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Quote by Sneha Subramanian Kanta

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Sneha Subramanian Kanta

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“The Blank Somebody’s left the garden gate ajar; He won’t run out. No need to back the car So carefully because . . . And in the hall You will not trip against that much-chewed ball (I bought a new one, just a week ago, For his next birthday. He will never know). We’ve cleared up everything; there’s not a trace- Lead, collar, basket -- yet his wistful face Peers round each corner; halfway down the stair One turns expectant . . . surely he is there? Then you remember, and the silence dear Answers our question. “No, he is not here.”

PoemDeath Of A Dog
Book:My Dog and Yours
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“My First Kill ‘Twas Burton showed me where it was and told me not to wait, Whilst Walter moved the dust bin out and shut the garden gate; Then master said, “Now, here’s your chance; come on, my flop-eared son” (I must admit, until he spoke, I felt inclined to run); Maria whacked it with her broom, and then sat down and cried, And Cookie screamed and frightened it before she ran inside; The cat said, “After you, old chap; he’s rather big for me, So I shan’t interfere at all,” and scrambled up a tree; Next someone threw a lump of coal and made the beast turn round; Then—I went in and finished it and flung it on the ground. So that is how I caught the rate entirely on my own, And Master’s pleased as pleased can be; he’s gone to fetch a bone.”

PoemDogs
Book:My Dog and Yours
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“বলের মতন মুখে মারছো ভালোবাসার ঝাপটা, রাখতে পারি ক্ষমতা কই— বুকের জমি রুক্ষ ধুলোয় শুয়ে ধুলো মাখছে শরীর নামে জন্তু, মোরগ হয়ে নাচে আমার ভুবনব্যাপী দুঃখ।”

LovePoetryPoemBengaliBangla
Book:শরৎকুমার মুখোপাধ্যায়ের শ্রেষ্ঠ কবিতা
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“মর্মমূলে বিঁধে আছে পঞ্চমুখী তীর, তার নাম ভালোবাসা। কেটেছে গোক্ষুরে যেন, নীল হয়ে গিয়েছে শরীর, তার নাম ভালোবাসা।”

LovePoetryPoemBengaliBangla
Book:নীরেন্দ্রনাথ চক্রবর্তীর শ্রেষ্ঠ কবিতা
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“It is better to write than not to write. Poetry is subversive because it exposes you, tears you apart. You dare to distrust yourself. You dare to disobey. That's the idea, to disobey everyone. Disobey yourself. I don't know if I like my poems, but I know that if I hadn't written them I'd be dumber, more useless, more individualistic. I publish them because they're alive. I don't know if they're good, but they deserve to live.”

WritingPoetryPoetPoemPoemsWhyWhy I WriteWhy Writers WriteChilean PoetReasons For Writing
Book:Poeta chileno
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“I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there. Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse. All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously, Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing. Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, this big hush. And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.”

Poem
Book:Ariel
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