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

A special issue for Poetry of Australia and New Zealand.














Now there is another problem – in contemporary poetry, if someone writes on flowers, trees, clouds, and birds, he /she will be cast out from the society of poets because romantics have no place in contemporary literary poetry. It is a pity that we have not left any place for the wonderful earthly creatures that enrich and beautify our imagination. Where are the trees for birds, where after all is the place for trees in our modern cities? The song of a bird is bound to be different if she has to sit on the electric pole and sing! ............I was astonished to realise that I did not know so many things about my fellow living things. Like – trees talk a lot in the evening, a flower does not change shade and smiles even in the hot sun, and it gets tired only after sunset. I saw the flight of birds change according to their moods and their geometry is not bad. I could feel that the beauty of each leaf and grass is unique and cannot be seen in another.

Rati Saxena
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One day
When vision marches;
One day when ears vibrate;
One day,
When touch
Reminds me of curled strings of violin
I want you to play the tunes of
spring.Laljee Verma
On opposite sides
My grandmother,
Was an adult from childhood and
Never played with Barbies
She came from an ancient River...
Her soul was wet with dreams, and
Her hands were wounded,
Digging in oceans
Searching for destiny...

Mahnaz Badihian
are not trained to love
But like instinctive mothers,
Punish erring children
as they rise and fall
amid blood, chappals and cries
bangles, books and dreams all traded
in the loss of innocence.
The day ends without promise.
The Hartal was successful, said the papers.

Anupama R.
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n his book, Warjri19 confirms that Tham, who had tasted the sweet kernel of Khasi texts and who had realised the vast potential of the Khasi written word, could not accept this somniferous situation. At this point of time he was not aware that. he would himself be called upon to shoulder the responsibility of promoting Khasi literature. He did not know that he had the talent or moral strength to do it. Indeed he did not know that he held the “Gilded Pen”20 in his own hand and that one day he would be using it in the most effective manner. His natural reaction, therefore, was to turn to his contemporary authors, to plead with them to write and bring out new books that could be incorporated in the syllabus. He had appealed to them many times but had received not so much as a hint that they had heard him: “. . Kynpham Singh Nongkynrih

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When the Wick of Day Expires

When the wick of day expires
in cloud-consuming fires,
along a road as lonesome as a catacomb,
blackbirds make rosaries of highline wires,
and somewhere there’s a sigh,
somewhere a desperate cry,
and here within this lonesome home
a man decides to die.


An utterly unlabored thought
that takes away the sting,
like an unexpected crystal rock
polished by a spring;
the day that dawns when nights are swarming,
like sun on the blade of a knife;
your breathing in my bed this morning:
reasons men have clung to life.
Greg Brownderville

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The Green Grass

Quietly in the wood,
         It grows among the weeds;
An uncommon blossom, u tiew dohmaw,*
         A thing of lofty thoughts.

Quietly by shadowy streams,
         To be a fragrance when faded,
The joy-giving fern
         Remains green for twelve moons.

Tell me twilight, beloved of the gods,
         And you the motley clouds;
Tell me where is that star
         That first speckles the sky.

Quietly he lives, quietly he dies,
          Amidst the wilderness;
Quietly in the grave let him rest,
          Beneath the green, green grass.
Soso Tham
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(February--2007 )

Editor : Rati Saxena

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