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
  Kritya publication


Among common people poetry is always related with beauty, flowers, rose, cloud and birds. All beautiful things come in the category of poetry. Here everything is changed into beauty or love. But in the world of poets, poetry talks about pain, sorrow, war and even hatred. Poetry is another name for life, and life contains everything - good or bad, love or hate, beauty and no beauty. All the contradictions! In other words, the definition of beauty is different in poetry, and the approach is also different.
Death is a difficult thing for everyone, but poetry tries to go beyond the death. It explains different dimensions of the death, the death in war is cruelty but death in old age is liberation. Poetry goes beyond the relief even and tries to go in search of a new world. Poetry walks towards liberation through pain; it searches for beauty in every pain and sorrow. Poetry is not short-term emotions, which survive only for some time, but it is a combination of thought, emotion and life experience.

Rati Saxena
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It was so white.
Freshly shorn,
seemed as if they had removed
cottony clouds,
and about a foot of him had fallen,
defeated by its own weight.
In it pupils shone
a lake surrounded by reeds,
a body of water
embedded in the gentle hand of evening.
Francoise Roy
I hear that you write Poetry
Your face stamped on the cover
Your name anchored to a newspaper
Column in the gutter,
Dressed in air you dance
Verses over calamities
Untouched by stench
An open-petal Sufi
Oozing arcane words
Arousing frenzies
As the Earth
Struck by bombs and barbarity
Fades away.
Why are you a poet, Milady?
 Zingonia Zingone
While I check my e-mail
While I check my e-mail
My wife watches Koi Apna Sa
My son plays with his GI Joes
My father is in the hall, watching ETV
My mother peers through the peephole
glaring at the comings and goings from the lift
Hemant Divate
The world may appear to be your oyster,
remember it is not yours to keep or conquer.
You may never discover why you are here,
if you have a special place in the universe.
There may be planets inhabited by creatures
infinitely more intelligent and conscious than us.
Shanta Acharya

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What time was that, pray?

It was long, long ago, when I lay in a hammock
on a sun –drenched beach, [or was it just my imagination?]
tiny fingers trying to reach the stars.
[The Mars had not infiltrated into my mind, yet.]
Pray, what time was that?

The stars twinkled away my juvenile dreams.
As the trees shed their bounty
in a rush of autumnal generosity.

Chickens skittered away, helter –skelter
as I frittered away my childhood days,
luxuriating, and snuggling next to my dreams.
Squinting, as the sunbeams canoodled with the trees.
The shepherd herding his flock, the monarch butterfly
lazing in the afternoon sun, on a solid rock.
A squirrel stopping in its tracks
peering into the pages of the book
fallen from my tiny hands near the chattering brook,
hooked on to the black lines in the book.
Pray, what time was that? Now memories slither towards me through every cranny.
Hey, is that white haired old woman my granny?
Flashing that toothless smile, so devoid of guile,
talking to the boatmen in the houseboats down below
in the murky waters of the Jhelum?
The boisterous banter of the boatmen now turned mum,
happy faces so sad, so glum.

Dr. Santosh Bakaya

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Poems by Rira Abbasi

Labor Day*

From the stench of all rotten names
From the norms of my body
From the sweat drops drowned in my veins in an infinite mine
My body is a daily worker whose account is lost every night in your days

Perhaps today the wage of my veins will be a riot of light in your body
The wage of my body is bent
and before I stand up from all these useless hands to another,
lay my pay between my noble brassiere
I am proud of the honor of my work!
Go on now, couple up your shoes
and never remember me once you walk out this door.

Hussein Habasch
Five women in black scarves

Five women in black scarves
Lined up in front of missing people’s desk!

The first said
I am looking for my husband‘s name
Missing two years ago.

The second said
I am looking for my son’s name
Missing five years ago.

The third said
I am looking for my father’s name
Missing four years ago.
The second said
I am looking for my son’s name
Missing five years ago.

The third said
I am looking for my father’s name
Missing four years ago.

The fourth said
I am looking for my sweetheart’s name
Missing three years ago.

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Watching her sleep

every man is his own sun
in tedium’s midnight
when the crickets shriek
like fire possessed
and the stars
are more distant than ever

under the light of strong liquor
every man
snuffs out
the inner glow of nothingness
while he watches the woman
to whom he conceded his destiny
not the one invented by illusion
any man
who, like me, gets drunk
at the side of the woman
who flees us in dreams
avoids the need for the other
makes of his failure
an abstract tinkling
and drinks his perdition in silence

Osvaldo Sauma (Costa Rica)
Puertas Abiertas p 351-2

Translated by Ricardo Ulloa Garay.

Poet, director of the Literary Expression Workshop at the Castella Conservatory from 1981 to 2010, in San José, Costa Rica. Author of: Las Huellas del Desencanto (The Footprints of Disenchantment) 1983; Retrato en Familia (Portrait in my Family) ,Premio Latinoamericano EDUCA 1985; Asabis, 1993; Madre Nuestra Tierra Fértil (Our Mother Fertile Earth) 1997;
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( January-February)- 2020)

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena


Rashida Rashi

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