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An interview worth reading…and rereading.
Too many poets follow trends and write only stuff they think is modern or publishworthy but here is someone very comfortable with experimentation, with creating eminently readable poetry and poems that push our understanding of what poetry can be. Thanks so much Duane Vorhees for shining a light on one of the finest in our midst.
and I am mentioned in there!! Yay! 🙂
Source: Duane’s PoeTree: A. V. Koshy responds
Very honoured to share a poem by Sophie Boswell, author of Breaking Loose, The Power Of Feng Shui and Journey Of The Mind on my blog. Thank you Sophie Boswell for your kindness in allowing me to do so and for your generosity. DO read ‘Over The Rainbow”. In her own words, it is “simple with a little message” but for me it is the infinite wisdom that nothing will wait forever, everything worth dying for lies just here, in full view. Oh for a little courage to stretch those fingers and clasp it!
OVER THE RAINBOW
You know the childhood story, about the pot of gold
The one to go on searching for, until you’re frail and old
Well, I’m here to tell you that they got the ending wrong
‘Cause it’s not a pot of gold, that will help make you strong
So don’t waste your life, searching long and hard
When the happiness you see can be found in your own back yard
You see, finding the end of the rainbow, can take a long, long time
And when you eventually get there, you’ll find there’s not a dime
YOU are the gemstone of your life
And travelling along that pretty curve, can bring you lots of strife
So the thing I found to aim for, was to make mental jumps
I finally jumped over the rainbow after flattening little bumps
‘Cause gold is just a metal that can melt and flow away
While knowledge and wisdom will fuel you, come what may
So when you read to children, about that pot of gold
Teach them to jump hurdles, to see their dreams unfold.
oOo
©Sophie Boswell
From “My Treasure Trove of Poems”
To connect with and buy her books. CLICK HERE
Honoured to share a poem by Dr. Koshy A.V which made me think of black holes and the waves they generate.
[Untitled]
If there was a planet
With two moons
A system with two suns
Two poets with the same fire
singing different tunes
Lit by the same flair/flare
Of incandescent genius
And its lambent eyes
Those waxing and waning moons
Those living burning dying suns
Those immortal poets twain
And the cosmic poetic galaxies
Of their poems
Swirling in never settling stardust
That would be you and I
That could only be I and you
©Ampat Koshy
This review is from Amazon.in : Allusions to Simplicity/ Koshy A.V (Paperback)
The book is available at Amazon.in and Authorspress
The cover of Dr Koshy’s new book of poems “Allusions to Simplicity” published by Authorspress is disarmingly easy on the eye and matches the book’s title to a T. The ocean and tan colors and clean, simple lines give it a quiet elegance.
The poems, from the viewpoint of a reader who reads poetry for its pure pleasure, are plain-spoken narratives incorporating – and being – complete experiences in themselves, without resorting to dazzling readers with poetic histrionics. Their feel and sentiments endure way past the page and the book, and sear. “After Rilke” opens the innings and remains a firm favorite over time.
The poet succeeds completely in defying the trend of Indian-English poet-aspirants writing a great deal of ‘ephemeral’ poetry which looks beautiful but when you read it aloud kills the poem (and sometimes the reader too) because of its sheer absurdity.
Let me quote a few verses randomly:
“I won’t do what you did, though/Enough for me to fade away, Vincent /like a mist on a morning that gets hotter”(How to Make Myself Vanish)
“Anna” startles because you don’t expect to hear such an honest thought said aloud and for once feel glad that you have no company.
“Between all the usual, worn out phrases/ The writing remains, fragile and tenuous
You give not knowing what you gave/ and take not knowing what you took/ till you are no more/
and something remains if it is meant to/or does not”(from Images Disjunct (2))
One can take such verses and apply them to wherever one is, with regard to writing or to life and they hold good. Many of the poems demonstrate a willingness on the part of the poet to experiment with form, topic, style, and to share emotions and thoughts without reservation thus putting them in a class of their own with their own brand of striking imagery
“The crow picks up the beads of its red eyes/ Its red maw caws once/
The child shudders/and closes her eyes/She vanishes in a puffy haze/
without a trace/from the crow’s eyes”
(A Crow Hops on the Tracks)
And there is no dearth of beauty in poems like When Musanda Thickly Covered My Green Stems, Eyes We Dare not Meet in Dreams and many more
The third and the best part of the book (IMO) is a fascinating romp through heavily allusive thought fields. The rhymes and rhythm are thoroughly unconventional but make music even more readily. I am actually a bit appalled to find that even a veiled threat of violence manages to be so thrilling.
“Destroy you and the whole earth. I swear.
Storm petrel. Awakening.“
(I Will Not Leave Anything Unrazed, My Love)
Aria and Africa are some of the other treats in this collection, unrivaled in their range and gamut of emotions that disturb as much as affirm and cause outrage while they provoke thought.
At the very end of the book is the poem that led to the Pushcart nomination, now retitled as ‘Shayer’ and at ‘Shatarupa’ when I left the book, I realized that there is a deep pleasure in getting access to a vast field that exists in a poet’s eye—and it has been such a joy to loiter there and be totally inspired. Great poetry…sigh!
©Reena Prasad
P.S
That brief, staccato dedication is infinitely more poetic than anything I have ever written. To say thanks here to a teacher, friend, salvager and off the ledge-hauler who has taught me most of what I’m now would be grossly inadequate but I hope to do it with a book someday.
An amazing human being and a fantastic writer! Am so proud to be her friend.
It is an immense pleasure to interview Dr. Santosh Bakaya, A Reuel International Award winner. So without wasting even a second let’s start asking Dr. Santosh some questions here. But before that read a quote by Dr. Santosh Bakaya.
.At the very outset let me thank you for this opportunity , and let me also emphasise that as a teacher, I have always appreciated the creative spark and dynamism in the youth . So Anuj, hats off to you for your enterprising work.
Well, I am an ordinary person, but always on the lookout for the extraordinary in life. My family tells me that I am always on a high…
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After your voice has fallen silent
everything has become grey
I listen daily
for it to return
as for the song of the swallow
and the beat of wings
of beautiful insects neither seen nor heard
Younger than me
but so much better
All I can do now
is praise your métier
and wait, wait so anxiously
piteously eager, you do not know how much
for you to return
looking often in, through windows
while tears wet my eyes
and the morn itself
seems to tarry
not dawn
Lycidas, where art thou gone?
‘Tis not elegy but ode I wish to pen and perform
©Ampat Koshy Dec 5th 2015
Today we have Dr Ampat V. Koshy with us. A man who writes poetry on everything, in my view he lives in poetry.
Let’s meet Dr Ampat V. Koshy…
I often start from this point that I wanted to be a musician but since I am not good at it but at writing I try to make my writing nothing but pure music.
Writing is something very precious to me. It’s how I survive, or deal with the world, escape, treat myself, figure things out, show my passions, have fun, express myself, make love, make peace and also try to make a significant contribution to human beings and life. I was born and brought up in a very writing and language and word centred family which prized being good at it as a kind of premium thing to…
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Ampat Koshy
December 4, 2015 · Bangalore, India.
With/to Prodipta PoPo Banerjee and all who ask me to keep writing
Poem dedicated to Reena Prasad
Chennai is flooding
In California a couple killed lots of people
I don’t know the why or what for but I know the end result
In Greece girls only seventeen are selling sex to strangers for just a sandwich
due to poverty
Women and girls are openly sold in the market by IS, it seems, as sex slaves
People indulge in self-justification of their own group
saying some in it are good and some bad
but vilify all in other camps
as if there this dual rhetoric does not apply
when even India has changed to ultra careful and totally confused
making students suffer for the sins of adults
Real writers are silenced everywhere by others or by depression
give up writing or are killed or threatened or commit suicide
but people still want me to write
But what do I write about, anymore?
The news weighs me down
daily
atrocity after atrocity
occurs and is reported
as if personal tragedies were not enough to wrestle with
No one can afford, any longer, to bat an eyelid
Spare a second, write a poem
change the channel
care only for yourself
and your family, loved ones and friends
God is silent and does not exist, or allows it for reasons untold
and no one else interferes or cares
The theory of original sin seems to makes sense
finally
The myth of heaven and hell makes even more sense
I want to write happy poems
to improve everyone’s quality of life
but nothing of the sort comes forth from my pen
anymore
Only sad songs
Better to relapse into silence
remain in silence
and pray for the sane ones
especially the children and the weak
to be kept safe
in these turbulent times
and just live out one’s own life
till one dies
the only certainty left to us in this time.
©A. V. Koshy
I remember my first flight from Calcutta to Manipur in 1992. It was magical. For us who had till then travelled only in long distance trains, the clean corridors of the airport, the almost sterile smells and the change from informal to formal dressing by co-passengers-everything was different. The hullabaloo had a different flavor. There was none of the loud conversations in large groups, no one squatting or sleeping on the polished floors of the airport, no garbage lying around and no intolerable odours from the restrooms. Instead neatly dressed men in trousers and shirts or tees and elegant women with make up lined up and talked in polite whispers at the counters. It was a source of great mystery to me..where had all the ordinary Indians gone? A place with no street food, beggars, a dog or two and flies seemed an alien planet and rather unsafe.
A small Kodak camera purchased exclusively for that occasion travelled with us but the sights and sounds were so overwhelming that I never remembered to take it out from the hand luggage bag and to say the truth was a bit intimidated too by the security checks, feeling something like a fugitive when they requested our suitcases to be opened and displayed. Mom’s wisdom saved the day. I still remember the relief of seeing neatly pressed, arranged clothes, books and other items when the luggage was examined by airport staff ( it was mandatory then because of the tensions in Manipur).
The red lips of the air hostesses in the flight smiled broadly at us from behind their respectful palms folded in a ‘namaste’ but on the side their conversations with their collegues continued without batting an eye. It was my first encounter with an alien, impersonal, indifferent type of warmth and courtesy which left me feeling like a dust mite.
Who knew then that air would become the only medium of travel for me and that I would be filming the clouds leisurely, not sitting with clenched fists hoping the pilot had not bunked his classes and praying he knew how to land the thing and even thanking the hostesses instead of gaping at their lovely mascara as I did once long ago.
©Reena Prasad
24/11/2015
BUTTERFLIES OF TIME- A CANVAS OF POETRY 