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
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
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
"... 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
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
"I'm ready my lord" he knew. I'm convinced he knew. this was his last album (well, his son is releasing another one posthumously). It has all the usual suspects - the metaphors, the conversations with god, the dealer, the healer, the negotiation for truth. and dignity. for the meaning of absolution, and, for beauty. he knew. "there' a crack in everything... that's how the light gets in" what can I say about Cohen? I wanted to meet this man. this poet. lover. earnest pilgr
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
Edna St. Vincent Millay's sonnets are refreshing in their brusqueness. There is a sense of irony in her seemingly clear convictions. She seems to be speaking about her beloved, saying deep emotional truths with a straight face, and by the end, letting a wry smile gently crease the side of her lips. There is honesty in her articulation of love. What I love is the way the persona's convictions slowly shift, how her sarcastic critique of those who make great sacrifices fo
The second poem in the series on sonnets is a Petrarchan sonnet about the joy of discovery; about the moment when we chance upon a thing of beauty, when we see something that is outside our “ken”. Isn’t that what we live for? Novelty is the only kind of immortality that I aspire towards. what I seek, in every relationship, in every collaboration, in every work of art. that I get to witness something that I haven’t before. that new knowledge finds its way to my mind’s e
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