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

) * All the legal application should be filed in Kerala, India, where the Kritya Trust is registered.
 

(ISSN 0976-514X)

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 Restoring the Labyrinth of Memory
The past few days had me thinking a lot on the subject of memory and how significant it is to each of us. Where would we be without our memories? Those ethereal things that make us what we are and punctuate every moment of our lives! Fragmentary, yet whole; drifting through the cells of our brain giving us the raw material to think, talk, and write!
While many of us carry on with our labour of love, namely writing poetry, we often fail to perceive the true value of this art form and how it is being utilized for practical purposes. Poetry reading is used as an innovative treatment option for patients with Alzheimer’s disease, with research showing how poetry acts as a great medium for memory impaired patients to express their memories in a loving environment. In medical terminology, poetry often proves to be a ‘positive intervention’ that enables these patients to connect with their selves. What is most important is how the act of reading poetry in a group serves to establish a connection among the patients as well as with their own selves. The concept of sharing and caring latent in any poetry reading group is therefore of great value.
Poetry readings are akin to music therapy, which is already popularly used to treat dementia. Whether music or poetry, the point is how the words and rhythm can bring back the lost strands of memory, eliciting some kind of emotion and enabling that vital connection to the self and society. If poetry and poetry readings can be curative, or at least provide a sense of healing and caring, what can be more gratifying for a poet?
Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair
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Fathers
I meet my father in old men,
that one there now on his knees
he hands me a cloth
to polish the wax of the bees.
That man there in an armchair
he must be eighty if he’s a day,
he helped me much when I was down,
he talks in a shaky way.
The man of the sea with his tales
tall tales of boats and ships,
we laugh such a hearty laugh –
is it true what comes from his lips?
That honest man who lost a son,
he has tasted much of sorrow,
his two hands firmly press mine
as though there’s no tomorrow.
I meet my father in old men
as I myself approach old age:
every father teaches with love
to face death as might a sage.Liam Ó Muirthile
*
You
Have the wisdom
Of a child
Who saw
The sun
Without burning
His eyes
Have
The smile
Transparent like
The summer sky
You give to me
Every your thought
And because of this
My heart
Lives again
In this endless sea
Of generous
Faith
Luciana De Palma
*

Some shades
Carvy blades with dots of rust were
Resharpened to cut unripe mangoes
In five slices. She sold them outside the school
Under the shade of the margosa .next to the man
Who sold juice from lemon and sugarcane shoots.
To children with fond smiles and heavy bags
Which they carried like parachutes. at afternoons when the
Sun steals the tree shades. Her daughter slips out to
Hold an umbrella. Over her mothers head to
Relieve her from the heat. The teacher hasn’t found yet
The missing girl in his class. If he finds out
She will not pass.
 John Fraser
many more..
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Ballad of the lonely minister

His father was a tourist minister, selling the country,

cheaper than an overnight flight to the new world.

He had a loose tie, a carefully sheened skin, lies within.

The boy’s idea of politics was spelt as, ‘you’re kidding.’

By high school he was a rebel, coveted in God’s hands.

He read the bible as carefully as a driver’s licence.

His father was used to going to church for votes.

Politicians are expected to turn up in morning pews.

Uncertainty caused the tourist minister to kneel down.

All he heard was his son’s chant like a chipped crown.

The boy became a minister in a stiff white collar.

Custom made clothes, a black gown, a civil hood.

The boy turned towards centuries of chanted words.

A short back and sides, trimmed belief; history’s grief.

All caused him to read the bible for chuckling relief.

At the end of training he was given a country post.

‘They’ll like you out there; old church, older ghosts.'

His forehead shined to become the voice of the dead.

‘The poison in your cooking was hidden with skill.

I was put out to dry in the cheap sun on Family Hill.’
He grew to become a small church on river flats.

There were times when faith went underwater.

His podium was on a tree. A root was the wall.

Gary Langford
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THE SONG OF TIME PASSING

The wheels they spin spin yes they spin
They spin yes they spin days of my youth

The belts they pass pass yes they pass They
pass yes they pass days of my youth

And time it flows flows yes it flows
They flow yes they flow days of my youth

The world it spins spins yes it spins
They spin yes they spin days of my youth

The days they pass pass yes they pass They
pass yes they pass days of my youth

The days they flow flow yes they flow They
flow yes they flow days of my youth

The wheels they spin spin yes they spin They
spin yes they spin days of my youth

The belts they pass pass yes they pass They
pass yes they pass days of my youth

And time it flows flows yes it flows
They flow yes they flow days of my youth

PREGNANT WOMAN'S SONG

Weather's chill, God damn it all
Detergent's cracked my hands so sore As
if three kids were not enough This next
one makes it four

Wash the risers, light the stove, and throw the trash away Does the
fault belong with me or that man of mine, what say?

Oh mama, he kicks me hard He'll
pierce my gut, I fear Come on babe,
do you suppose It's all holidays out here?

To the grocer's, wash the clothes, and throw the trash away Does the
fault belong with me or that man of mine, what say?...

ATAOL BEHRAMOGLU

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Pir Meher Ali Shah

Why is it that the yearning for the Loved One (i.e., the Holy Prophet) is especially strong today?
Why is my heart sadder today than even before?
Why does longing penetrate every tissue of mine?
And why are the eyes shedding tears like a shower of rain?

-His shining face appeared to me in a vision,
And fragrance emanated in profusion from His tresses;
I fainted from the sight of these visions;
The hordes of his eyes overpowered me.

His face shines like the full moon;
A brilliant light radiates from his brow;
His hair is black,
and his eyes are bewitching and intoxicated.

-His two eye-brows are like cross-bows,
Hurling darts of pointed eye-lashes (in all directions);
His lips are red like rubies of Yemen;
His white teeth like a string of pearls.

-I am not sure whether I should call his face the essence of life;
Or life of the entire universe;
The truth is that it is (like) the glory of God,
From which all other (worldly) glories originated,

( This refers to the Holy Prophet’s well-known hadith:
“Allah created (everything from my light, and I am from the Light of Allah”)

-This face (of the Prophet) emerged from the Faceless One (i.e., Allah);
The Faceless One manifests Himself through this face.
The Colourless (Reality) has been revealing itself through this image,
Ever since Unity exploded into Diversity.

-It is this face (of the Holy Prophet) that guides (mankind) to the path of Faceless One (i.e., Allah);
Nay (not the path only but) to the Ultimate Reality Itself.
However, understanding this (secret) is beyond the capacity of the simpletion;
Only the select few succeed in discovering and capturing the Pearl (of Truth).

More »

VOL- VIII/ ISSUE -I
(August 2012)
 

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

Editor
Dr.Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair

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