Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
Arvind Krishna Mehrotra is a noted Indian English poet, anthologist, literary critic and translator. He is well known for incorporating a post-modernist style in modern English poetry.
Arvind Krishna Mehrotra a popular name in modern English poetry was born the year 1947 in Lahore. He has published four volumes of poetry. Mehrotra had completed his education from Oxford University. Presently the poet has been nominated for the chair of Professor of Poetry at the University of Oxford in 2009. It is the style of Mehrotra to continually revise a small body of work, polishing, crafting, and aiming at elegance, wit precision and an impersonality which will fix ... more »
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Arvind Krishna Mehrotra Poems
This is about the green miraculous trees, And old clocks on stone towers, And playgrounds full of light And dark blue uniforms.
Lakes do not happen Only in geography. I know one with a Japanese garden And a limited zoo; it is surrounded
To An Unborn Daughter
If writing a poem could bring you Into existence, I'd write one now,
On The Death Of A Sunday Painter
He smoked a cherry-wood pipe, knew all about cannas, And deplored our lack of a genuine fast bowler. My uncle called his wife Soft Hands.
Last night a line appeared,Unbidden, unsigned; It had eight memorable Syllables. I'll keep you,
Mirza Ghalib In Old Age
His eyesight failed him, But in his soldier's hands, Still held like a sword, Was the mirror of couplets.
Where Will The Next One Come From
The next one will come from the air It will be an overripe pumpkin It will be the missing shoe
Canticle For My Son
The dog barks and the cat mews, The moon comes out in the sky, The birds are mostly settled.
Bharati Bhavan Library, Chowk, Allahabad...
A day in 1923. The reading room is full. In pin-dropp silence, Accountants, homoeopaths,
I recognize my father's wooden skin The sun in the west lights up his bald bones I see his face and then his broken pair of shoes His voice comes through, an empty sleeve.
Comments about Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
This is about the green miraculous trees,
And old clocks on stone towers,
And playgrounds full of light
And dark blue uniforms.
At eight I'm a Boy Scout and make a tent
By stretching a bedsheet over parallel bars
And a fire by burning rose bushes,
I know half a dozen knots and drink
Tea from enamel mugs.
I wear khaki drill shorts, note down
The number-plates of cars,
Make a perfect about-turn for the first time.
In September I collect my cousins' books
And find out the dates of the six Mughals
To secretly write the history of India.
I see ...