Ram Mehta

 

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Contact Author: Ram M Mehta

 

5985 Hickory Springs Dr., Gomul, Ambawadi, V.V.nagar 388120 (India)
Atlanta GA 30071   U.S.A.

 

Biography

Links

Authorsden.com profile

Fieralingue:Bio - Ram Mehta · Niagara · IRIS · An Ode to earthquake
· Sonnet written in Optimist Park · Radha-Krishna · The Tajmahal · The Old Coat
· An elegy on a mattress maker · From St.Simon’s Island · Seven Blind Men and the Elephant · Lead me kindly to Nirvana · Empty syndrome · To My Mother Gomi Ba

The World congress of Poets
He participated in the 22nd World congress of poets held at Iasi, Romania in 2002

Encuentro Internacional Literario
He also attended 4th Encuentro Internacional Literario at Montevideo, Uruguay in April, 2003.

 

Books

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt

"Walk, travel with Ram Mehta in lyrical, disciplined poetry manifesting perfume in nations, dashing Niagara waters... " Rosemary Wilkinson

"Professor Ram Mehta is not a foreign into the world of poetry. He has experimented for years on odes, lyrics, sonnets. He delights our most exigent taste with this new expression of his rare talent.. " Maria Cristina Azcona

"Ram Mehta is a great poet - a fascinating poet. Even if he belongs, geographically speaking, to India, he belongs to all the possible poetical worlds. " Dorin Popa

Excerpt from Content
An Elegy on a mattress maker
Break of the Day
Iris
Niagara

    

Poetry

Seven Blind Men and the Elephant by Ram Mehta

My poem was rejected to be published
Not by an editor but a panel of editors,
Each of them commenting on a quatrain
Like too many cooks spoiling the broth.

I recollect an old fable of ancient India,
About seven blind men and the elephant,
Each of them approaches the elephant,
Touching the different parts of the body.

Depending on whether who touches what,
The trunk, the tail, the sides or the legs,
Each gives a different description of,
How an elephant looks as my poem did.

Critics blame all the same, never mind,
He who knows the way, but can't drive.

© Ram Mehta

Everything‘s under control by Ram Mehta

Everything‘s under control Cataclysm and cark are held at bay, There runs the national psyche at quay Of Osama bin Laden’s mere barbarity. Don’t worry: your safety is on priority. To protect yourself you got to pay price, To defend yourself, you got to sacrifice, Never free are protection and defense. Don’t worry: less alive if you sense. So ineffective is screening of passengers, At both the public and private locations, People still board with dangerous weapons. Don’t worry: you need safety’s impressions. An illusion of safety is quite so titanic To assuage the underlying sense of panic. If stressed, seek that hot spurt of enthrall. Don’t worry: everything’s under control! Dane Marks By Ram Mehta The year 2000 is about done, The atlantic Ocean divides us, Now around me the snow falls, If I could see you in months, I shall turn the months into snowballs. All January will sever me, Will brush February--a step more, March will bring you closer, Spring will remind me of you, May--wreaths will bound me. Denmark not far away in June. How would it be? After such a long wait, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears! My left hand under my head, And the right will caress you, You will be a window flower, I will be your summer breeze. © 2004 Ram Mehta   A Thirst for Roses by Ram Mehta A woman in rags With intelligent looks, Rusticity seen all over Looking for a job. The village sky was too small She wanted to soar in a city sky. Lived in ten by ten room With her husband and two children. When the life gave a good start, Her husband was attacked by paralysis Lying in broken bed numb as a wound Her salty tears deforming the tiles. Life’s funeral procession is on its way, Make the way Somebody’s existence is being robbed Make the way  – Ram M. Mehta June 27, 2004      An Elegy on a Mattress Maker by Ram M. Mehta   By trade he was a mattress maker, Living with parents and two toddlers, With debris under the rickety shelter, The toddlers lie motionless covered with flies, The third didn’t see the light of the day, Journey made from mother’s womb to earth’s, Amalgamating from dust to dust, As his wife eight months pregnant, Died when the house collapsed in an earthquake.   Standing now on the roadside, People throwing food at him from trucks, The mattress maker without a mattress, Brooding over the rigmaroles of the politicians, Remembering armed gangs with choppers, Cutting the fingers of the dead for a gold ring. Feeling the tremors and shocks of the quake, Cries, cracks, quacks, fresh in his mind still.                 more links Welcome to Another Toronto Quarterly - [ Traduzca esta página ]  Thirst for Roses by Ram M. Mehta - - Stops, Spots & Pets - Ram Mehta