Nissim Ezekiel was an Indian Jewish poet, playwright, editor and art-critic. He was a foundational figure in postcolonial India's literary history, specifically for Indian writing in English.
He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1983 for his Poetry collection, "Latter-Day Psalms", by the Sahitya Akademi, India's National Academy of Letters.
Ezekiel was born on 16 December 1924 in Bombay (Maharashtra). His father, Moses Ezekiel, was a professor of botany at Wilson College, and his mother was principal of her own school. The Ezekiels belonged to Mumbai's Jewish community, known as the 'Bene Israel' . In 1947, Ezekiel earned a BA in ... more »
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Nissim Ezekiel Poems
Night Of The Scorpion
I remember the night my mother was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours of steady rain had driven him to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
Poet, Lover, Birdwatcher
To force the pace and never to be still Is not the way of those who study birds Or women. The best poets wait for words.
Some people are not having manners, this I am always observing, For example other day I find I am needing soap
Unsuitable for song as well as sense the island flowers into slums and skyscrapers, reflecting precisely the growth of my mind.
Remember me? I am Professor Sheth. Once I taught you geography. Now I am retired, though my health is good. My wife died some years back.
I am standing for peace and non-violence. Why world is fighting fighting Why all people of world Are not following Mahatma Gandhi
There is a place to which I often go, Not by planning to, but by a flow Away from all existence, to a cold Lucidity, whose will is uncontrolled.
Jewish Wedding In Bombay
Her mother shed a tear or two but wasn't really crying. It was the thing to do, so she did it enjoying every moment. The bride laughed when I sympathized, and said don't be silly.
In my room, I talk to my invisible guests: they do not argue, but wait
This normative hill like all others is transparently accessible, out there
Goodbye Party for Miss Pushpa T.S.
Friends, our dear sister is departing for foreign in two three days,
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Night Of The Scorpion
I remember the night my mother
was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
Parting with his poison - flash
of diabolic tail in the dark room -
he risked the rain again.
The peasants came like swarms of flies
and buzzed the name of God a hundred times
to paralyse the Evil One.
With candles and with lanterns
throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the mud-baked walls
they searched for him: he was not found.
They clicked their tongues.
With every movement that the scorpion made his ...