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Saturday, October 22, 2016

Adverb poem - Brightly

Brightly the fire burns in the hearth, of the home 
where the children are sleeping quietly.
Brightly the moon shines in the night, above the loam
where the grass is soughing in the wind gently.
Brightly the cat’s eye glows yellow at night.
Before it winks shut, it turns green slowly.
Brightly  and  spread out are the city’s lights
that look like fireflies shimmering softly. 
Brightly the sun sends its blessings from its heights
to the land down below, and then blazes hotly.
Brightly the stars glint before sleep closes one's eyes
and dreams come to chase us in its meadows, playfully.

©  Koshy AV

Adverb poem - Brightly

Brightly the fire burns in the hearth of the home
Brightly the moon shines in the night above the loam
Brightly the cat’s eyes glow yellow at night
Brightly  and  spread out are the city’s lights
Brightly the sun sends its blessings from  its heights

Brightly the stars glint,  before sleep  closes one’s eyes

Copyright, Koshy AV

Thursday, August 04, 2016

SHAMAN


You take the half-grown python, with no teeth, from its receptacle
She waits, naked, to be imbued with power to procreate
You write runes on the parchment
Make her fertile
Bind sterility's curse
Initiate, bring new life to her womb


The symbol, most potent; the most ancient one, stirs
(You are fully at ease
Born to do this
Awake, alive!)
You hold the snake firmly, make its cloven tongue kiss
Her eyes, her eyelids closed
Then move it over her face
To her lips, circle it down to her breasts
To make it flick-lick her nipples
Circle both her areola
And her breasts
Down, further
Rhythmically
Past her soft, flat stomach and belly button
Making a bee-line...
She
Complies
Reclining, lying down, opening...
Certain
You know what you're doing

The living mortar pestles
The Milky Way
Entering, head first, entirely, its entirety
Through the dense underhung
Tangled black
Worming, being pushed in, squirming...

The engorged passage
Makes curds and whey
You, the medium of the Absolute
At-one with the Spirit
The snake, yours
She, a willing vessel
You, the snake and she - One
With the silent universe
Dark as your hand
Lit with the veins on its skin
The pattern on the snake
Stars blossom, black and white, burst and fall
In the deeps of inner space

Her breathing
Becomes peaceful
Still

Like yours

The snake
Curls up

Meat. Dead beat.
(c) KOSHY AV 8.5.2016

SHAMAN


You take the half-grown python, with no teeth, out from its receptacle
She waits, naked, to be imbued with power to procreate
You write the magic runes on the parchment
That will make her fertile
Bind the curse of sterility
Initiate her & bring about new life in her womb
The symbol, most potent, the most ancient and powerful one, awaits
(You are fully at ease
Born to do this
Awake, alive - You!)
You hold the snake firmly and make its cloven tongue kiss
Her eyes, her eyelids closed
Then move it down over her face
To her lips, then circle it down to her breasts
To make it flick-lick her nipples
Circle both her areola
And her breasts
Move down, further
Rhythmically
Past her soft, flat stomach and belly button
As she
Complies
Lying down, reclining, opening up
Certain
You know what you are doing

The living mortar pestles
The Milky Way
Entering, head first, entirely in, in entirety
Through the dense underhung
Tangled black
Worming its way
The engorged passage
Makes whey
You become the medium of the Absolute
Totally at-one with the Spirit
The snake, yours
She, the willing vessel
You, the snake and she become One
In the ritual
With the silent universe
Dark as your hand
Lit with the veins on its skin
The pattern on the snake's skin
Stars blossom, burst and fall in the deeps of the inner space of the cosmos

Her breathing
Becomes peaceful and still

So does yours

The snake is returned
(c) KOSHY AV 8.5.2016

Shaman


You take the half grown python, with no teeth, out from its receptacle
She waits, naked, to be imbued with the power to reproduce and procreate
You have written the magic runes on the parchment
That will help to make her fertile
Bind the curse of sterility
Initiate her and bring about new life in her womb
The symbol, the most potent, the most ancient and powerful one, awaits
you
(You are fully at ease
Born to do this
Awake, alive - You!)
Ready to be used
The ritual starts
You hold the snake firmly and make its cloven tongue kiss
Her eyes, her eyelids closed
Then move down over her face
To her lips, then circle down to her breasts
To make it flicker over her nipples
Circle both her areola
And her breasts
Move down further
Rhythmically
Past her soft, flat stomach and belly button
As she
Complies
Lying down, reclining fully, opening up wholly
In the certainty
That you know and are sure of what you are doing
In control, and will not harm her
The living mortar pestles
The Milky Way
Entering entirely
Through the dense growth in the jungle
The black forest of the night
The engorged passage of Life
Makes whey
You have become the medium of the Absolute
Totally at-one with The Spirit's force
The snake is yours
She, the willing vessel
You, the snake and she become One
In the sacred ritual
With the silent universe
Black as your hand
Lit with the veins on its skin
The patterns on the skin of the snake
Stars blossom, burst and fall in the deeps of the inner space of the cosmos
And her breathing
Becomes peaceful and still

So does yours
(c) KOSHY AV 8.5.2016

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Anniversary

https://harivarasanam.wordpress.com/2015/09/01/the-contributors-having-their-say-the-significant-anthology/

Sunday, July 03, 2016

Too many love poems

"There are too many love poems in the world."
"Yes."
"It gets boring after some time. Or maybe there aren't enough."
"I don't write love poems. Mine are more like love poems that are hate poems.They have a bite."
"Yes."
"Like we can't write without being inspired by women and we can't write unless we are free from them?"
"Yes"

A "story" someone told me today.

He is this young chap I know from on Facebook. We talk off and on, for some strange reason. Dylan is a connect and so is Cohen and I surprise him at times by writing something he considers way out, on par with Kerouac and others. He writes rhyming poems that all read like Dylan during his best years, to a large extent. But they are good in themselves and very readable. He also writes good fiction. He has a dad and he does weed. He is a college dropout. He periodically posts saying he is in some asylum or the other. We always have extremely sane conversations, though. He has a grandmother. I told him of my son today and he told me that his dad said he was autistic, but we are both not I told him. He agrees.
I said that we always have sane conversations but today it turned bizarre. He said he had jumped off a bridge once and it was because of Dylan. When I asked him which song and which line of Dylan's made him do it he said, no, I met him.
He told me he had once been admitted in some place in Warwickshire for doing weed and was on rehab mode but it was there he had met D. His name also begins with D. Anyway he told Bob that he wrote fine songs and asked him where he could get some acid. He says the trip turned sour on him then,  there and he was "Sectioned." It ended with the bridge thing, I guess. He says he knows "what really happened". Despite it being 'written of in the papers and things as something else.'
I asked him if I could steal his story
What for, he asked.
To write as a story or poem, I said.
Sure if you don't use my name, he said.
I haven't.
Wish he hadn't danced with Mr D.
No song finer than Idiot Wind which he, his dad and I all like. The fist line in it seems to have got into his jugular.
Fifty years on, since Blonde on Blonde, and Visions of Johanna.
My son has a lot of very small pots on the balcony of my rented house that he takes and removes the plants from, then pours the mud out into his hands and pours it back. The plants die. They are weeds mad Mary brings. More about her some other time. The pots empty. I  say nothing. I have a video of it but do not know how  to transfer it from Whatsapp or my mobile phone to here.
That is something that "really happened."
Wish my friend becomes alright.

Saturday, July 02, 2016

Introspection.

I am thirteen books into writing now or fourteen or fifteen or sixteen depending on how I look at it.
Plus I have tonnes of published material and uncollected material etcetera lying around. Of my books,  "Art of Poetry," the most popular one that I had a hundred copies of, has only two copies left (I think) and  "The Significant Anthology," edited by me, Reena Prasad and Michele Baron has also sold out its first edition. "Wake Up, India: Essays for our Times," that was co -authored with Dr Bina Biswas sells. My first officially published solo collection of poems "Allusions to Simplicity" is also selling.

However it is time to think, not of taking a break from writing but of where it is all heading. Have quit at the peak of my game just when it is beginning to pay off as writing needs not just one being prolific but one being quality conscious too, eventually. My books so far were all above average and not mediocre, according to me, but that is not enough for me, as I desire something more.

I am working on an anthology of short stories, along with Michele Baron, and my own collection of short stories and a long poem with notes next, as well as planning to collect all my published and unpublished stuff and perhaps revamp and re-edit what has already been brought out. These are ambitious plans and time may not permit it.

I came across several or many prolific writers on Facebook, like Neelam Saxena Chandra, Mahesh Dattani, Chitra Lele, Dr Santosh Bakaya, Santosh Alex as a translator, Dr Bina Biswas, Dr Sayantan Gupta, Pramila Khadun and many others, all with books running into more than ten or many to their names, anyway.

I recently read an article that says it is the one who collects rejections most and/or who writes prolifically who becomes good. There is some truth in this.

I also read one on Bad Writing and some sentences struck me particularly.

"Bad writing is almost always a love poem addressed by the self to the self. The person who will admire it first and last and most is the writer herself."

"...good writing is a way of making the self as vulnerable as possible."

"Conversely, bad writers often write in order to forward a cause or enlarge other people’s understanding of a contemporary social issue. Any attempt to write fiction in order to make the world a better, fairer place is almost certain to fail. Holding any value as more important than learning to be a good writer is dangerous. Put very simply, your characters must be alive before they seek justice."


"To go from being a competent writer to being a great writer, I think you have to risk being – or risk being seen as – a bad writer. Competence is deadly because it prevents the writer risking the humiliation that they will need to risk before they pass beyond competence. To write competently is to do a few magic tricks for friends and family; to write well is to run away to join the circus."
"Your friends and family will love your tricks, because they love you. But try busking those tricks on the street. Try busking them alongside a magician who has been doing it for 10 years, earning their living. When they are watching a magician, people don’t want to say, “Well done.” They want to say, “Wow.”
Writing on Facebook for so many years has both helped me and hindered me, by making me both raise my standards in one sense, the competitive one of trying to create or carve a niche for myself, and drop them in another sense, in the one of being forced to be nice to writers who are often only novices and beginners as part of my teaching approach, from doing what I love most in life and do well, it also being the only thing I know how to do in a way, which is to write.
Taking a break from it, meaning writing on Facebook, will help me to focus on what I really do again which is to write properly till I burn out and produce something great on the way that others will not willingly let die.
The quotes are from: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/may/20/what-makes-bad-writing-bad-toby-litt

I have been critic, collaborator, poet, editor, co-editor, anthologist, compiler, co-author, writer, author, book maker, book producer - and so many more things in such a short time but am still dissatisfied as I have evaded the main question which is of how to be all this in such a way that I am not one of the better writers just because we live in a mediocre age but as my writing is truly timeless and universal. Blogging is probably the way out as here with no audience I can write what I want, and re-invent myself,  relearn, keep learning. That is the way forward.

There are other questions to tackle too. Should I be a critic or a poet or both? These are my strengths, and in that order. Explore fiction and drama too? I feel these issues sort themselves out naturally. The challenge for me is fiction, the short story and the novel and the novella or novelette.

Or should I work for autism and at encouraging other writers to come up, especially not forgetting ones in my own family. And my friends. And what about spirituality and my job?

It is all worth thinking about.







Has my poem read by Harish Bhatia in there. Played at New York at Ink Spot by Indigo Soul or S Dot Hope
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/wordemup/2016/07/02/the-ink-spot-radio-showopen-mic-nite

Saturday, April 30, 2016

A Digression | Sanskrit, Dravidian, Indian and Grecian Literary Criticism

A Digression | Sanskrit, Dravidian, Indian and Grecian Literary Criticism: This article compares and uses Sanskrit and Dravidian Indian literary criticism with Grecian criticism on English text with examples from India mixed in too.

Tuesday, March 08, 2016

Notes On Literary Criticism by Dr A V Koshy - Learning and Creativity

Notes On Literary Criticism by Dr A V Koshy - Learning and Creativity: The whole concept of literary criticism arises, maybe, out of a question: On what basis do we judge a book/text as being better than another book/text?

Thursday, December 10, 2015

Duane's PoeTree: A. V. Koshy writes

Duane's PoeTree: A. V. Koshy writes: Elegy for the Dead in Paris.  May your blood, O slain, cry out to the sky;  for an end to our endless pain.    --Yanito

Monday, October 12, 2015

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