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


Dante has talked about exile in beautiful words-

". . . Tu lascerai ogne cosa diletta
più caramente; e questo e quello strale
che l'arco de lo essilio pria saetta.
Tu proverai si come sa di sale
lo pane altrui, e come e duro calle
lo scendere e 'l salir per l'altrui scale . . ."

". . . You will leave everything you love most:
this is the arrow that the bow of exile
shoots first. You will know how salty
another's bread tastes and how hard it
is to ascend and descend
another's stairs . . ."

Paradiso XVII: 55–60

Let me consider this feeling- leave everything you love most. I travel down memory lane. I remember the day when I asked my mother to give me permission to take part in a "Scouting Camp" in the neighboring city, Udaipur. I was hardly 11 years old, and those were the days when girls had to live within lots of limitations. My mother happily gave me permission, and while I was leaving home, she gave me a few coins along with salt and chilly powder and said-

Rati Saxena
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always I’ll continue to have you poetry.
if you’ll fall
to seem to others useless
or will drown
in the pond of anonymous, idle hearts,
you’ll keep alive my time
by many thought useless.

you’ll clang to clear this rampant superficiality
and certainty to go on,
to feel, to be
in you I’ll still find,
in you we’ll find.
by Federico Lotito

I tore all your photos.
But it did not help. I remembered you.
I went very far and never came back.
But it did not help I remembered you.
I met with others and was loved.
But it did not help. I remembered you.
I got drunk - like dead, like a shoemaker, like a tramp, like the last creature.
But it did not help. I remembered you.
I got married, had children, became home-grown.
But it did not help. I remembered you.
I'm getting old. Everything is eroding from memory.
Everything. Except you.
by Eldar Akhadov

there is a river, you know
the water flows
to an ocean
life flows through it

there is a river, you know
trees on the banks
reeds wave on the rhythm
life flows through it
Philip Meersman

Many More »


Pratishtha Pandya


Let the rings
Slide off your fingers
Let them melt away
Inside the dark abyss
Of a fish's belly
Let Shakuntala
Forget Dushyaant
Let her desert
Kalidas all together
Let her run away
From the story line
Of Adiparva
Let the family of Shakunta birds
(black kites)
Raise her
On top of tall
green trees
Let her wheatgold back
Grow wings
Giant, Smooth, Black
Not to be captured
Within the wiry confines
Of Dushyant's morals
Not to be burnt to ahses
In the firey flames
Of Durvasa's anger
Let her carry
Under her wings
All of the sylvan forests
As she fly
In the fluttering sky
Let Shakuntals fly.

Hemant Dhorda


All that he wished
was to draw a line befitting itself
He didn’t want to draw an equator
or no way even latitudes and longitudes
or a line in the soil, encircling a hut, as an inviolable dictate
to abide by for the ages and beyond
or a line along the rim of a disk-like-weapon
which displayed its auspicious and ominous aspects
or a line of a bow which lets out a high-pitched twang
or a slippery smile of a lady named Mona
or a waist-band around a waist of a slim lovely .....

and many more
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Poems in Gujarati

Anil Joshi


We are birds of ice, we melt
in the heat of the summer winds;
our naked bodies drip
into lotuses as we call.
We shed noon’s heat with our feathers
and we fly.
Being birds of ice we melt
with every twittering cry.

We paint the space between
the green woods and the dry woods.
As evening drops from the sky
we’re a thread of gold in the air.
Night falls and we call, we call
like koels.
Birds of ice, we melt
with every twittering cry.

Harish Meenashru


He meets nobody and nobody meets him
as if with an intention to meet nobody He comes everyday to meet
Hastily on his bicycle
Always in such a haste that we can never meet him
and inquire about his well-being and he in turn
can inquire about the news.
Could this newspaper boy be in the last year of the college
or could have left studies ?
Could his father be a drunkard
Or somebody would have finished him ?
Its possible, he must be staying with his widowed ant in this harshtime.......
and many more

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Poems by Sambhunath Chattopadhyay

Where’s Attila? Where, that tempestuous Hun emperor?
Where’s his curved sword, the gold crown? Where,
the blade of his spear?

On seeing grey dust-clouds on the horizon
terrified crowds would shout – “There’s Attila. There
comes his stallion”.
Then the plain would soak in blood,
the soil - slithery with crimson curd.
Some leftovers would remain by the wayside –
a severed family (faces covered), a few muffled cries.
Job done, the flag-bearing stallion would gallop on.

Now, on the quiet plain blue shadows blend with the sky.
Attila’s stallion has gone that way. How far? How far
has he gone?

Gently, I touch the river’s breast.
She roughly removes my hand, hissing in the darkness.
The room is tense. The darkness – palpable, dense.
Luckily, my moment of disgrace didn’t have a witness.
The river has calmed and shifted a bit
the skylight now is bluish, sky-lit.
It’s dawn. I’ve to get up but I promise
to pay back in the same coin I’ve been paid with.
Suddenly, a tug. Turning, startled –
A flood! Oh, what a flood!

Translated by Kingshuk Sarkar

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( March -April)- 2020)

Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena


Rashida Rashi

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