Seshendra Sharma An Indian poet Prophet Visionary Poet of the Millennium Rivers and poets Are veins and arteries Of a country. Rivers flow like poems For animals, for birds And for human beings- The dreams that rivers dream Bear fruit in the fields The dreams that poets dream Bear fruit in the people- * * * * * * The sunshine of my thought fell on the word And its long shadow fell upon the century Sun was playing with the early morning flowers Time was frightened at the sight of the martyr- - Seshendra Sharma Seshendra Visionary poet of the millennium October 20th,1927 - May 30th,2007 Parents: G.Subrahmanyam Father, Ammayamma Mother Siblings: Anasuya, Devasena Sisters, Rajasekharam Younger brother Wife: Mrs.Janaki Sharma Children: Vasundhara, Revathi Daughters, Vanamaali, Saatyaki Sons Seshendra Sharma better known as Seshendra is a colossus of Modern Indian poetry. His literature is a unique blend of the best of poetry and poetics. Diversity and depth of his literary interests and his works are perhaps hitherto unknown in Indian literature. From poetry to poetics, from Mantra Sastra to Marxist politics his writings bear an unnerving print of his rare Genius. His scholarship and command over Sankrit, English and Telugu Languages has facilitated his emergence as a towering personality of comparative literature in the 20th Century World literature. T.S.Eliot, Archbald Macleish and Seshendra Sharma are trinity of world poetry and Poetics. His sense of dedication to the genre of art he chooses to express himself and the determination to reach the depths of subject he undertakes to explore place him in the galaxy of world poets / world intellectuals. - - - - - - - Seshendra Sharma is a colossus of modern Indian poetry. He is recipient of the central Sahitya Academy Fellow ship, the highest honor in the literary world of India reserved for immortals of literature. This site presents the essence of the millennium in poetic form. Seshendra's literature is a unique blend of the best of poetry and poetics. In his 1840 feature entitled' the hero as poet'' Thomas Carlyle defines a poet's role gloriously. Carlyle maintains that the poet-prophet speaks to the noble, the pure; thetype for all times and places. Seshendra sarma, the rebel poet of Andhra Pradesh is an example of such an Indian poet-prophets, the'spirits Fierie', who drive the dead thoughts over the universe like withered leaves and quicken the birth of a new, better tomorrow. Seshendra sarma, born in 1927, is a coastal Andhra product. A highly educated and conscious poet with a marked academic and bureaucratic profile. But it is not his visibility in seminar circuits and academic circles that has endeared him to the Andhrites-To Andhrites-and those other Indians who read him in translation-seshendra sarma is the Revolutionary Poet Prophet. His poetry celebrates the clarion-call of resistance. Seshendra: Visionary poet of the millennium *************** Seshendra Sharma is a colossus of modern Indian poetry. This site presents essence of the millennium in a powerful poetic style. Seshendra's literature is a unique blend of the best of poetry and poetics. -MY COUNTRY MY PEOPLE-Modern Indian Epic ******** MY COUNTRY MY PEOPLE-Modern Indian Epic is Seshendra Sharma's magnum opus. This long poem has given a new sense of direction to the contemporary Indian poetry. This Epic has placed Indian poetry on the world map of literature.
Though poetry is an art by itself, in kavi sammelans (poets' gatherings)it becomes a performing art. While reciting his poem on such occasions from the Dias, unless the poet becomes expressive by modulations of his voice, his face, and his hands and in many other ways according to the feelings fleeting in the poem, no living communication is reached with the audience. Then alone the audience are drawn into the poem without any physical expressiveness, that is to say, if it is like sounds issuing from a loudspeaker, then the living link necessary with the audience will not be there. When a person reads the poem, without any physical expressiveness, that is to say, if it is like sounds issuing from a loud speaker, then the living link necessary with the audience will not be there. When a person reads the poem, all the nuances of the expressions of the poet when he recites it will be instinctively guessed by the reader. And there by the reader receives the full pleasure that the poem is pregnantwith.
The poet by writing a poem in a language is addressing only a fraction of the people imprisoned in that language. But a poem is the product of feeling and emotions, which are universal, while language is only regional. The poet has to reach the entire mankind expressing crossing the language, region, nationality and such other many barriers that divide mankind.
Translation, of course, has been helping the poet from times immemorial to reach all mankind: and that is how Valmiki, Shakespeare, Sophocles, Aristotle, Kalidas, Galib, SubrahmanyaBharathi, Kabir for that matter all the poets of all languages are the common heritage of whole mankind. While that is the fundamental truth of the art of literature, today's poets are in self-imposed shackles and not only that, they are also proud of it. They say their language alone is great and others are inferior. While poets are sinking thus into the mire of localism, the politician and the businessman are doing what the poet has to do. Indira Gandhi belonging to Allahabad contests the parliamentary election in some constituency in Karnataka miles and miles away from her place. Similarly the businessman establishes his business centers in distant countries among strange people, strange languages, stranger cultures, while, as said before the poet enjoys sinking into their own mire of localism glorifying his own language and region. The Indian politician, a product of Indian democracy, and whose chief characteristic is opportunism, raises language and region to the glorified level of political slogans to gather votes, while at the same time pretends that he is a nationalist or internationalist. This is the sorry pass to which or poor Indian literature has come to. Any change of this pathetic situation is not in sight anywhere in the near future. -
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I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun
Rising from the hills of human sinews
Hearts are my friends
I live in the city of sufferings
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Chased away by the human bazaars
Silence fled in to the hills
Time flows like water slipping
Out of the fingers
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Vultures of darkness
Are eating my eyeballs
Ringing in the ears
Are bells
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Bereft of leaves, the naked branch
That spreads onto our balcony
Is the curvature of mystery
Which poses the question eternally
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