

o crow, be the courier,
Reveal all my pangs to Him,
I shall divulge my secrets to you
Let us go for the festival

See, how Qais in his frenzy,
Entered his grave alive,
All for his Lailaas love
Let us go for the festival.

The music of “santoor and “dahar”
Are reproved in the Shari’at.
But music is the life of the lovers,
Let us go for the festival.

No shade of fear, no sense of guilt,
What deemed right that I did;
I raised no dust, no wayward step I took,
I entertained all the obligations of the tribe,
I lack nothing and nothing I need.

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(April--2007 )

Editor : Rati Saxena


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