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
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,
Yesterday was 6th December. I've been remiss in not paying homage to this country’s most organic, influential thinker, activist and social reformer - Baba saheb Ambedkar.
I remember joining droves of people from across Maharashtra at Chaitya Bhoomi to observe "Mahaparinirvan Diwas”. Anybody’d who be a part of that crowd would understand what Ambedkar means to the the Dalits, the marginalised and the pariahs this society disdains. The number of crimes that are commited agains
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
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
another poem... for Emily. who knew. "The newly emerged insects are attracted to lights in riverside towns and villages and the local authorities deploy snow clearing vehicle to remove their rotting corpses."
https://freshwaterblog.net/…/the-mayflys-lifecycle-a-fasci…/ the mayfly: a biography from her liquid prison she escapes, winged nymph
lusting after light. a few hours of breath - then blessed
before she falls, with the dance of the possessed - wings askew, sussed
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
"... 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
"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
The fourth poem in the sonnet series was written a little more than 200 years ago. I believe it is a poem that speaks to our times. This juggernaut of broken futures that we call a country is being driven by a man who seems to be a self absorbed prick. We should be ashamed and embarrassed that we have given him the keys to our "development". Today as Modi is asking other power-drunk "leaders" to see his "work" in Kashmir, it is apt, I think, to be reminded that power is
There are two pieces of literature that i like to leave lying around. Books that i deliberately forget at friends' houses when i go visiting. like anonymous gifts. in the hope that they are discovered, the way one finds playing cards scattered in the city. Allen Ginsberg's Howl is one of them. Howl is not literature. It is fuel. a scream. the ultraviolet showreel of a generation's insanity. an antidote to the silence brought on by ennui, and the frustrated toil of the an
I remember reading this poem in my library at school on a poster. I then saw it on the London underground. I read Vikram Chandra’s book ‘red earth and pouring rain’, curious about how he’d related with this piece of writing attributed to an anthology composed close to 2000 years ago! Chandra isn’t the only one who drew inspiration from these words - it has even made its way into the lyrics of a british folk rock band’s title track for an album. Imagine! This poem was s
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