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,
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
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
"... 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
"...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
Today, I bring to you two different poems. They are put together for no other reason but because they are about trees and पौधे. The other idea that brings the two poems together is the use of metaphor. I read Srijan’s poem the way I would read Ginsberg’s Howl, not in terms of style and intent but as a portrait of a kind of person/people. Not once does the poem explicitly state who it is describing. There is an impulse that it describes. I read it as a creativity or cre
It is a dark and deliberate irony that today’s poem, penned by the Kashmiri poet Agha Shahid Ali, ends with the words “write to me”. Kashmir is a dystopia. It has been under a communications blockade for almost three months now, and this last straw (the abrogation of Article 370 and other unconstitutional state measures) is a terrible footnote to the decades long persecution and human rights violations engineered by the Indian state in the valley. A lot of Agha Shahid Al
when I first saw this clip I could not sleep for three days. It was the entire film actually... amar kanwar's night of prophecy traces the fraught contours of this idea of India using poetry and music as metaphors of resistance. G Venkanna is not a poet. He's a prophet. He wears his resistance, his politics and a bloody history of violence on his body. His eyes are beacons of fire, as his hoarse baritone breaks into a falsetto of rage. 'Pick up the club', he says, and dri