and once again for today's post i have a friend and poet guest curating. Amol's poetry has been featured on poetly in the past.
It's such a joy to rediscover poems through the eyes of other lovers. Here is another T.S. Eliot masterpiece. Vaidehi had humbly submitted that Prufrock is his finest. Amol's account of the poem leaves us in no doubt 😊 but then....I grow old, i grow old, i wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.....
Over to you Amol Ranjan
As someone who grew fo
There is a never a wrong time to encounter this poem. to be reminded of the primordial impulse for a kind of acknowledgement of identity, to remember freedom. I can almost hear the quiet but firm resounding voice of the "Grand dame of Polish Poetry" (Milosz, & the Polish president) as her words shine with the grain of experience. With a direct personal experience of the German occupation and postwar communism, Hartwig's poetry not only echoes the terror of war, and fascist th
Where does an image start to find its feet? when does it soar and turn into fire? When does it find rest in the heart of a mind, and re-emerge phoenix like as one's own? the run on line in this poem is a beating stone of breath. it swims through the meandering language of a dust filled evening in a village. Carlos's poem sets in slowly. like the the imprint of children's footsteps on wet cement. discovered years later as miniature fossils. skeletons of the city's forgotten so
For today's imagist post I'm excited to share three poems written by my dear friend and collaborator Aranya. A young poet like me, aranya thinks seriously about poetry and seeks to create a space of sensitivity and creative fervour through his writing. and most of all. to connect. to communicate 😊 i thought it'd be nice to have another fellow poet Raju thai (who has been featured here in the past) write about aranya... Here are her words...
"...He inhabits the same spaces
"and then the lighting of the lamps...."
kya baat hain. that last line always gets me.
Thankyou Vaidehi Tandel for reminding me again of Eliot and his uncanny vision of the world.
Today's poem has been guest curated Vaidehi. It makes me very happy to have a friend, reader and occasional blogger on board sharing her love for poetry, and for Eliot! Keep coming back! Poetly would be happy to have you again
You will find the rest of the poem at her blog:
Earlier I'd mentioned how there are two books that I like leaving around in friends places. Not books, explosives. Tools of mass disruption. Howl was one of them- this book is another.
When I first read hakim bey, I stayed up all night, rereading and burning. With pent up ecstatic energy, I had this mad urge to get off the bus that I was traveling on. Vandalize it (godhead of capitalistic might that it was). Or do something to wake up everybody around me, and scream the tru
"... I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary..."
I met these two lines long before i met the rest of the poem, or even some of Atwood's prose. It was only recently that i mustered up the courage to read the rest of the poem. And it did not disappoint.
I personally believe that every poet writes an "i want' poem that speaks to desire, the bed for real human connection, alienation and unrealised drea
"what else is there to say..." - Mary Oliver's voice beats with the brevity of breath. I listen to her, and think - the rest is silence. She says, somewhere, "attention is the beginning of devotion". Her poetry is punctuated with the deep sensitivity of human fragility, and the awe of a gaze humbled by the unfathomable beauty of the world...
She asks, in one of her poems, "what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
Here are a few words about her/by her
Poems are like people. And this one is a really really close friend. When i first met Mark Strand's beautiful little child "keeping things whole", i remember turning beetroot pink. No, i thought, it can't be. Imagine meeting another person who's just like you! As nervous, as tentative and vulnerable. It's like the first day of school, when that strange kid with glasses and unruly hair comes up to you and grins sheepishly, and in that instant, when you look up and return the
Read this poem aloud. read it as if you were overhearing a conversation in another language. Let the sounds surround you with their warmth and rhythm- it is a beautiful language with words that dance and sing, like Malayalam, French, or Gondhi. Maybe you will understand how the speakers are feeling, because you are freed from the baggage of comprehension, and you start to pick up other things - like tone of voice, accent, body language etc. This is how I approach Hopkins