Where does it come from? The fire in their eyes. What sapling of fear turns into defiance in the eyes of a protestor, quivering in the morning breeze like a peepal leaf? What drives this anger that simmers before boiling over into the streets, into feet that will continue to beat to the rhythm of their conscience, even after you turn them into mausoleums?
Today i think we all need to hear Allama Iqbal's fiery recasting of identity. His reminder that inside this sack of skin
Today's post is curated by Kavita Rayirath, who is a fabulous curator of beautiful things on the internet herself. It's a joy to have her guest curating today's post. The love and generosity with which she picks poetry to share with the world, and her knack of finding evocative art to create a dialogue between text and image mustn't be missed! Do swipe to see a beautiful painting that accompanies this poem... Over to you Kavita :)
I once read, in the book Continuum Concept,
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
Yesterday was 6th December. I've been remiss in not paying homage to this country’s most organic, influential thinker, activist and social reformer - Baba saheb Ambedkar.
I remember joining droves of people from across Maharashtra at Chaitya Bhoomi to observe "Mahaparinirvan Diwas”. Anybody’d who be a part of that crowd would understand what Ambedkar means to the the Dalits, the marginalised and the pariahs this society disdains. The number of crimes that are commited agains
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:
Not the "decoration" but the "essence". Pound's poetry goes to the very heart of the "thing". Without using a single verb, Pound creates a fourteen word "vision" of modern life and its uneasy relationship with nature. The persona in the poem speaks without speaking. The absurdity of the "apparition" of the people on the metro, and the unexpected beauty of the image is heard only in the tone of voice. The uncanny pairing of these distinctly different images turns the piece of
As i sit down today, in my balcony, to write about rain, and what it inspired in the imagination of the masters, a sudden gust of wind gathers the fallen dry leaves off the rooftops, and comes to give me company. It has started to drizzle. The tiny droplets tiptoe through the neighborhood, barely making their presence felt. It feels like a welcome interlude to the overcast winter evening. The rain goes about its work, scrubbing away, and rinsing the greasy Delhi sky. Before h
I think it was Van Gogh who observed that the night is infinitely more colourful, than it's paramour, day. He also talked about the layers of melancholy as an emotion, the complexity and beauty, as compared to the flat, sometimes, unidimensional effervescence of joy. No theory can be built on these deeply felt, but lightly held aesthetics of compassion; but Hoskote's 'Nocturne' disinters the abstractions in both these impulses. Lovers sighs are the oldest threads that p
Today's post is a guest post. It's a real joy to have fellow writer Partho P. Chakrabartty curate this beautiful poem. Partho is a dear friend whose insight and work has been important in shaping my own journey with poetry. Poetly lives for such engagements He writes about his relationship with the poetry of Diane di Prima: Diane di Prima started off as a Beat poet, but spiraled into so much more—revolutionary, activist, mother, teacher. One can guess how cool she is from he
Ramanujan was a genius. He was a polymath- a polyglot, an academic, a scholar, a philologist, a folklorist, an educator and literary critic, a translator, playwright, and, of course, a poet. This poem embodiess his keen eye, his sensitivity, and, for me, the humility and distancing of the self as ego, the act of creation requires. What is interesting to me is, of course, the vibrant and many-layered application of metaphor, but his exploration of dualities. I think arti
another poem... for Emily. who knew. "The newly emerged insects are attracted to lights in riverside towns and villages and the local authorities deploy snow clearing vehicle to remove their rotting corpses."
https://freshwaterblog.net/…/the-mayflys-lifecycle-a-fasci…/ the mayfly: a biography from her liquid prison she escapes, winged nymph
lusting after light. a few hours of breath - then blessed
before she falls, with the dance of the possessed - wings askew, sussed
They can try. But they can't break JNU. Gorakh Pandey himself committed suicide in a JNU hostel..... Rest in poetry. "Pulis hi pulis... Lathiya baras rahi thi.." "Kitne log ko lathi khate hue dekhe (been hit himself) log pani maang rahe hain. Pade hain raste Mein. Ek dedh kilometer students ko bhaga ke maar rahe hain..." " Log peacefully chal rahe hain unko maar rahe hain" "Hum nahi padhenge. Job milega tho nikal jaenge... Hamaare paas paise nahi hain" "Ek humara saathi hai
"... 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
Humans have had the privilege of language and rational thought. an evolutionary gift that I often think, we might have been better off without. This gift has allowed us the luxury of locating ourselves at the centre of the universe. Quite literally. Galileo and Copernicus are sitting together somewhere with a glass of wine, and a cigar, having the last laugh.
We are living in the age of the “anthropocene”. The debate for nomenclature and this kind of self-definition, howev
"...a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways..."
A poet could find a universe between the gap of a word and its meaning, a phrase and the shadow it casts on reality; between language and her paramour, meaning. This is the joy of metaphor. There is a hiatus between two imaginations, or domains of experience, and that is where the magic happens. The moment Maggie Smith speaks about life with a dry conviction, almost mocking the hollow, syrupy tones that well-meaning adults bes
'the archaeological evidence cited in the judgement is inconclusive"
dig. dig deep. you may not find god, but you will find yourself. you will find that language sticks like gravel between the toes. dig till you find bloodshot eyes, trembling fingers, cold sweat. the insipid breath of sleepless nights. dig past all that, they’re distractions. they come in the way of the real quest. dig deeper. let your tireless spade not rest until it finds truth. dig for your