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
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
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
"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
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