1. Kritya :: Poetry In Our Time Page 1 of 5
A Poem by Anita Satyajit
Outside my window
I can see the hummingbird,
trying to evoke nectar out of a dried leaf.
Dried brown branches sticking out
gangly like a young boy's legs.
Only I can see in spots, green bark
Assuring appearance of youthful leaves.
I can see the distant mountains
swathed in comforting tickly grass.
Green shrubs that grow in clumps
heads together like gossiping women.
Only I can see patches of brown
that speaks of summers impending visit.
I can see the vanilla misty clouds
the wind whips up as he whistles,
In straight lines like freshly ploughed earth
tilled and ready for seeds.
Only I can see the coming of rain clouds
in the nourished earth flowers might bloom.
Poetry Books
By I can see silent roads
resting against buildings with empty balconies,
Kritya publication
Each window unaccompanied by eyes
another unseen stranger, another unheard story.
See the link
Only I see the plane flying above me
reminding me its time I go home.
(More Poems by Anita Satyajit)
A poem by Aiswarya K.
Innocence
I lost it!
father figures
walked me
to neighbourhoods
walked away
with
my innocence
I lost it
in
trips
to school
In
the playground;
while learning to count
Children
grow up
too
soon.
I lost it
in
bits and pieces
In dance classes
family gatherings
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2. Kritya :: Poetry In Our Time Page 2 of 5
To very many,
when
and
where
Of how
I am losing
it,
I can't keep track
I had lost it
in installments
No one loses it
in a moment,
not any more
You didn't cost me
my innocence,
my ex
no more than a word
when
we met
why
attempt
a museum!
Note: After reading Orhan Pamuk's Museum of Innocence
( More poems by Aiswarya K.)
A Poem by Fide ERKEN
The Song of Peace
On the ground,
a man is walking,
a soldier driving his tank,
there are flowers
on both sides of the road
noone sees the flowers
the man is killed
his family cries,
and so do the flowers.
the soldier is killed,
his family cries,
and so do the flowers.
the man and the soldier,
meet beneath the ground,
and grow flowers
in an eternal garden...
the road is empty
there are no men,
nor soldiers
just flowers,
waving in the evening breeze,
singing the song of peace,
But nobody hears it!
A Poem by Tatjana Debeljacki
Someone is breaking the branches?!
From midnight to the dawn,
The forest is trembling inside me.
My trees are innocent,
Thirsty for milk,
http://www.kritya.in/0511/En/poetry_at_our_time.html 5/7/2010

3. Kritya :: Poetry In Our Time Page 3 of 5
Firm hands, and
The scent of effervesce.
I'm drinking my mint tea.
I'm bringing tranquility without aim,
And flowers for the vase.
When I look at it is never the same.
I'm starting to believe in a fertility of miracles.
Is there the flame, which could turn the heavens
Into the ashes?
Are there any hands to pick up my ripe apples?!
( More poems by Tatjana Debeljacki)
A poem by Balachandran Chullikkad
To the student of Medical Science.
When I die, my body will be given to you.
You will examine my brain.
But you can not find the source of my insanity.
You will incise my eyes.
The surreal form of the world I saw
will be absent there.
You will cut my throat open.
But my song will not be revealed.
You will break my heart open.
Before that,
lightnings would have shifted their stay.
You will dissect my loins;
Its orgies will never be repeated.
You may cut up my legs and analyse in detail.
You will never be able to finish
The count of my footprints
(English translation: Vijayalakshmi)
(More poems by Balachandran Chullikkad)
A Poem by Amit Kalla
Earth
From amongst
The clouds
He watches
The earth
Turning away
Innumerable suns
Earth
Says
Here lives
In every mountain
A Sun
(More Poem by Amit Kalla)
A Poem by MARIA ELENA BALNCO
CHIMERA
nothing more was ever spoken of the city
the father buried it alive decades before the downfall
of all its houses at unison
and a fine dust of lime and raw pigments penetrated the
pierced eye
wreaking havoc with images,
shattering words
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4. Kritya :: Poetry In Our Time Page 4 of 5
once in a while it would resurface shifting its volumes
in the pendular caress of a ship or a path among dunes
where someone was being sought
a lost grandmother, for example
or in shadowy rooms with sizzling blinds
and invisible doors
(outside, the midday heat looked like a bursting
pomegranate)
and the new home/hotel for loners/nest of onion skins
and we an opaline transparency
exposed and cloistered in the chalice of blood:
each one to drink from the distilled cider of dreams
each one to blush and brood over newcomers' blunders
each one to debut at night's nuptials
or else it was perceived in agony, drifting off course
sewn by a tenuous thread of light to other island fragments
and on a certain evening it flashed me from afar like an aged
Circe
as I at dawn was breathing the tropical air perched above
some airport terrace
(since then I have had and have lost many houses)
I have seen it again up close
I have looked it in the eye
but as I turned around until a new encounter
its memory forever stamped on my body
not a trace of me remained on its soil
my name was unrecorded
no one awaits my voice
(More poems by MARIA ELENA BALNCO)
A Poem by Enrique Moya
Failures
After a certain age
at which we have accumulated
various successes
with which it is difficult to be satisfied
and a considerable number
of failures
that we would wish to modify
we become more prudent
and we prepare
more carefully
the failures yet to come
Theories of the Skin, Buenos Aires, 2006
Translation by Nathan Horowitz
( More poems by Enrique Moya )
A Poem by Amit Shankar Saha
The Infant
In the focus of my mind's lens
I have trapped a sparkle of light,
Emerging at the cradle's rim
Like a star at dawn - a rare sight.
And on the brim of the cradle,
Well-carved in fair-complexioned stone,
Is the countenance of a child
Sculpted by a sculptor unknown.
It seems as if some divine model
Had the sculptor so inspired
That his chiseled hands worked hard at
A vision, without being tired.
The infant, with one hand uncurled,
Forever thrust out in the air,
And with tender legs made of stone
Still-crawled within the cradle's care.
And with eyes in a bluish gleam,
Mirroring the shade of the sky,
The unembarrassed nudity
http://www.kritya.in/0511/En/poetry_at_our_time.html 5/7/2010

5. Kritya :: Poetry In Our Time Page 5 of 5
Of his physical self, played sly.
And the child, with slight-parted lips,
Lisped a word that remained unheard,
For the ears are deaf towards stone
And the eye cannot see the word.
( More Poems by Amit Shankar Saha)
A Poem by Manash Ranjan Gupta
To the temple
Your top comes to my eyes
When I get down at the station.
Then I keep myself in motion
Enjoying a beautiful sunrise.
Then I cross over a canal
Climbing upon its narrow wooden pole.
Finally I reach the desired goal
And can see your boundary wall.
I then cross over the crossroad
And succeed to enter your courtyard.
Now the sound of your bell is heard
And my mind finds the flavour of god.
I move forward to your door
And blindly bow down my head.
My devotion gets up from the bed
And my mouth begins to roar.
I move around here and there
And my eyes drink your beauty.
I know not how god does the duty
But believe that you keep god here.
God is worshipped well.
My satisfaction asks me to return.
To catch the train I run
My mind finds the business smell.
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http://www.kritya.in/0511/En/poetry_at_our_time.html 5/7/2010