Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The Dream Weaver
    The Dream Weaver
    The Dream Weaver
    Ebook113 pages49 minutes

    The Dream Weaver

    By Satyapal Anand

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Satyapal Anands poetry is cerebral rather than emotional. It reveals many splendored splashes of color and sound. His poems reveal the essential mythopoeic self present in the poet himself as in all humanity. Again, his personae are all inside his poems. Here and now or there and beyond combine and create word collages. By authenticating effects of the vision and perceptions underlying them, his images give us new ways of seeing the world. There is a kind of double vision involved in it. His is the imagists faculty for seeing a thing at once precisely for itself and, at the same time, as part of a larger phenomenon. Many of his poems are dramatic monologues. In these the speaker does not speak in a vacuum. When he speaks or acts, it reflects the time, place, thought, social conventions, and general circumstances; but it also impinges upon political, philosophical, and religious shades of meaning that transgress the immediacy of the situation. Caroline Greene says that nothing extraordinary has happened in American poetry in the past half a century, and if an Urdu poet of the stature of Satyapal Anand chooses to bring his treasure house to the English speaking word, it is likely to change the entire scenario here. It is precisely because the poet recovers the extracultural, historic-mythological ground of humanity as a whole that the American poets have lost in localizing their poetry.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTrafford Publishing
    Release dateOct 20, 2011
    ISBN9781426996979
    The Dream Weaver
    Author

    Satyapal Anand

    An octogenarian author, Satyapal Anand (born in 1931) is a well-known Urdu and English poet. He has published forty books in Urdu and no fewer than a dozen in English. Poetry, prose, literary criticism, history, cultural synthesis of the East and the West, and religion, with particular reference to Buddhism, are his chosen subjects. A retired university professor of English, with a distinctive record in the field of comparative literature, Satyapal Anand is an expert in curriculum planning and course designing in this field. As a poet in Urdu, a language spoken and written by more than a billion people of Indo-Pak subcontinent, he is known to have blazed a trail by introducing a modern (read: European) tinge to it. Born in the prepartition of India (an area now in Pakistan), Satyapal Anand has had half a century of teaching career at the university level in diverse universities of India, Saudi Arabia, England, and North America. Having retired from active classroom teaching, he now teaches a couple of online courses but largely keeps himself busy not only in creative writing but also in making trips to address literary seminars in Europe, India, and Pakistan. After the demise of his wife, Satyapal Anand lives all by himself in a quiet neighborhood in Herndon, Virginia, a suburb of Washington, DC.

    Read more from Satyapal Anand

    Related to The Dream Weaver

    Related ebooks

    Poetry For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Summer: A Love Story

      Apr 20, 2021

      It is a squalid time. The body grows tired of being a body. Sweat. Always. A thin film of it on the skin. Do not say dewy. Do not say glisten. I dream of endless green. Of wet. Of rain hammering the Earth. Of buds sprouting. I want to insist on life

      2 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      Jan 1, 2024

      I would have booked her departureby overnight express buther leaving was by slow trainmaking all the stops. Another woman over 1,001 nights expressed byunfinished stories her silent plea—More time.Pulling out all the stops sheconjured until a king’s

      3 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      Dec 1, 2022

      You have to first Sit in the temple gloom In the mahogany chair & despair. The only glimmer In the temple (being the inlaid bits of The Mother-Of-Pearl shells On the tall, more than humanly tall Chair back, for these These too Are the reputed “Tears

      3 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      May 1, 2023

      What if I started here if thisWere the beginning what exceptThe differences were small and keptMyself no not the differences Keeping and kept some most of whatBefore or always I had doneIn the midst of winter winter goneIf after this my life were not

      2 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      Sep 1, 2020

      at some point my translationsand my notes flew directly to my ear another dayalone in these white chairs I rest on sandan island rests upon the waterI remember all the kinds of wind the light could makeif I walk by different streetsthe gardens I coul

      2 min read

    • Article

      Three Poems

      Nov 1, 2020

      1 The doctor makes a curving incision in the left topback of my skull andlifts the cap— “What areaam I here to work on?” But Ijust want to wish his son a Happy Birthday—It had been my aim, the reason I’dwalked right into this Doctor dream—In the morn

      11 min read

    • Article

      Cricket League

      Jan 1, 2020

      Ivy Lugbill, age 8 Indianapolis, IN I was so excited! My dad and I were going camping! After we packed all our stuff, my dad said, “Hop in!” I grabbed the paper towel roll binoculars I had been making and jumped into the car. It was a really . . . re

      7 min read

    • Article

      Cricket League

      Feb 1, 2019

      Saanvi Chari, age 8 Avon, OH Did I really just notice this? Each side of All the flowers In the front Look the same. All of the roses, dandelions, And lavenders, and leaves. I noticed this today While I was walking down The driveway To take the garba

      4 min read

    • Article

      Three Poems

      Mar 1, 2019

      When I got upa dead beetle where my back had beennot a tick, should I be gladmy blood untouchedthe body’s sliding boardI don’t understandmy tongue feeling large for my moutha loose bone floating in the footreceiving impactthis being subtle and not so

      2 min read

    • Article

      Fragrant

      Jan 18, 2022

      Fragrant
      5 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      Nov 1, 2022

      Animals that moveon small, short legs. Sand that sucks inanything / anyone. Something seenthrough a torn screen I hadn’t expected it. We all havethese genesthese sequencesof numbers I don’t knowhow they arewhat they are. This is youevery dayright now

      2 min read

    • Article

      WINNERS APRIL 2021 STORY CONTEST A New Beginning

      Sep 1, 2021

      Tyler Rich, age 10 Grand Junction, CO The cage door opened. As I gazed into the forest, the memories came rushing back. Fire. Everywhere. Amber spirals licking at my fur, scorching my pelt. No escape. Hands. Then, darkness. I shrank farther back into

      8 min read

    • Article

      Nadia Owusu, Nonfiction

      Mar 20, 2019

      Nadia Owusu, Nonfiction
      2 min read

    • Article

      Two Poems

      Sep 1, 2020

      after Joanna Klink, for Mary Oliver Go out barefoot to the car for what you left,for what you didn’t have enoughhands to hold.Go out as a soft offering for gravel.As a practice swing at walkingfarther and farther from the comforter,from the sighing w

      2 min read

    • Article

      You Couldn’t Make It Up

      Apr 18, 2023

      Go to readersdigest.co.uk/contact-us or facebook.com/readersdigestuk Several years ago I was teaching in Melbourne. Like most Brits down under, I wanted to make the most of my time in Oz, so I would take every chance to travel around the far corners

      2 min read

    • Article

      Flood The World With Beauty

      Nov 1, 2019

      A big literary conference is probably not the best place for a poet dealing with a mental breakdown. But there I was at AWP, skittishly perusing tables at the book fair, under the garish lights of the Minneapolis Convention Center. For two years, par

      8 min read

    • Article

      Notes From A Nothing

      Feb 14, 2020

      Notes From A Nothing
      13 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      May 1, 2023

      Let’s be GodFor a moment, Shall we?That which invites Composition,That which is suspended From a great height,The presence Of approximationHeavy in the meadows, I’m not afraid,And yet My shroud vanishesIn these lines, I am so weptPast weeping, And wh

      1 min read

    • Article

      Three Poems

      Mar 1, 2020

      All the animals you knowwill die. You set foodout for them anyway,let the oily seeds fallamong the fiddleheadsto be ground downpermanent as bone.The forest fills and unfills,drops itself down roottubes and turns to dark lace.One undoing: leafto sparr

      1 min read

    • Article

      The Beautiful Unforeseen

      Sep 2, 2022

      The Beautiful Unforeseen
      9 min read

    • Article

      New World

      Aug 2, 2018

      New World
      2 min read

    • Article

      Four Poems

      Mar 1, 2024

      I was trying to look a little less like myselfand more like other humans, humans who belonged, so I put on a skort.Purchased in another life, when I had a husband and wrote thank-you notes and held dinner parties,the skort even had its own little poc

      6 min read

    • Article

      Poetry

      Apr 6, 2021

      Poetry
      2 min read

    • Article

      The Notebook

      Dec 7, 2021

      As a child, my hand closed over a centipede,There was a penny in my mouth, and becauseYou are everyone in the dream, evenNonpersons, I was the badly scarredFlowering cherry and the moving shadowsOf its branches on the brick façade behind it.Artificia

      2 min read

    • Article

      Two Poems

      May 1, 2024

      Today the sky the samecolorless grey as rocksalt, truck-scattered overFulton Street. Trees leafless darkershades of bark. I walk. CrossDeKalb to the hospitalwhere people wait& wait. Lines to get shots. A blanknessfills the air bundledlike a quilt of

      1 min read

    • Article

      The Currency of Tears

      Sep 9, 2019

      The Currency of Tears
      7 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The Dream Weaver

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      The Dream Weaver - Satyapal Anand

      Contents

      SNOW ANGEL

      YOUR TRAIN HAS COME

      A NEW-BORN POEM I WAS

      DIOGENES FOR A DAY

      A HOME OF HIS OWN

      SPLINTER

      MIDNIGHT—23-24 APRIL 1564

      THE YEARLY VISITOR

      THE DEEP DOME

      THE EIGHTH SELF

      THE SELF—SAME BORN

      THE FINAL CONSUMMATI0N

      THE NEW MORN IS A WINDOW SHUT

      A FUNERAL PROCESSION

      THE SELF SAME BORN—TWICE

      STIGMATA

      A WITHERED LEAF—MY HAND

      THE OLD AND THE YOUNG

      LIZARD OF SERIOUSNESS

      WHAT WAS I DOING INSIDE A SEED?

      LUST

      OH, MY LOVE, SAY ADIEU

      ALL BY HIMSELF, ALONE

      ISLAND

      MY WINDOW

      HOW MANY SIBLINGS WERE WE?

      KAAL CHAKRA

      A POEM’S SUICIDE

      BLACK MAGIC

      WHERE’S HIS HOME?

      CYCOLOPES

      SHE WAS THE FIRST

      TWO PLUS TWO

      THE ARTIST

      THE SIXTH FINGER

      LET THE PAST BURY ITSELF

      FEMME DE RENOIR

      A LAKE I SEE

      A BUNDLE OF SILK

      A PAINTING

      FRONT AND BACK

      THE NAKED TRUTH

      THE CO-TRAVELER

      SHE DIDN’T KNOW

      QUESTION BIRDS

      DUMB RELATIONS

      LISPING WORDS

      COIN

      RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

      APOPLEXY

      LET US BE MUMMIFIED!

      SPENDTHRIFT

      THE CLIMBING VINE

      THE DIVIDED SELF

      TSUNAMI

      ‘MITHUN’ AND ‘YANG-YEN’

      ESCAPE FROM SHANGRI-LA

      FIFTY, TWENTY, TWELVE, ELEVEN, THIRTEEN

      WHO WAS ROBIN HOOD?

      DO I DARE KEEP MY EYES OPEN?

      RAPE

      MONA LISA OF THE METRO STATION

      THE THIRD CHOICE

      POETRY—YOUTHFUL FOREVER

      THE POET OF STONE, STEEL AND GLAS

      KOT SARANG

      BY THE SEA OF MY SIN

      AFTER THE TERRORISTS STRUCK

      DREAMS OF EIGHT O’ CLOCK

      ‘YU’ SHALL BE BORN IN AMERICA

      SAND ON THE LOOSE MATTRESS

      THE DREAM WEAVER

      A present For

      Asher

      And

      Aryan

      A poet dares to be just so clear and no clearer; he approaches lucid ground

      warily, like a mariner who is determined not to scrape his bottom on

      anything solid. A poet’s pleasure is to withhold a little of his meaning, to intensify by mystification. He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring.

      E. B .White

      No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.

      T. S. Eliot

      Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment

      Carl Sandburg

      SNOW ANGEL

      When the night has deepened

      A blanket of silence

      Holds me in its tight vice grip

      Bundles me up in the bed like an embryo.

      Folds and creases

      Of the snow-white sheet

      Grasp me firmly in their iron grip

      Bound I am to the bed

      At least for the night.

      A light imprint on my right

      A slight indentation is all I have of you

      A snow angel’s imprint

      Of the body you’ve taken with you.

      Scared I am of losing it

      I lie on the left side

      Lest the mark of your body

      The snow angel’s dimpled imprint is erased

      And I am left alone.

      If that happens

      With whom shall I talk in the dead of the night?

      black.jpg

      YOUR TRAIN HAS COME

      Your train’s on its way,

      Says the icy-airy silhouette in the falling snow.

      I just don’t look up, indeed, I can’t.

      Frozen stiff are my eyelids. My beard has hanging icicles

      So have my mouth and the right nostril.

      The railway platform, a scene of the icy waste, has benches

      One I occupy: the others by icy silhouettes of the falling snow.

      Gelid and arctic is the morn

      Perhaps I sat on the bench the whole night

      Breath, my vaporous breath, easies itself out, solidifies

      Tries to get back in, and with some success it does.

      Hard it is, indeed very hard

      The task of opening my eyes.

      I try, try again—and then my right eyelid opens a bit.

      Mounds of snow cover the railway track.

      Where’s this rail station? I ask nobody in particular.

      Maybe, a nondescript branch station

      Or a docking yard where only stray trains come.

      The world is asleep, half asleep, but half awake also

      The icy

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1