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


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The popular journals produced in big countries under big banners are dominated by powerful personalities. Getting published in these journals is not easy even for a good writer sometimes. On the other hand, if an upcoming writer gets published in such a journal, he/she might become overconfident, and his/her growth might thereby be hindered. It is not easy to reach these journals from small cities either. But web journals are open to everyone; anyone can make oneís own blog, publish oneís own writings and write without fear. There will be no discrimination among creative writers here. Some poets might have a fear that web journals spoil the standard of literature. But this is not true, as writing about a variety of topics and giving a chance to good writers can only enrich literature. Moreover, literature itself decides its own path. Good literature will grow like trees and bad literature will get converted into manure.
Rati Saxena
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I am still alive: warm twigs
shoot out of my palms :
the roots penetrate softly my stomach
even my toes submissively
give themselves to ants' caresses: so
thee sky takes me slowly
and I was thinking: what could be more tender
than your mouth?
Zofia Beszczynska

I am

Among the stars... I am
tempered by storms... I am
in the smoldering memories of fires long gone... I am
enveloped by passion... I am
face to face with loneliness... I am

The universe and I are one
one more step, ever one more step
towards the great eternity...

I am
Ekiwah Adler

Bamboo flutes
That my father had played once
The leather-jacketed book
That had always been a prop on my table
The Borgeets from the Namghar
In sticky caramel noons
Nabina Das
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Here she sits,
paper in hand,
citizen of this strange land.

Its rosy outcroppings,
smooth cliffs soft as cushions,
where baby hands used to rappel
down to the lips
to receive her kisses.

that is her face,
with its random bumps and splotches, this pink escarpment.
this place of blue pools,
surrounded by tiny black fences,
this tickle of eyelash,
tease of memory,
With its little cave
full of chipped teeth
and moist heat: her breath
that came in waves and waves
during labor.
At times she turns the kaleidoscope. Her face is Aunt Louís face,
her motherís face.
She sees both grandmothers at once, and the father she never really wanted to look like.
She comes to the mirror often;
has these moments
that feel like sleepless nights,
Eileen Moeller
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search the stars outside at night

i didn't even cry
a blank inside
for all who die
a ready smile for
those who live
itís useless to pretend
the dead still live

the stairs and behind him

he heard her absence
so vivid
unmistakable the sages said it

the radio blares it out
as does the dryer
the ironing board
the radio

the t.v.
the cell phone
everything lit faces a metal door
calling for help

from the inside toward the outside
cold cellar steps
unshaven chin

Love Song
orn mist
shoulders gleam

we are the robe's disappearance
alig the rapture of undressing
not knowing our birth
and you:
the country I was born in
Bobbi Lurie
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Oe no Masafusa
On that far mountain
On the slope below the peak
Cherries are in flower.
Oh, let the mountain mists
Not arise to hide the scene.
Minamoto no Toshiyori
It was not for this
I prayed at the holy shrine:
That she would become
As pitiless and as cold
As the storms on Hase's hills.
Fujiwara no Mototoshi
As dew promises <
New life to the thirsty plant,
So did your vow to me.
Yet the year has passed away,
and autumn has come again.
Attendant to Empress Koka
After one brief night -
Short as a piece of the reeds
Growing in Naniwa bay

Must I forever long for him
With my whole heart, till life ends?
Princess Shokushi
Like a string of gems
Grown weak, my life will break now;
For if I live on,
All I do to hide my love
May at last grow weak and fail.
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(September - 2008 )

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

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