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

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(ISSN 0976-514X)

Poetry Books
  Kritya publication


History is crucified in a half burnt stage directly in front of open eyes; Neruda’s poem is lying near the dead bodies of children, and a young girl is standing like a black shadow resisting the suppression of the voice and sight of the young generation. The lines on the palms have been question marked. These things happen in front of people belonging to all generations.
What is the truth of poetry? In other words, what is poetry itself? A subject which is discussed a lot is not a new theme. In fact all societies and intellectuals have their own thoughts on this issue. Intellectuals of our contemporary period feel that poetry should talk about the realities of society, reality means the rawness and the cruelty we see around us. At the same time a large number of people still enjoy poetry in lyric, appreciate beauty and imagination in filmy style. I sometimes wonder -- the critic says that poetry should be of people related to the earth, but the earth belongs to so many other creatures, like earthworms, worms, snakes, lizards, spiders and so on. Romantic poetry was poetry that devoted itself to the beautiful things around us – the romantic poets talked a lot about flowers, butterflies, clouds, mountains and the innumerable things in nature that stirred the sense of beauty in human beings

Rati Saxena
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strengthens the night

Time shakes its cocoon
the intellect and the blasphemy
of the silk get unstitched
Time: clever anger,
foaming cascade
of things

reads the soul
on womb’s book rest
A man and his shadow
A shadow without eyes
Eyes to pocket
Lonely road
Heading to the soul
A mountain
Waiting for me
The man
Looks at me
I break
The mirrors
He is still in his corner
The shadow is me
A stain
About the
Of the
Franco Barbato
I borrowed this line. That's okay because
if you borrow something from someone
you also have something to lend to others.

Feeling at home. I know how important it is
returning to the same place
if you've been away for a long time.

Hannie Rouweler
My father lives under sun- rain-wind
His blood grows our breaths
Only for thy sake

We tie you tangled hair
Braid green-golden and a ball
My father's blood turns white for these colours
Our future we ken and paint ourselves in that mirror white

Mintul Hazarika

Have the courage? Hey young man,
Will do a little mirror challenge!
If, let's face it.
In this trial, 'conscience' is the judge.
Sakib Jamal

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Gili Haimovich


Moses, such a beautiful waste,
neglected to check my watch
and forty years of desert passed by.
You’re not allowed to desert me
in an attempt to make it
to that promised, prohibited, land.
We wrestle sand and faith.
The ability to get somewhere
has been exhausted.
The desert is wide open
like an eye or a wound.
Not enough in here
to be into.

About the House Gecko

It’s summer now and I want to tell you about the gecko.
About how she comes at night to the chill wall of my room.
About her reptile tenderness glimpsing
through her transparent skin.
Quiet as night climbing up
to the painting of the rabbit above the printer,
the wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the young goat,
and our house gecko with the bunny,
me with my husband and children.

On the wall she has it all upside down,
as if heads to tails are backwards,
pointing her tail first
as if it’s not replaceable.

It’s summer now, I’m awake for longer hours.
I see the sky darken,
I see the absolute blackness of the gecko’s eyes
on the other edge of her body,
a colon before the next sentence.


Through the humdrum of routine rote,
through the scorching boredom of the humid streets,
I carry you
as a hum. ....

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Ali Abukhattab From Gaza lives in Norway

Why "I cannot to write" ?

Because I'm stronger than idea,
And weaker than language.
(2) Because I'm bigger than illusion
And smaller than fact
(3) Because I'm cleaver than nonexistence
And unclearer than existence


The wind has its logic..
And you walk against saltiness of time.
The place smell croaks in you.
You spin your death by hands of holes.
You stick to the wind hissing
Your self burnt on the flame of fragmentation
You create your ceremonies in mixing the tears by the fantom foam
Your crushed myth rises from the poem hell
Go up
Go up
Go up
Do not stop on the tip of chant
I see them approaching from your echo
I see them slipping from the cough attendants
Escape , Follow the prophecy of wind

"Waiting for Godot" again

I, in the first of distance, was waiting for him.
As a defeated prophet
The time scorpions was biting me
The wild age words was stoning me
The weakness was spreading into the rocks
I said he must come
But they left me
I waited till the dates evaporated
.. … .. … .
Nothing came except death.

Variations on Genesis

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Poems by Enrique Servín

April once again

It’ll be April soon, for one more year.
The air
the sun
the soil
the sweetest rain
will just repeat themselves
as they have done it for so long.

Yourself: you will be going back
to your old ways.

So be prepared, on time, for the emergency.

And the emergency will be
to fall in love with someone once again
to build up, out of nothingness, tall trees
to pull up chants, out of sheer stones.

To be the fiercest fire, devouring
in the attempt.

Illegal Alien

I’m in another country, say the maps,
History, or some other detail:
Strange faces, laughter that laughs
with a foreign accent.

This place, it is true
could never be my city.

But if I stick a shovel in the earth
the earth, moist from winter
opens just as back there, and the worm
rolls about with no country,
because it loves life.

And flies, identical, also land
on garbage heaps.

And the reed bed, and the cold wind
speak a tongue that I can understand.

Translated by Robert Ransom

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( November-December)- 2019)

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena


Rashida Rashi

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