Poetry Books
By
Kritya publication
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KRITYA2008
An International
poetry Festival
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I was astonished
to know that there were people like this poet who could
sacrifice their lives for a good cause in this money minded
world? A sacrifice for the society, and not for any selfish
motive! Can poetry give so much strength to a young mind that he
uses it as a weapon? Does the society around him have any notion
of the power of genuine poetry and the magnitude of such a
sacrifice? A hundred questions could be added to this list in my
mind.
I experienced a feeling of happiness in that there lived real
poets in these cruel times. I was somewhat relieved on
visualizing a death which could be ideal for me. (As after
seeing a number of deaths in my family, I was greatly worried
about the helplessness before death.) Now I could not imagine a
better end for any poet. But again the question surfaces - will
his death help society? Can he awaken the sleeping hearts of
politicians?
Rati Saxena
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*,
Cold is winter,
At night birds hide in trees.
Doves at bird feeder don't count days.
No cares.
Michael
Lee Johnson
**
I am still in my shell
uncracked, cocooned
they tell me they
will lead me to god
i tell them I have
found many on my own
in beads, prayer wheels,
books, idols and
in fervent prayers. in hate,
in lust, actions
spiced with virtue and vice
they tell me
its the black god
reflecting my mind
babitha
**
My Mother hates
brown spots of age
on the back of hands
but I like them
she is proud not to have any, but
on the backes of hands
but I like them.
MARGARET BOLES,
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In present
civilization most people know how to read and to write and an
increasing number of them tries to write poetry, but of course
only a few are able to combine knowledge, imagination and
creative ability in order to write poems which will become
universal in space and time. Now Internet helps us to find
quickly other people’s poems from all over the world and to
develop knowledge in much shorter time. But we must not have
illusions: many more people try to be poets, but very few will
succeed, because poetry is not easy at all and nobody can teach
somebody else to write poetry. Many people try to write poems,
but most of them are satisfying their need of poetry repeating,
with little changes, something that has been already written. Of
course nothing wrong with writing poems....
Roberto Piperno
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My Mother’s Stroke
While her left hand
clutches the sheet,
pulling it tighter
across her chest,
her gurgling breath
reaches deep inside me
like a spoon
stirring and stirring.
This is all
that’s left of her:
this breathing
and this hand,
the one stirring
and the other holding tight,
clutching the sheet
like a boat
on the ocean
that is her dying.
How do I ask her
if she wants to die?
*
Babel is the sorrow
mothers feel
when their daughters
won’t call them,
and the years unroll
and they still don’t call
Babel looks like
Saturday night
in a small town
on the prairie
in Illinois
after the farmers
leave for better
places
John Z. Guzlowski
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*
Fun'ya no Yasuhide
It is by its breath
That autumn's leaves of trees and grass
Are wasted and driven.
So they call this mountain wind
The wild one, the destroyer
**
Oe no Chisato
As I view
the moon,
Many things come into my mind
And my thoughts are sad;
Yet it's not for me alone,
That the autumn time has come.
***
Sugawara no Michizane
(845-903)
At the
present time,
Since I could bring no offering,
See Mount Tamuke !
Here are brocades of red leaves,
As a tribute to the gods.
Hyakunin Isshu
Translated by Dr. Angelee Deodhar
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