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


What could be the World’s end? Is it – the end of the world? Or at the end of the world? ? Or at the end in this world? A number of questions arise in my mind. Most of the philosophers and poets have talked about life after worldly life, or absence of life in life itself. Thus, the language of poetry has developed it own culture, the poetic language culture. which does not allow us to use language not sanctioned by our culture. refine our feelings in keeping with the language of our poetic culture and present them in a manner, that as readers, we should feel ashamed of our own feelings. May be poetic language culture has built a few walls around itself.. There are a few who have broken these walls and have made a made an opening to express their crude feelings.
We feel that the freedom of words have been lost somewhere. Poets still sing and write, but hiding a lot and opening out very little.
Rati Saxena
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There we lay, two pared orange-
halves, still sticky and full of juice the fingers
resting deep in the other' s flesh
softly forgetting
for a blink of an eyelash not feeling
the knife, which was ready for us
to finish the peeling, flash in the sunlight
Hans D. Amadé Esperer
They were classifying stones
to decorate the pavement
a mosaic of life
a mosaic for life and beyond

Friends called me to go
swimming in the river
far from home
Fahredin Shehu

No burden to carry home
No trouble of sending loads.

What's there to come
has come all right,
Suman Pokhrel
... dreaming on the hills of heaven.
the demise of the South Pole seems certain
Hölderlin’s monologues gas balls diffuse
tracks ice-floes in spasmic waves
the little blue dot above Saturn’s rings
a bit to the left above the ring system so small
no - it’s not one of saturn’s moons it is the earth
Augusta Laar

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Menna Elfyn ( Welsh)

Catrin Glyndŵr’s lament

We came at owl-light
from the back of beyond
to the world’s end,
my round window
a clouded eye.
Through the walls
one murmur,
merriment and mayhem.

Though I’m dead tired
sleep won’t come,
my jailor’s sour spittle
still on the air.

‘You’re here
for your breed.
We take you hostage,
your father free.’

Squint-eyed, calloused hands,
he grills me to ash.
Ignorance my defence
against a swarm of lies.
Puce-faced he utters
under his breath,
‘Cowards are fair weather friends.’

Lost Time

I’m counting time
with strands of my children’s hair,
twisting one link from a braid
each morning. Every week
I mark the wall with blood
squeezed from my nail
bitten to the quick.

It’s how we used to mark their height.
However grey their childhood
they were kindly days
and I recite again and again
how we’d carry a pitcher to the well,
how we watched the sky through the trees,
how we gathered bluebells......

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1. The river

Do not stay too long by the river.
The river is a wayward god.
It is an elephant, a lion,
Sometimes they call it horse.
One summer we thought it was a peacock
Turning in the yellow dust
That filled our eyes with gold.

I saw a woman floating in a lily pond,
In a mountain of mist, wrapped in a cloud
streaming with tendrils and pollen dust.

I thought: the river is a woman.
A country, a name.
A note of music trapped in the white current,
a sheet of paper carrying a secret map.
The skyline is where it begins
between the darkness and the summit,
in the birthplace of thirst.

Do not stay too long by the river.
It is a drowning spirit,
A strong armed god
Drawing and withdrawing such seasons-
Flowing river, standing still,
River sea, river ocean
River of all our summers
Collecting the salt of our lives.
*** ** ***

Mamang Dai

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Priscilla Jane Thompson

Song of the Moon

Oh, a hidden power is in my breast,
A power that none can fathom;
I call the tides from seas of rest,
They rise, they fall, at my behest;
And many a tardy fisher’s boat,
I’ve torn apart and set afloat,
From out their raging chasm.

For I’m an enchantress, old and grave;
Concealed I rule the weather;
Oft set I, the lover’s heart a blaze,
With hidden power of my fulgent rays,
Or seek I the souls of dying men,
And call the sea-tides from the fen,
And drift them out together.

I call the rain from the mountain’s peak,
And sound the mighty thunder;
When I wax and wane from week to week,
The heavens stir, while vain men seek,
To solve the myst’ries that I hold,
But a bounded portion I unfold,
So nations pass and wonder.

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Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena


Rashida Rashi

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