Shakespeare and I were referring to the witch's "tools of Darkness" came to me a few nights ago, and they first said, "I see through the darkness, and in my name the Queen will win, but she will still fall.
The second, more explicit witch said: "double effort and trouble Trump will win.
Everything will be ruins
Third: "Fairness is a foul, and a foul is the air of Delhi. New York?
To make matters worse, if you walk into the hiding place of a liberal.
"I am not as credulous as Macbeth. I ignored it and left a regret.
If I knew a gaming company and trusted the witch, I could make some demonized money by betting on Donald Trump.
The moral of the story is: never underestimate a vendor or groom in an election. To poetry then.
There are some poets you are honored to write. Two of them —
Eunice De Sousa and Salem Peeradina-
Peeradina from Mumbai (That's not Mumbai.
Now lives in Michigan and teaches at Siena Heights University.
His fifth episode, the final clip, was published by Scarborough Valley Press. K.
And, as you might find, cut out a volume effortlessly.
These poems are still small episodes of life for birds, fruits and contemplation.
Quote Craig Wren, "These poems are hymns of praise --
Birds, objects, fruits and our bodies. . .
He went on to say, "Salem peedina is one of the most important Indian poets to write in English.
When he discussed the art and craft of poetry, the scale of the first poem, lesson less, was different: take a piece of paper the size of a drawing board.
We believe that the universe must be accommodated within the boundary of this rectangle.
Draw a circle the size of marble to represent the earth and hang the Moon on it.
The companion will never leave the Earth.
Now the planets surround themselves in their proper/Oval position.
These are not one-off lines.
Every painter puts his personal world on the canvas, and the poet puts it on a page of paper.
A novelist puts it on many pages.
There is also a lovely poem "you, in a dream ".
Slip forward from the past of history, I know Vago on the tram, you are Laura, so close to me, on the sidewalk towards the future, I can't wave or
If I miss you with all my heart, I miss you for a century.
De Souza learns more from almond leaves in a brochure (26 pages)than a volume.
These poems are also fascinating.
Take the title poem as an example, all of this: I learn from the almond leaves and it burns when it falls.
The ground is burning.
The Earth is burning.
Everything is grandiose.
Another snapshot poem is written like this: The moon feels her age.
/All of this waxing and fading/long distance/no purpose.
Even dogs will howl.
It was thought that the poem had nowhere to go, but the last line, with the burden of pre-omen and omen, brought a brilliant ending.
There is only one poem, the wind kite season, which is her signature work: The trees are covered with kites of all colors.
/Trees decorated by birds/wings/wrapped legs/glass hanging-coated string.
This year's Srinivas Rayaprol Poetry Award was set up by his daughter Aparna Rayaprol, who went to Goirick brah, an economic research consultant at Silchar, who lives in Delhi
The winning poem, the MiG high song, is a corker poem: a narrow track through the wild forest of Dima Hasso,/disappearing from my memory.
I forget a little every day. -
Many of the tunnels and bridges we used to cross are now re-emerging.
/How elephants teach night cars to whistle/how these birds fall.
How did they die, how did they melt?
How We hate these bridges.
How do we collect storms and forget a road to our home.
How do we burn our memories? .
Narrow tracks through wild forests/slowly disappearing from the map.
/No train across them.
/Only ghosts with non-intersecting tracks/stroll through the cold trembling of the night wind.
The railway through the forest has become a metaphor for our way of life.
A small suggestion.
Remove the article "a" from one line ".
It should read "How do we burn our memories.
The other finalists are Chandra Mohan.
Hanidkaur, Priam Goswami and Ray Shankar Sen.
Why is the poetry of the Northeast sad?
Sample: Shillong, 1980. . .
My uncle is a member of the Communist Party, a Brahmin,/is kicking his sister's soft belly, the wood floor of the old pine forest Shillong, the silence of my mother/1980 Shillong, his shoes/thru on her soft skin are separated.
This is the silence of the shadow of my grandparents looking after the lawsuit.
But there is also humor: my mother orders groceries on Amazon every month.
But collect her monthly gossip in a local store. Keki N.
Daruwara is a poet and novelist.