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
"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
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