 |
Poems On Site: 198,500+ Comments On Poems: 427,000+ Forum Posts: 105,000+ |
Custom Search
|
|
|
||||
| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 13:07:11 AEST | ||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
Array
(
[sid] => 18832
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => My Country My people-Modern Indian Epic
[time] => 2003-06-09 18:45:00
[hometext] => My Country My people modern Indian epic is Seshendra Sharma's Magnum Opus. Seshendra Sharma better known as Seshendra is a colossus of modern Indian poetry. His literature is a unique blend of the best of poetry and poetics. [bodytext] => Dearest Seshen! An epic, a long poem (Which Edgar Allen Poe called a contradiction in terms). but who am I to say No to a poem which chooses to assume the strangest of garbs in one of the finest of minds. So, so be it. Let me accept your OEUVRE as an epic. But why why call it modern? it is timeless. Why call it Indian? It is spaceless. SRI SRI ( Indian poet) It was not only Tagore and Gandhi who crossed the frontiers of their country and reached the wider world and achieved universality...... Seshendra's epic poem 'My country My People' is an evidence..... some important critics have compared this epic poem with T.S.Eliot's WASTELAND and 'L' ASCENSION' by St. John Perse. Personally I would compare the pain and anguish of the poet with one of Loutremont in his lyric 'Mald Aurore'. The difference is that Seshendra's protest is not made in the void. Seshendra walks firmly on his soil, one can find in the poet a wild whirlwind which attains incredible oratorial heights, creating terrific images... whirling within him is the idea of strength of life that is fighting the dark powers which want to take away its freedom and bread.... at times we observe in the poem a biblical and Prophetic tone that attracts us. NIKHEPHOROS VRETAKKOS(Greet Poet) My Country My people-Modern Indian Epic Last year's spring flowed away like a river; into which orchards it meandered and slept, I do not know- But the spring returned, searching for the mango tree in the backyard of my house!.. Everything in the world is fleeting, yet keeps returning, searching for the beautiful. Behind the leaves in the branches I see footsteps of birds, marks of the moments which flew away last year. in my tired journey, my tavern is the shade of a tree, and the guest is the fallen flower. This is spring, the year's first dream, in which I trudge my way on the body of my country like the dream that preludes the dawn, covering my nakedness forest, tying the rivers as my turbans, carrying my road on my shoulders. I walk, coaxing the fields that are crying; I walk, yearning to sculpture my country's hills that have waited for forms, into lions, into elephants and camels.. into workers, toilers, tillers, lovers and into epics that are like their crowns. the sun is coming with loads of morning rays stacked on bullock carts! The tree that saw me first and shed tears, now rained flowers on my dream. * * * * In the city of man, in spite of hundreds of people buzzing about, time, has the upper hand. It is only the voice of time, that is heard, as the single domineering voice, superceding all the millions of voices of man. It displays the portentous fingers of its impeccable hands in all the clocks of the city. It throttles the voice of man, ruthlessly with those inexorable hands. It descends on the chest of man, like an iron eagle of gigantic shape. But here in the hills, there are not days or dates; there is not another single soul either; time, which chased me to this place collapsed, unable to follow me through the leafy, and melodious labyrinths of these hills; strange trees, stranger birds, smiling and defiant hills, and the immense solitude that sleeps in the hearts of hills.... all collude and weave a spider's web of silence here, in which the Time is caught like a tiny fly and meets its death. The feelings of this place are like flowers unsmelt by anybody before. The tree-tops here can be reached with eyes only and not with hands; Over the heads of those trees which are brushing on the canvas of sky, a large white cloud rolls by with big strides. Breeze, lazily knits a delicate net out of the breath of flowers, all around, in the blue space. In the powers of unknown happiness, man changes into melody, and flows in the bodies of birds and hills; Man leaks away from the gripping fingers of time's hand. Even the little insect which flits around on its wings in pure innocence and freedom, enjoys the happiness gifted to it wholeheartedly by creation, to the same degree as man can. The insect is no less than Man, in the borders of this land, where the hills rule. Here the power of Man's ego, vanity and will are abolished without a trace- The unpolluted condition of pure life, alone has the right. That is why I dragged Time into the hills and killed it. -Seshendra Sharma(1927--) poet/critic/scholar homepage:Seshendra:visionary poet of the millennium www.geocities.com/saatyaki2001 *My country My people-Modern Indian epic www.geocities.com/gsaatyaki email:saatyaki@indiatimes.com [comments] => 2 [counter] => 326 [topic] => 41 [informant] => seshendra [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => political )
|
Menu
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
Poetry is much like a great photo, a single "moment in time" capturing many feelings and emotions. Yet, they are very alive; creating stirrings within the readers who form visual "pictures" of the expressed emotions within the Poem. ©
Opinions expressed in the poetry, comments, forums etc. on this site are not necessarily those of this site, its owners and/or operators; but of the individuals who post items to this site.
Frequently Asked Questions | | | Privacy Policy | | | Contact Webmaster
All submitted items are Copyright © to their submitter. All the rest Copyright © 2002-2050 by Your Poetry Dot Com
All logos and trademarks in this site are property of their respective owners.
Script Generation Time: 0.052 Seconds. - View our Site Map | .© your-poetry.com