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

 

Poetry is the medium which enables man to think deeper. It also helps him to connect and communicate with nature and his surroundings. Language is the sound reflector of nature which was created by man, which leads him to reach the height of progress, where other creatures could not.

Nature has its own music which echoes in the heart of the earth as well as the universe. That sound effect is converted into music by man as well as other creatures. Humans combine this music with a language along with their emotions to create poetry. We can say that language is like a river and poetry is its waves and every wave has its own music. The more close you are to nature, the more close you are to poetry. That is why people who are close to nature are able to give more poetic expression.

This is particularly true in the case of the ancient inhabitants, who were living close to nature. They were able to hear the music of nature that made them relate to the earth and the universe. Both man and nature were physically dependant on each other for their survival. That is why they learned to use water, some natural metals, leaves, roots and herbs for curing diseases from very early on. They also believed that these herbs and medicinal plants could be more effective when accompanied by prayer.
Eastern spirituality believes in immortality which is different from physical death.
Rati Saxena
More »

---

 Some divorces
Are deeper than
The surface, the skin,
Go beyond the specifics,
Into redefinitions
Without all the paperwork,
With freedom of thoughts and Will
Sans the spacing out bit,
Revelations of selfhood
 

Kalyanee Rajan
-----
Froth of blue sky,
where questions are singing mockingbirds
and the truth is a volatile tooth,
destined to fall or decay

Froth of blue sky,
unknown, unknown, unknown

Froth of blue sky,
a river curdled in gray visions

Froth of blue sky,
a home, a home, a home
nothing lives,
nothing dies,
nothing escapes


Aakriti Kuntal
------
-All your greening
Is yet to come
The season of brown pods
Clattering like long
Knives in the fury
Of a cold wind
Is not upon us
Your fruit
Filled with many trees


Christina Pacosz
--------
Cross word/Word Puzzle

1. Upwards- Waves
2. Downwards -Water
3. To the Right -Agony
4. To the Left- Silence
*Friends don’t try to solve this for getting a prize.
Waits its turn to be
Nithin S DevMany
------
Paper Plane

I wrote down all my dreams
On a crumpled piece of paper,
And now a paper airplane
Is flying to the future.
Lashed by winds, it twists and turns
And somersaults above the birds,
To touch tomorrow, to let go of today,

Mithun Murali

More »

 

Paul Celan was the son of Jewish parents. Born in Czernowitz, Bukovina (then Romania, now the Ukraine), he wrote in German.


When Hitler and the Nazis moved eastward, his parents were imprisoned in a forced labor camp. His father died in the camp, likely of typhoid fever. His mother, exhausted by hard labor, was shot and killed. Celan, away when his parents were deported, was himself sent to a labor camp, where he learned the fate of his parents. Unlike most of his Jewish compatriots, Celan survived the war and the Nazi regime and moved to Bucharest, then Vienna, then Paris.


So Celan was a survivor of the Holocaust, or as it is called in Hebrew, the Shoah. That experience, including both the loss of his parents and, as my former colleague Raul Hilberg termed it, “the destruction of the European Jews,” was the defining point of his life and the focus, in my view, of his poetry.


He was a very great poet. He began by writing a poem known widely – for most people, it is the only Celan poem they know – called “Death Fugue,” which as is title implies is a ‘musical’ verbal interweaving of images of the destruction wrought in the concentration camps.


Most poets write about love, or death, or a feeling for nature, or family. Celan has as his ‘subject’ the Shoah, which itself is beyond words. (I think in some fashion death and love and feeling are also ‘beyond words,’ just not as obviously and problematically so.) How does one write about the destruction of an entire people? How does one address ‘God’ when He would appear to have totally abandoned His ‘chosen people’ to destruction?

Huck Gutman

More »

 

Driving home from “King Lear”

county road under repair
four years ago floods tore it to pieces
this year the West

is afire

Lear has gone the medicine path
burdock, nettle, hemlock, cuckoo flow’rs
in his hair

we all bite on something
madness or farther out
I like “rank fumiter” for its sound—
swept by a torrent, smoked flat
on a rock

Buddhists call it duhkha
someone always has it worse though
and the perigee-syzygy moon
yellow as
a sweet potato

sends out blessings of love

these vexéd
mountain peaks

---

A condor burial in Larkspur

A condor burial in Larkspur
bones of 100 grizzly & black bear
sea otter bones
a California village that dates back to the Pyramids
tools musical instruments harpoon tips spears
bones of a puma
The ceremonial way we bury things,
dab paint on the condor’s wing feathers
but who in California has
heard of the old ones?
Today is total solar eclipse
11:45 a.m. smoky & cool
Clark’s nutcracker going west released
a loud craaaawk
small birds perch unalarmed
you can walk right up to them in the grey air
flutes bone-awls hairpins game pieces
What raga to sing
when the sun goes into eclipse?
“the holy shit raga!”
day moves to dawn to
dusk and back

Andrew Schelling
 

More »

 
Fugue Of Death
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink it and drink it
we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter he
whistles his dogs up
he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in
the earth
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the
sky it is
ample to lie there

He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others
you sing and you play
he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue are
his eyes
stab deeper your spades you there and you others play on
for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall
we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents

Paul Celan
More »

VOL- XIV  ISSUE -IV
(July-August- 2019)

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

My Voice | Poetry In Our Time | In The Name Of Poetry | Editor's Choice | Our Masters
 
Who We Are | Back Issues | Submission | Contact Us