I am Kritya. 
The intense word power,
which always moves along with the ultimate truth, which exists completely in accord with rightness.

) * All the legal application should be filed in Kerala, India, where the Kritya Trust is registered.
 

(ISSN 0976-514X)

Poetry Books
By
  Kritya publication

 

In
Conjuring New Universes.

What does poetry mean for the creative seers : Mother Earth and the dark night and planting the tree in the library?
Poetry seeps into the pages transforming images and metaphors ; thus creating new worlds of meaning, sensibilities and being. Poetry also becomes the soul and the mirror image of the poet. The poets featured in this edition become the chroniclers of bringing forth exquisite imagery, of latching and knotting disparate images and more importantly, verses become vehicles of investigating the self: entrenched in the personal that dovetails into the political.
The tentativeness coupled with the deep contemplation of life in the poems provide testimonies of the poets craft, which they locate on a dodgy realm, that at once calls for myriad interpretations and delving through many ambivalences. On the one hand the poet tries to articulate the anguish of living
 

And Tonight I shall be crucified
And my body survives personified
In the night hawk lost in the light of the day
Awaiting the rise of souls on Judgement Day
To seek me, to find me, to reach me (Bijoy Krishna Handique)

and on the other, the poet seeks absolution of her subjective self by seeking poetry which becomes everything to her.

Babitha Justin
More »

 

 

All birds must die

like humans.

Some die gorgeous, some unsung for

just like the routine lay of a neighborhood whore.

Some die even violently, at the height of excitement.

This is the broad line of fare division.
Bijoy Krishna Handique
*
afraid but hearing your voice
and you speak out speak out

light the marvelous

a friend who lost

street lamps burn souls in obsidian
the kids who have been cheated

why is it that I feel like weeping
when I sing this psalm?
Judy Katz-Levine
*
return all dreams
to mother earth
call back the birds
to their sacred dwelling
let the magic emerge from
each flower that blooms into the air
so life can sing to the morning
as the sun arises to kiss
Luz María López
*
this act is not reached yet
we are walking slowly as a poet ordered
urine is dripping from the ceiling drilling the new kidneys around the rubs
we are in the living room
is not safe here
Małgorzata Skałbania

*

yet so very real no dream at all

all that green so very lush

the lotus orchids and plumeria

– toads frogs and crickets

as a chorus for the night and

Ingrid Fichtner

and Many More »

 

*Author: Yu Jian

T美国乔直翻译于坚诗



洗衣机的星期六
旋转的快感 将主人的布磨损
磨损它的鲜艳 磨损它的粗糙
磨损它不适应于宴会的部分
磨损 让人日复一日 保持干净
幸福的是一件羊毛衣
它要求与众不同的转速
它的愿望 是与女主人的
红裙子 匹配



On its Saturdays

the washing machine
revolves with pleasure,
wearing away the owner’s clothes--
wearing away the brightness,
wearing down the fibers,
rubbing out the stains.
All this wear
keeps us clean
day after day.
Blessed be the woolen sweater
on gentle cycle
that wants to match her red skirt.

--trans. by Mei Shenyou, Diana Shi & George O’Connell


无产者在星期日的大街上走
他的眼睛不是坚定地看着前方
而是犹豫不决地经常垂向地面
他想发现一个他决不会弯腰捡起来的
皮夹子


Sunday, a proletarian on the avenue.
His gaze not firmly fixed on the road ahead,
he casts timid glances toward the pavement,
seeking a wallet he won’t stoop for.

--trans. by Mei Shenyou, Diana Shi & George O’Connell

九十个诗人会在同一时刻
在黑暗的意义上
想起同一只乌鸦
但九万只乌鸦组成一片移动的黑暗
飞越过一只乌鸦
也不能令这只乌鸦想起
乌鸦



More »

 
ROCK PAPER

 SCISSORS

When shut eyes can see
the cycle becomes a sleight of hand

(The poetry book opens too much
and up pops a deck of cards).

It’s not cocky to flick a switch,
or afflicted to write in the dark.

Don’t let go your hold on the world
or lose touch with the word footing,
take a saw to its legs
you might find you reach even higher.

Here
we provoke language.

Of course we write
for a picture’s worth a thousand words.


METROPHOBIA
Off in the distance the rain
stains the clouds.
This map is true for balladeers.

I can’t wait to go and my car is a good soldier,
can you hear its sweet cargo whistle?
The old roads open up
like a ruled notebook,
how I’d love to score the mountains like a sales
rep my case full of poems

My car’s a silver bullet burning with rhythm
instead of gunpowder and I shout “Vamos!”
Together we bear down on valleys,
civil servant suburbs and those huge windmills
urge me on to face the giants.
We get each other, my car and me
– no words needed.
White lillies of paracetemol,
my car’s a soldier
and I say “Let’s go read poems
in Monforte de Lemos!”,
and his engine
hums along to my tune;
rattles
and sings
even though he’s got
metrophobia.

Yolanda Castaño (Galicia – Spain) ,

 

More »

 
*

o bee, resplendant with shiny wings

Who spend your life in appraising

The bouquet of flowers : Tell me now,

Not just what takes your fancy but

The absolute truth. Is there a flower

As sweet-scented as the hair of this girl.

The girl with a peahen's velvet softness

And teeth set close in dazzling rows

Whose love for me will never know

Any surcease through long aeons?


##

The girl to the friend :

I'm anguished. My eyes shed tears

Which bum as they stream down my sunken cheeks And

my lord whom the gods have named

To dry my tears is not present

To perform the task; he left on his travels

Condemning me to anguished tears.


***

The girl to herself :

Dark is the middle of the night

All talk suspended, people

Have settled down to slumber

With passions calmed, the world

And all that lives now sleep Only poor I

Cannot sleep a wink.

(Kuruntokai 6)
 

Sringarapadyavali
More »

VOL- X ISSUE -II
(Jan-Feb-2017)

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

Guest Editor

Babitha Justin

 

My Voice | Poetry In Our Time | In The Name Of Poetry | Editor's Choice | Our Masters
 
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