My first post as Editor

Lets begin this thing then. Its just 2.00 am and I'm already feeling sleepy. An hour on and it'll be the darkest hour of the night.
Now, this blog I'm writing now is quite basic, I mean its not essentially about anything, just a place for my 'poems', for you to appreciate, and me to enjoy the appreciation. I'd love to read your comments on them, however nasty.
There's nothing better that I like than criticism, so be brutal with it. Positive commentary will not be neglected either.

A long time ago it seems now, though its only been three years, my English teacher sat down with me at my desk and gave me a book to read. It was a volume of the poems of Vikram Seth, an Indian author I must admit I've never read except on that one occasion. Now, my English teacher, giving me this book said, 'Read these, and tell me about the one you like the most near the end of class.' It was a double period, and as everyone around me struggled with their weekly essay, I sat and read poetry. See, back then, still in the early years of high school, I'd read a bit of Keats, some Wordsworth, and an inkling of Shelley, and let me tell you, Vikram Seth is nowhere near that type of class, but still I read, and an hour later, near the time of the imminent end of class bell, I walked up to my teacher and handed him his book back.
'Well,' he said, 'Did you like anything?'
I hadn't.
'Yes,' I lied.
'Which one?' he said.
I hesitated, and said, 'The one...with the-'
I was interrupted by his sad smile.
'Not that one,' he said, shaking his head. 'Poetry stabs at you, son. And you'd remember if someone stabbed you with a knife, I'm sure. Just like you'd remember a phrase that made your heart skip a beat.'
I looked at him.
'Do tell me when that happens, will you?' he said.
I nodded, smiling.

Two years later, came the stab.

On everyone’s lips was news

            of my death but only that beloved couplet,
            broken, on his:

                            “If there is a paradise on earth
                             It is this, it is this, it is this"

                                                -Agha Shahid Ali
                                                 from "The Last Saffron"

This verse, though broken from its body, still carries for me such power, that I feel weak every time I read it. Agha Shahid Ali, the great Kashmiri poet wrote "The Last Saffron" in his last days, as he was suffering from cancer. I recommend Amitav Ghosh's article "The Ghat of the only world" to anyone interested in learning more.
I have yet to inform my teacher of this first tryst of mine, with beauty in words. But then, since then there have been many more. And many more to come, I hope.

aD out.