Scream and Other Urbane legends by Dr Koshy AV will be released today i.e January 10th, 2017 at Pragati Maidan New Delhi at the LIFI Publications Pvt Limited at Author’s Corner(Reflections) Hall 10-11.
EVERYONE in Delhi is invited! It is a book not to be missed.
TIMINGS : 5pm to 6.30 pm
LIFI STALL NUMBERS are 529-531
Anna Gabriel Koshy( O Henry expert and T S Eliot researcher, editor, French lecturer, Autism for help Village project Trust Trustee) will speak at the Book Launch.
P.S The book carries my blurb on the back cover.
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.
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
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)
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.
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.
It is love and love alone that moves this wide, wonderful, whacky world. had there been no love and just hatred, the world would have hurtled down an abyss long back.
– Dr. Santosh Bakaya
1. Tell us something about yourself
.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…
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
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…
1. Tell us something about yourself.
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.
2. What is writing to you?
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…
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
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
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
Michele Baron, Fulbright Scholar, author, artist, researcher, musician and social innovator reads my poem ‘Autumn Resurrected’. It is beautifully done and the artwork by her is amazingly delicate and I am totally in awe of her talents. A very thrilling experience for me and Michele’s lovely rendering gives another dimension to my poem. Thank you Michele and Ampat Koshy for making this happen.
The path turned away from the bustle of life
We halted, finally alone with the tall trees
The floor, a striped carpet of sun and shade
Around us an orange rain of leaves
You kissed my hands, gently pushed me down
A replay of a younger season
In your dark eyes, a scented image lurked
Of green mangoes and silver-belled strings
I want this scene to break its waters
even if it leaves me irrevocably broken
So there I am under the tall trees
caressed by a vagrant breeze
but it seems this you cannot bear
You are on your knees shoveling furiously
till the assonance of twin coral-crested baubles
beneath a leaf-bejeweled corset
dissolves your peace
I stretch and fill my autumn grave
Deliriously content to be slaughtered
by skin, breath and unrestrained vigor
my back cushioned by purple heather
A delicate conspiracy of creation
murmuring its delight in my ears
That was then
Not long now
before you join me under the forest floor
A space waits alongside my imprints
A space to which I sometimes flee
to make sure you haven’t reached
before my time is breeched
Our spring has spilled over several seasons
I am a wistful bloom minus her green sepals
You juggle wildfires-a defiant breeze
whenever we meet
I try to hold on to my cast-off skins
But you devour each one, my fanged king
leaving me bare
A tree birthing itself