Poetry Books
By
Kritya publication
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Let us reflect on
the obscure nature of poetry in modern times. I would like to
start with a personal experience. A few days back I had to apply
for a tourist visa to Europe. I filled out the visa form in this
manner; Profession - poet, and Reason for Travel- poetry
reading. The girl at the visa counter looked puzzled; maybe she
couldn’t think of writing poetry as a profession. In the present
day world, poetry has become just a part time hobby. One has to
be teacher, doctor or something else before being a poet. Those
days are gone when the job of a poet was a highly regarded one,
and poets commanded respect in society. Today, a person can be a
full time player, dancer, artist or politician, but cannot be a
full time poet.
Every other branch of art seems to be lucrative, a painter for
instance can sell his paintings for a substantial amount of
money, but poetry cannot feed a poet. It burns away the poet's
heart, and takes away his/her money.
Rati Saxena
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The earth
here is a suppliant
Holds and clings to your feet
Refuses to be shaken
Rain turns it into whore
Soliciting without choice
Or discretion
Wet earth I have breathed before
Found it beckoning
As a letter from a distant shore
But here it smells
Of fornication and such
As shall bear no offspring
And no pain
MRIDULA GARG
*
The way you vine
around me,
growing in proportion
to the light I give you,
takes me back
hell,
come,
wrap me up
Heller Levinson
*
A book must be an axe for the frozen sea inside us... (Franz
Kafka)
How does one come to write with such power?
With force, daggers penetrate at large;
flowers penetrate our timid hearts less than they should.
Joneve McCormick
You can spend an entire life
in the company of words
not ever finding
the right one.
Hungarian.
Niels Hav...
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Modern Logic,
which gnaws on the neck of art and literature today, demands in
its self righteous fashion, a thorough definition of every word,
every terminology and every statement in order to frame and
place, to place and frame all that oozes out of the pen.
Definition establishes a kind of ideological safety for the
holder of the pen and it blooms like an umbrella under the cold
rain of misinterpretation which could make the pen holder feel
insecure enough to laugh without a footnote and adequately
self-conscious to weep without an index. One may assume that the
universal countenance of poetry, as one of the many
manifestations of literary art, would easily yield under the
indulgent kisses of definition and succumb to the manipulating
fingers of Reason. (The unilateral and selective touch of this
universality is now destabilized thanks to the ever evolving
politics of translation) ..
Maryam Ala
Amjadi
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How Painless
How unveiled becomes
the tongue of the window
when you have nothing but pain
to draw on earth
How unreasonable becomes the sun
when it rises from the sea
and you still haven't dreamed about leaving
How painless becomes the world
when a leaf becomes a simple event
that falls on earth
I draw the curtains like a sigh.
Behzad
Zarrinpoor
#
A few
dribbles later:
Life has surrounded you from all sides
and I have come
to surrender myself
*
When
life surrounded me from all sides
I took myself as hostage
And I warn you:
"Unless I don't set myself free
I won't set this self free"
Please keep calm!
By the testimony of my poems I am a rebel
But I promise in this poem
No one's nose will run blood
Reza
Shantiya
Maryam Ala Amjadi
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Gift
I speak from the depth of the night
I speak from the depth of the dark
and the depth of the night
O kind one, if you ever come my house
do bring me a lamp
and a chasm
through which I may look at the crowded lane of bliss.
Mate
The night comes
and after night, the dark
and after darkness
eyes
hands
and breaths and breaths and breaths
and then, the sound of water
that falls drop by drop by drop from the tap
and then two crimson dots
of two lighted cigarettes
the tick-tack of the clock
two hearts
two loneliness.
By
Forough Farrokhzad
Translated by
Maryam Ala Amjadi
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