Quotes about indian-authors

Whatever you get out of poetry - take it. take it. take it. Words are better off felt than understood.

love wounds me with soft pillows with tender lips and fingers

and the afterglow...of your gaze...is the onlysweater that I need.

Once in a while i am struckall over again... by just how blue the sky appears .. on wind-played autumn mornings, blue enoughto bruise a heart.

a silent night. - the most eloquent poem i have ever read.

Poems can getsleepless tooand becomethe loneliest thingin the universe.

because some thingssometimesaren't ours to hold,but just beautiful to listen to.

Not words. nor laughter. but rather someonewho will fall in lovewith your silence.

whatever you dobe gentle with yourself.you don’t just livein this worldor your homeor your skin.you also livein someone’s eyes.

You are that one breath. that puts all the remaining breaths. back into my body.

it was the kind of moonthat I would want to send back to my ancestorsand gift to my descendantsso they know that I too,have been bruised...by beauty.

poetrymelts my bones.enters my blood.and changesits composition.

I breathe in...the fragranceof love, and moist sandthe onehis roses lefton both my handsI just keep on breathingevery momentas much as I canpreserving it, in my bodyfor the dayit can’t.

Tell me..how do you stand there?filling the doorway....of my life.

Live as many lives as you can.

i want to stay curled and cosiedand chocolated....foreverin my mother’s arms.

the saddest thing is to bea minute to someone,when you've made them your eternity.

there are some poemsthat we leave behindsome that leave us behindwhile some just livesilentlyin the heartcrumble, sometimesdwindledisappeardieand are rebornwhen you smile again.

In the West, people learn through the Socratic tradition. The education system was influenced by Western philosophy and is based on constantly questioning the knowledge that’s handed to you and arriving at the truth through that process of questioning. The Indian system took off from the Guru-Shishyha tradition in which your virtue as a student lay in taking tradition or parampara as it is given to you and passing it on to the next generation in the exact same way.

Change the world, I know I won’t,Enthralling as always I hope it remains,A kaleidoscope of joy, sorrow and pain.But my only wish as I take this jaunt,Is for my words on you to impress upon,A smile, a tear or even an angry frown.

When you have power and use it for destructive purpose: you don't deserve it.

When it's possible for you to dream, it's not impossible to achieve.

Wordsare powerfulforces of nature.they are destruction.they are nourishment. they are flesh. they are water.they are flowers and bone.they burn. they cleansethey erase. they etch. they can eitherleave youfeelinghomelessor brimmingwith home.

i writebecauseit is the only wayi can reach you.

i have laughedmore than daffodilsand cried more than June.

To fall in love with someone's thoughts - the most intimate, splendid romance.

your handtouching mine.this is howgalaxiescollide.

May youalways haveopenbreezy spacesin your mind.

leave me some musicthat’s chocolate for the heart.

And stay, my dearstay...forever, as my quiet song,in my lilac dawn.

kisses explode when... someone believes in me when my heart cries out a song of thanks to yours.

I breathe in...the silenceof my own heartaching with tendernesswith memories..Of home.

I wish to stay drenchedforeverin those rain-blue eyesin those...soul-reaching crystalsnot moving a musclenor breathingjustsavoringthis turquoise acheagainst my heart.

this heart yearns...for the salt of unsmelt airunswept thunderstorms...unknown adventures.

Ebb and flow, ebb and flow, our lives. Is that why we're fascinated by the steadfastness of stars? The water reaches my calves. I begin the story of the Pleiades, women transformed into birds so Swift and bright that no man could snare them.

Would you like to come in?" I said. My hands were sweaty. Inside my chest an ocean heaved and crashed and heaved again."I would," he said. I saw his Adam's apple jerk as he swallowed. "Thank you."I was distracted by that thank you. We had moved past the language of formality long ago. It was strange to relearn it with each other.

..now, seated hunched over paper in a pool of Anglepoised light, I no longer want to be anything except what who I am. Who what am I? My answer: I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I've gone which would not have happened if I had not come. Nor am I particularly exceptional in this matter; each 'I', every one of the

Push away the past, that vessel in which all emotions curdle to regret.

What you are trying to let go of...is already gone.

They think the recipe for a 'home-maker' is- a woman who isn't smart enough, lacks skills and above all isn't ambitious enough! Well she is every bit as smart as the woman who puts on a suit to go to work in a man's world to prove- times have changed! She is every bit as intelligent!

all my lifei have looked for poemsto elope with.

i am infinitely yearningbrimmingand overflowingin wordsi discoverit’s another wayfor meto be in tears.

all the wordsall the poems know my warm, soft spots.

You askif I will write a poemI could,I supposewrite the mostsplendiferousone of allbut notrightnownot whenyour handsare brewingwarmcinnamon teaacross my skinnot when I’mtrying to imaginewhat might happenif you beganfloweringkissesuponmeMy dear,how canI writea poemwhen I’m alreadyinside one?

When it comes to lovedo not eversettle for anythingless than magical.

Farsi Couplet:Mun tu shudam tu mun shudi,mun tun shudam tu jaan shudiTaakas na guyad baad azeen, mun deegaram tu deegariEnglish Translation:I have become you, and you me,I am the body, you soul;So that no one can say hereafter,That you are someone, and me someone else.

We are the children of a womb.Yet we differentiate each other,On color, creed and the sizes of our tombs!!

Srinagar is a medieval city dying in a modern war. It is empty streets, locked shops, angry soldiers and boys with stones. It is several thousand military bunkers, four golf courses, and three book-shops. It is wily politicians repeating their lies about war and peace to television cameras and small crowds gathered by the promise of an elusive job or a daily fee of a few hundred rupees. It is stopping at sidewalks and traffic lights when the convoys of rulers and their patrons in armored cars, s

But, my dear friend Wildfire," said Carl Peterson laying his hand on the Indian's shoulder, "this is not a policy to live by." "Then let it be a policy to die by," defiantly spoke the Indian. "If we cannot be free, let us die. What is life to a caged bird, threatened with death on all sides?

how these words, wait to diein the arms of all the poetry..yet to be written.

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

sometimes i wake upin the middleof the nightand findpoetry splatteredall over my bed.

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

everything that is scatteredcomes together in wordseverything that is lostcomes back in poetry.

Scatter as a prayerescaping my lips...as orchidsblooming in clouds.

some words bring warmthjust bybeing next to each other.

what ismore beautifultears, in someone’s eyesfor meor in my eyesfor them.

wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.

i would rather havefeelings without wordsthan words without feelings.

most of the timesit’s the hardest to saywhat I love moreyouor your memory.

When you left you left behind a fieldof silent flowers under a sky full of unstirred clouds...you left a million butterfliesmid-silky flutters You left like midnight rain against my dreaming ears Oh and how you left leaving my coffee scentless and my couch comfortless leaving upon my fingers the melting snow of you you left behind a calendar full of empty days and seasons full of aimless wanders leaving me alone with an armful of sunsets your reflection behind in every puddle your whispersupon e

love canembellish its beginningsing its blossomingand engrave its eternitiesbut can never explain its loss.

There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.

Breezy daysdeserve the unionof two old friends.

We need a spark to lit a fire inside us. A spark is an inspiration to make art, a fear to find courage, and a pain to provoke strength. A spark is unplanned and unexpected incident that happens in the middle of your ordinary life. After that, it leaves a fire burning in your heart. A fire to achieve, a fire that will keep you going!

One clear moment, one of trance One missed step, one perfect dance One missed shot, one and only chance Life is all...but one fleeting glance.

give mea pillow of strongever-dependable shouldersthat i can bury my head in.

Dear Fellow Human Being,You are born wild, You do not deserve to be tamed!Tell yourself,You do not deserve this!All those toxic words you have to listen from people,All those fears they try to pin on your mind,All those giggles they aim at your dreams,All those judgmental stares inspecting your individuality,All those fingers pointing towards your crude character,All those shackles that tie your feet to social expectations,All those cages that do not let your imagination fly free,Listen deeply,

Dear Fellow Human Being,You are born wild, You do not deserve to be tamed!Tell yourself,You do not deserve this!All those toxic words you have to listen from people,All those fears they try to pin on your mind,All those giggles they aim at your dreams,All those judgmental stares inspecting your individuality,All those fingers pointing towards your crude character,All those shackles that tie your feet to social expectations,All those cages that do not let your imagination fly free,Listen deeply,

If I began to drawmyself away from youwe’d still be liketwo mixed colors of paintimpossible to separate.

a single poemthe thing that can keep melight on my feet,when my soul isheavy with sorrow.

Modernity is kind of a tradition and tradition itself is not a rulebook. It's a dialogue and a dialectical process— just as tradition affects us, we too affect tradition and culture, and we change it.

Watch, how the sunslowly risesfrom behind my earnew lines, new countriesspring up in my palmsmy rough hairbecome swaying silkand all the leavesin my bodybecome lusher than fruits.

The monsoons were the real thing they dissolved things to the bone.

The time is ripe for young Indian authors writing in the English language.

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eyeI am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.

I live there...Far above the song-filled clouds,where the dewdrops touch my skin so bareI live there.

i can’t always tell what’s betterlong drivesin the star-spangled desertsor long walksalong winding tea gardens.

I am a baby, I am a child, I am the innocent wonder in my eyes I am a glimpse, I am a sign, of someone I can be, someone I might I am not one, I am not two, but I am a million things entwined I am a piece, I am a slice, strung together by the yarns of time.

I live there...where the birds are infiniteeverywherewhere they fleeit's a place your eyes can wanderbut never seeWhere everyone accepts me,Without any pretenseIt's a place your mind can picturebut never really comprehend.

Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.

when i speak to youi speak as thoughi am offering a rosein your hand.

the ocean mist engulfs me, like a lifetime’s friendship honored.

the sapphire depthof my own love...startlesand warmsand wounds my soul.

some poems frothand foam and rise...out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

A poem in the heart is worthmore than a million dollarsin the bank account.

You touched my heart...ever so softlyand I realizedtears had never been...merely saltand the rainOh the Rain!had never been merely water.

sometimes i am not sure.if i am writing the poemor the poemis writing me.

May the nights always be aglowwith the bliss of the daywith unharmed hands and feetand kissed cheeks.

Love me...with all the abandonof a sudden wild rain.

There is a moon,that rests in the quiet cornersof a lover’s lips.

funny how our heartswere designed to loveso fiercely.but break ever so gently.

fierce lovers.and battle warriorsboth comefrom the same place. there is bound to be,some bloodshed.

when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.

savorwith methe lushnessof a lingering sleep...and last night’sdream.

Your obsession with being in control of your mind makes you so stiff all the times; that is why our egos are growing, and our sense of humor is shrinking.

There is no man who is enterprising and keeps well up with the times but confesses that the women of to-day are in every respect, except political liberty, equal to the men.

You are the ocean to my eyes.

i am permanentlytannedin the summer of poetry.