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:
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
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
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
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
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