Indian poets

A Study of Poetry Little is known about Tulsidas’s life. He lived most of his adult life at Ramcharitmanas was written between 1574 and 1576/77. A number of early manuscripts are extant—some fragmentary—and one is said to be an autograph. The oldest complete manuscript is dated 1647. The poem, written in Awadhi, an Eastern Hindi Ramayana by the poet Valmiki, Tulsidas’s principal immediate source was the Adhyatma Ramayana, a late Bhagavata-purana, the chief scripture of Krishna worshipers, is also discernible, as is that of a number of minor sources. Eleven other works are attributed with some certainty to Tulsidas. These include Krishna gitavali, a series of 61 songs in honour of Krishna; Vinay pattrika, a series of 279 verse passages addressed to Hindu sacred places and deities (chiefly Rama and Sita); and Kavitavali, narrating several incidents from the story of Rama. This article was most recently revised and updated by

Rabindranath Tagore Poet-Philosopher Rabindranath Tagore is the father of Bengali literature. However, his English works, especially his poems show profound understanding of the language, and his intense yet universal poetic expressions have over the years won over Western audiences. That is the reason why he won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913. Toru Dutt Toru Dutt was a trailblazer. She died at the age of 21 and yet left a lasting legacy of poems written in English, at a time when not many Indian authors wrote in foreign languages. Two of her most beautiful poems remembered for their matured yet emotional verses are ‘Our Casuarina Tree’ and ‘The Lotus’. Sarojini Naidu Sarojini Naidu combined political activism with her writings, imbuing her poems with nationalist fervor and pushing the boundaries of gender rights with her beautiful written words. Known as the Nightingale of India, she has been an inspiration to many women over generations, and contributed to India’s fight for freedom. ‘In the Bazaars of Hyderabad’ is her most well-known poem. Kamala Das Through every upheaval in her life, Das never gave up on writing poetry and prose and eventually began featuring in cult anthologies in the 1960s when art in Calcutta was undergoing a tremendous change. She published her works both in English and Malayalam and made a mark with her poetic experssions. Michael Madhusudan Dutta Dutta had a love-hate relationship with the English language. He started writing exclusively...

Indian Poetry needs no introduction as this form of art has already accomplished much and is ever since pacing towards greater heights. This blog is dedicated towards such skill and such poets who had completely immersed themselves in this art and have come out shining the brightest. Poets like Kabir, Glaib, Meera Bai and many others great Indian poets have created history and have moved the world with their prolific writings. Is this poetry to your ears? A look at the great Indian poets who still warm our heart with their epic literary creations. There is something about poetry. In the age of Twitter and texts, little means more. The power to express more in less is what poetry is probably about. However, that is not entirely true because poetry is less about the number of words than about their quality. It is more about thoughts and emotions that flow with a fluency that is many times unmatched by anything else. The ebb and tide of words are not short of a musical fervor that sways the reader in a trance. A trance that they usually come out of feeling more wiser and more into themselves. Pick up any lines from the greatest of poets and you will be left with a sense of aloofness, as well as rootedness. Some poetry moves in rhythm, some in jerks of hard-hitting punches. Some breeze to the tune of what lies on the outside. And some dig deep into the trenches of the heart and mind. Poetry in all its forms and kinds has the power to touch not just individuals, but societies a...

Long, long ago, my people say, as their traditions tell, They were a happy, powerful race, loved and respected well. To them belonged the sacred charge, the synagogue to keep, And every Autumn to the tribes, the Manitou’s praises speak. And all things went with them full well, the Manitou was pleased; The Indian race was numerous then, countless as the trees; The Manitou was kind to them, he filled the woods with game, And in the rivers and the seas were fish of every name. And to his children did he give the vast and broad domain; Some the mountains and valleys took, while others chose the plain; And everything to comfort them did the Manitou provide, He gave them fish, game, herbs and maize, and other things beside. He gave them rivers, lakes and bays, o’er which canoes did glide, Forests dense and mountains high, great plains the other side. The men were strong and brave and true, to them belonged the chase, The women loving, kind and good, who filled a simpler place. And they were taught while here on earth their spirits to prepare, To join the Manitou himself, in the happy hunting-ground somewhere; That they must never lie and steal; must for each other care; That principles are gems that pass us to that country there. And even though the wars do come with aggressive tribe or band, No warrior shall strike a fallen foe, or wrong a helpless hand; And if your foe shall sue for peace, let not his plea be vain, Produce the pipe, and smoke with him, smothering the wrathful ...

EDITOR’S NOTE –Abhay K On 10 December 1950, William Faulkner began his Nobel Prize acceptance speech with these words, “I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work – a life’s work in the agony andsweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit…” As art transcends the artist, poetry transcends the poet. Faulkner further elaborated upon the importance of artwork over the artist in an interview with The Paris Review in 1956. Referring to the futility of conflict over the authorship of Shakespeare’s works, he contends, “…what is important is Hamlet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, not who wrote them, but that somebody did. The artist is of no importance. Only what he creates is important.” This is what I had in mind when I started editing 100 Great Indian Poems and its companion volume 100 More Great Indian Poems. The poetry anthologies I have come across have a clear emphasis on ‘the poets,’ illustrated in the titles such as Ten Twentieth Century Indian Poets, Twelve Modern Indian Poets, Nine Indian Women Poets or 60 Indian Poets. These My Words, edited by Eunice de Souza and Melanie Silgardo, which could be otherwise daunting and inaccessible to common people, may be an exception. These lines from De Souza’s poem ‘Meeting Poets’ are telling – I am disconcerted sometimes by the colour of their socks the suspicion of a wig the wasp in the voice and an air, sometimes, of dankness. Best to meet in poems: cool speckled shells in which one...

© Photo, Courtesy “I cannot be in two places at once: That is axiomatic.” From Madras Central by Vijay Nambisan I am in two places when I write this. It is a Tuesday in late October in a city in America. Outside my window is the morning forest still green although autumn has arrived. The air is crisp, a cool balm. Insects buzz and leaf blowers scream over the hum of traffic. I feel like I am being watched and search the undergrowth. A stag is staring at me, gold antlers against tree bark. It is as still as a yogi. In Bombay, nine and a half hours ahead of me, it is Tuesday evening. I imagine myself yet again a part of Loquations, a group started by essayist and poet Adil Jussawalla. A dozen of us, including Anand Thakore featured here, would gather outdoors in the tropical gardens of the National Center for the Performing Arts, sharing poets we loved. We were close to the ocean, the monsoon had left the island by mid-October, and the sea had calmed, no more fish thrown up by thrashing waves onto asphalt. The heat eased by the evening in the shade of the stone buildings. We read many poets spanning centuries, continents and languages – Jorge Luis Borges, Italo Calvino, Ted Hughes, and Christina Rossetti. When you are at the crossroads, in a port town gifted to the British as dowry for a Portuguese princess, your very nature is to include, bring in, and listen to the world. In ‘Father of Mr S’ Vivek Narayanan writes, “Ah but I speak/ your English, wear your pants; why/ o why...