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
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
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
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
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
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
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This sonnet has been inscribed upon the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty, and plays a great part in propelling the vision of the Statue, and, by extension, America as the "welcoming mother" - the first thing that immigrants see on the coast - to displaced and immigrant communities from across the globe. These lines- "‘Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, temp
"The moment always came when poets had to close the doors behind them, strip off their mantles, fripperies, and other poetic paraphernalia, and confront – silently, patiently awaiting their own selves – the still white sheet of paper. For this is finally what really counts.” - from Wislawa Szymborska's Nobel speech, The Poet and the World. Before Wislawa’s gaze, reality stood. stripped of all artifice. But what ensued was not an expression of fear or the arrogance of enli
Sohini Bhasak's words have lives and dreams. They breathe fire, and bandage each others' wounds with realities whose translations are distortions more beautiful than themselves. Each poem in 'we live in the newness of small differences' is an adventure into the soft earth of beautifully intricate memories, the everyday, the wild, and uncharted futures. I can only dream of using language with so much precision, and with such spontaneity - the kind that reminds you that
It gives me unimaginable joy to curate today’s poem. Rajuthai is a partner in rhyme and unreason. Her footsteps resound as she strides fearlessly in a quest for a kind of utopia. a place filled with metaphor, simplicity, words and children. With tremendous ease and sensitivity she excavates sensation, brushes off the dust from the surface of words before making them gleam in unexpected ways. she loves the sound of things, and in delightfully irreverent and risqué verse,