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:
Such a joy to have for today's 'imagist' tukaaaaaa 😊
“Many miracles are attributed to Tukaram, and he is often compared to St. Francis as animals and birds loved him and he them. Birds often rode on his shoulders and sat on his instrument, which he kept slung around his neck when not playing it. With cymbals in hand and ecstatic tears on his face he would be seen in the streets dancing and singing his poems to god.”
Tukaram wrote in Marathi (1608-1649), and has been a huge
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
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
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
"... 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
Eunice De Souza stands out among the Bombay poets as a writer whose sparse, piercing vision and acerbic wit stripped her poetry of the unnecessary sentimentality of an Indian English idiom that was emerging in the 80s and 90s. From De Souza's writing one could expect a clarity of thought, and wry humour that punctured the religious and moral social codes of the time, as well as the middle class conservatism that sought to restrict womens' freedom "for their own good". Always