#indian poet

[poem-today]

A poem by Li Po translated by Vikram Seth

Drinking Alone with the Moon

A pot of wine among the flowers. I drink alone, no friend with me. I raise my cup to invite the moon. He and my shadow and I make three.

The moon does not know how to drink; My shadow mimes my capering; But I’ll make merry with them both– And soon enough it will be Spring.

I sing–the moon moves to and fro. I dance–my shadow leaps and sways. Still sober, we exchange our joys. Drunk–and we’ll go our separate ways.

Let’s pledge–beyond human ties–to be friends, And meet where the Silver River ends.

Translated by Vikram Seth

Original Chinese by 李 白 (Li Po) (701-762)

月下獨酌

花間一壺酒， 獨酌無相親； 舉杯邀明月， 對影成三人。 月既不解飲， 影徒隨我身； 暫伴月將影， 行樂須及春。 我歌月徘徊， 我舞影零亂； 醒時同交歡， 醉後各分散。 永結無情遊， 相期邈雲漢。

[vippik]

Write no letter for me

Or craft any kiss, prolonged

Your mouth reeks of blood and rum

And mine with lusty disgust

Crack me no beer can

Or hold me no longer in any hug

Neither your wife, nor your girlfriend

I'm just a hobo on tangent

Latex on my lips and in mouth

Been just feasting on cosmic dust

And on my regular diet

I have the memories of universe

Don't be a dick, don't be a jerk

I've had all of it enough

It's so prickly dry inside my throat

Ride through it on a rollercoaster ride

A bunch of lavender, and an army of despair

My memories of elephants

Hid widely in my bedroom carcass

A seashell, a deathbed and

A nameless bastard

Sleep in my arm

Dance in the fallow of mustard

Sun is our closest star

And on hearts are our dearest scars

Making merry and mining melanchoy

Screeching loudly our cimmerian whispers

Into the wild where no spectre trespass

Only marfa lights dance in distance

On those sides where thrive the greener grass

There we were, missing my Oliver

Northern Italian tragedy

You dry hump me, behind the bush forever

I'm gross, I'm Wilde

But nothing you can ever understand

Find Me, there I'm

Go green my capillary carnation strands

- Labial Latex and other latest liaisons by ©vippik

[rashidalighazipuri]

छाँव

Bas chal, naa puch wo kaun si manzil hogiBas wanhi janha dhoop ke niche chhaanv hogi बस चल, ना पुछ वो कौन सी मंज़िल होगीबस वही जंहा धुप के निचे छाँव होगी “Rashid Ali Ghazipuri”

[manincaffeine]

[awesomengers]

Remnants of Love

Heart marches on, crippled by the leg sprain,amidst the thorns of longing it strides,each step a testament to the pain of absence,yet still, it dances with the rhythm of hope. Time’s relentless tide pulls me ever forward,late to the meeting of our souls,where moments lost are echoes in the wind,and missed chances linger like ghosts in the shadows. But even in the chaos of our hurried lives,our…

[indiadiries]

Sh. Rabindranath Tagore - Inspiring Generations and Igniting Minds

Introduction:Sh. Ravindra Nath Tagore, a name that resonates with artistic brilliance, poetic genius, and philosophical depth. A polymath of immense creativity, Tagore is celebrated as one of the greatest thinkers and writers in Indian history. His profound influence on literature, education, music, and activism continues to inspire generations across the globe. In this article, we delve into the…

[g0j0s]

you cut off women from dancing, because girls of good characters do not indulge in such lewd activities. if they become one with their swaying hips, how will you hold down their bodies and spirits?

you cut off women from reading, because books have so many vile ideas about freedom and humanity. hence, they may begin to spin ideas from the yarn of knowledge, jeopardising the conditional safety of your cage.

you cut off women from adorning themselves lovingly, because lest they begin to like the shape of their noses or the curves of their waist; they will stop caring about other people and conforming to your standards of beauty.

you cut off women from expressing because girls from good families do not raise their voices. you say the devil resides in their voice boxes and if they don’t watch their tongues, they may taint the name of their families.

you cut off women from being, so the only thing they’re left with is fear and misery. grinding that terror on the stone of fate like grains, they toil away their lives.

then you call them many many rotten things if any of them refuses to believe this. still, if they don’t comply, force is applied repeatedly.

they become a skeleton of their potential self, grieving in secrecy; because privacy is a luxury. what if in the empty silence they finally start thinking & questioning?

yet, you wonder why they’re exhausted and angry, fighting silent wars within and outside.

[soujjwalsays]

Pov : a 22 year old just remembered he once had two months long summer vacations.

"I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I took joy in the things that made me happy."

- Neil Gaiman

[globalindian]

Read more about Indian Poets and their achievements in the field of art & culture only on Global Indian. Nissim Ezekiel, AK Ramanujan, Vijay Seshadri and Rupi Kaur - tell the story of India, its politics, drawbacks and its mysticism, through poetry, winning great acclaim abroad.

[stainedpoetry]

I think the best thing that our generation has normalised is having "online friends" . The bond created with these people is not based on their looks or their status but on the basis of their likes, their personalities, their favourite fandoms and their interests. You might have never shook hands or hugged them but still you are more comfortable telling them about your stupid mistakes and stupid jokes. The best thing about these friends is you don't have to meet them regularly to keep your friendship alive. And it's also the worst part not getting to meet them regularly or even once a week or once a month. From meeting them in the comment section of a meme to listening to their rants to updating them about our lives, online friends become our forever friends. It's a different kind of friendship but it's the cutest no pressure of any sort just two people sharing bits and pieces of their lives with each other and supporting each other.

[maihonhassan]

How hopeless a poet was when he wrote this line:

"Tum se bohat kuch kehna hai magar, kabhi tum nahi milte kabhi alfaaz nahi milte."

[poem-today]

A poem by Tishani Doshi (for Valentine’s Day)

Love Poem

Ultimately, we will lose each other to something. I would hope for grand circumstance —  death or disaster. But it might not be that way at all. It might be that you walk out one morning after making love to buy cigarettes, and never return, or I fall in love with another man. It might be a slow drift into indifference. Either way, we’ll have to learn to bear the weight of the eventuality that we will lose each other to something. So why not begin now, while your head rests like a perfect moon in my lap, and the dogs on the beach are howling? Why not reach for the seam in this South Indian night and tear it, just a little, so the falling can begin? Because later, when we cross each other on the streets, and are forced to look away, when we’ve thrown the disregarded pieces of our togetherness into bedroom drawers and the smell of our bodies is disappearing like the sweet decay of lilies —  what will we call it, when it’s no longer love?

Tishani Doshi 

Listen to Tishani Doshi read her poem.

More poems by Tishani Doshi are available on her website.

[vippik]

I sit naked at my study

And drive my body

Into a dizzy dreamland

Where my schedules are followed in inverse

I knew and I promised it would be my last trip

But to no avail, you see

I'm tired for real

From trying myself

Trying my limits beyond stretchability

Exactly where nuclear bombs explode

It's nowhere near Nagasaki or Hiroshima though

As you possibly assumed

Y'all 'literal' freaks

It's where I seek love, even if only in its semblance

It's where I think life sprouts

And clouds sing

I'm tired, take me home

My clogs under my weight, pant

And I, under yours

I hear his voice

Where masculinity booms through

I offered him a seat

In my couch

And he offered me, on his crotch

Who am I then?

A host or a ghost?

I offered him a home

In my couch

Where my worries relax

Every afternoon

Post my gardening

I croon along the summer breeze

And I water my soppy saplings

And they all go to sleep

Except the snake-plants

I shamble around with my sorrows

And I knit them into my winter-wears

And inside our dak-bungalow

I let these silly sorrows play around

With my kittens as they seep silently in

Through my woody windows

I feed them sunlight

And crumbs of my broken soul

And I let them sleep under my

Queen-size bed with no sleep on it at all

- Carry On Carrion by ©vippik

[rashidalighazipuri]

Kuch lafz abhi bhi gumnaam se hain

Kuch lafz abhi bhi gumnaam se hainMuyassar nahi kaaGaz pe utarna unheNa koi ishq, na ehsaas hai unme abhisar-basta kore aur saaf hain abhiNa koi nuqta na koi zer-o-zabar hai abhiBas ek raushni hai jo ghul rahi syahi me abhi… कुछ लफ्ज़ अभी भी गुमनाम से हैंमुयस्सर नहीं काग़ज़ पे उतरना उन्हेंन कोई इश्क़, न एहसास है उनमें अभीसर-बस्ता कोरे और साफ़ हैं अभीन कोई नुक़्ता न कोई ज़ेर-ओ-ज़बर है अभीबस एक रौशनी…

[moonie-and-her-stars]

the Dupattas and Pashminas I wore this week along with the literature of that day. <3

[awesomengers]

A memory of days gone by

The kite, ensnared and motionless,Caught in the jacaranda tree’s grip,Amidst the spring’s vibrant blossom,Frozen in this moment, time’s slip. Beneath, a non-functioning fountain,A rusted testament to days gone by,Its silence speaks of memories once certain,Now lost to the ebb and flow of time’s tide. Here, a stillness lingers in the air,As the kite and tree hold their embrace,A snapshot of…