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
 

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a young poet read his poem in which he questioned the power of the word. When words come to a poet, they have some meaning associated with them, these meanings are sometimes fixed, and the poet has to depend on those used words again and again. Thus sometimes words are not able to carry the emotions and feelings of the poets; sometimes they even give a different meaning to the poet's words.
The thoughts put forward by the young poet stayed in my mind; it made me think again about the power of words. If words do not have the capacity to express the feelings of a poet, then how can we believe them, and if they can convey only a particular meaning, then how can we enrich them with new meanings? I think that is why we need colours and music to express ourselves. But does it mean that words are not powerful? as a poet, I cannot accept this. What I would say is that words have power, but one has to meditate on them; win them so they come to him/her as rain, as wind, as waves in the ocean. just to fill one's emotions, but one has to  one has to win them a...
Rati saxena
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To perfume around you
Your love will pour like rain
On the ground where I am cultivated
Or I'll reborn as a nightingale bird
To sing songs for you
my songs will be pure melody to your ears
I'll build my nest at the tree outside your chamber's window
Aqsa Gharshin
If you and I must walk
Hand in hand in life
Put away all evil thought
Put away the knife
Start from scratch
With trust and will
That fragile peace
Needs much goodwill
Lina Sen
I don't know how we get there. How to start
or how to cultivate a near return
to that same place we'd stumbled to before-
the gardener hardly knows why live roots grow
but only knows in certain places thorns
or blossoms once have thrived. And even there
W. F. Lantry

They buried her that rainy day
They buried her in that white-blue dream.
'And I stood in the rain"
Nana is said to have told my ma and her sisters,
"And cried shamelessly'
Shalim M Hussain
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No other art
besides poetry has had such a mythology attached to its sources of inspiration. Painters have no myth of Helicon,
the sacred spring
whose water brings inspiration.
Dancers have no Pegasus to ride, composers no Mount Parnassus to climb. Everyone knows that "the Muse" is a poet's companion. Why do poetry and poetic inspiration hold such a special place among the arts?
Poetry offers balance between
the logical, verbal
left side of the brain and the musical, spatial right side of the brain, combining meaning and rhythm as no other art can do. Poetry uses the same words we all use every day, and so it transmutes the intimate chatter of our lives into something more powerful. Maybe that is why the word "poetic" is used so widely in our culture; I've heard it used in popular journalism to describe a film sequence, the movements of a dancer, a work of
architecture, an especially sublime landscape, and a delicious dessert.
Anthropologist
Julian Jaynes writes about
a special connection
between poetry ANNIE FINCH
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I was walking
By the abattoir.
At that time
it was only there
the small gate opened.
Through a dormer window you could see
a rope hanging
at all times
As far as the eye could see,
a tree nowhere around
was alive
Far away
a train was whistling.
the gate's masonry the stone
overgrown by sour moss.
An old woman in the yard, on her knees,
a bird's throat was dying.
When it is raining,
the pond as if just convalescing
from smallpox.
Below under the dam
the chub are gorging on the rain.
Afterwards
the moon reveals itself to girls,
pressing its attentions on
the chaste straw
And in the little knuckles
how tenderly the straw crackles!
But beneath the dam
appear
the white bodies
of drowned women.
Snow.
Animals shrunk to the bone,
small mouths torn by thorn-to a white time,
as if angels
(once maybe a flame?)
have burnt to ashes.
Zbynek Hejda
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A Question

A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.

*
A Time to Talk
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,

*
What Fifty Said..

When I was young my teachers were
the old.
I gave up fire for form till I was cold.
I suffered like a metal being cast.
I went to school to age to learn the past.
Now when I am old
my teachers are the
young.
What can't be
molded must be cracked and sprung.
I strain at lessons fit
to start a suture.
I got to school to youth to learn the future.
*
Devotion

The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to ocean -
Holding the curve of
one position,
Counting an endless
repetition.
Robert Frost
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VOL- VI / ISSUE - I
(JULY-2010)
 

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

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