I am Kritya.
Kritya – the intense word power.
Kritya – which always moves along with the ultimate truth.
Kritya – which exists completely in accord with rightness.
I reside in the hearts of people who raise their voice in protest against all lies, all wrong doings and all injustice. I appear before them in myriad forms, one of the most powerful media being poetry.
Poetry – which was the noblest form of expression from time immemorial.
Poetry – which today stands marginalized.
Poetry – which flies on the wings of dreams.
Poetry – which in the height of insanity walks bare footed on hard reality.
Poetry – which is the voice of revolution.
Poetry – which teaches us to love, to stand face to face with real life, to give up one’s existence for sake of the life.
Poetry – which synchronizes observations with pure emotions, which links the eyes to the heart.
This Question as to what genres of poetry kritya can represents is irrelevant. I -kritya shall find myself out in the realm of poetry only
This time I am borrowing the voice of Alexander Pushkin, the greatest poet of Russia, whom all Russians adore. His words should carry the spirit of true poetry in any language and any country. He says, the poet is a king and kings must live alone.
To the Poet
How it will be remembered, guessing
Which will be reckoned as my last.
And when fate strikes, where will it find me?
In battle, on the road, at sea?
Will that near valley be assigned me
Where my cold clay at home may be?
The witless body’s unaffected,
Nor recks where it decays, ‘tis clear,
Yet in my heart I have elected
To rest near places once held dear.
At the grave’s portals, unrepining
May young life play, and where I lie
May heedless Nature still be shining
With beauty that shall never die.
To the Poet
Thou shalt not, poet, prize the people’s love.
The noise of their applause will quickly die:
Then shalt thou hear the judgment of the fool
And chilling laughter from the multitude.
But stand thou firm, untroubled and austere;
Thou art a king and kings must live alone.
Thine own free spirit calls to thee: pass on,
Make perfect the blossom of thy dreams,
Nor ask for praises of achievement won.
Praise lives within: ‘tis thou that art the judge,
And thine the strictest judgment of them all.
Art thou content? Then leave the herd to howl;
Leave them to spit upon thine altar fires
And on the dancing incense of thy shrine.