# data[].attributes.body
In The Bazaars of Hyderabad

What do you sell, O merchants?

Richly your wares are displayed.

Turbans of crimson and silver,

Tunics of purple brocade,

Mirrors with panels of Amber,

Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?

Saffron, lentil, and rice.

What do you grind, O ye maidens?

Sandalwood, henna, and spice.

What do you call, O ye pedlars?

Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?

Wristlet and anklet and ring,

Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,

Frail as a dragon - fly's wing,

Girdles of gold for the dancers,

Scabbards of gold for the kings.

What do you cry, O ye Fruitmerchants?

Citron, pomegranate and plum.

What do you play, O musicians?

Sitar, Sarangi and drum.

What do you chant, O magicians?

Spells for the eons to come.

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?

With tassels of azure and red?

Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,

Chaplets to garland his bed,

Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered

To perfume the sleep of the dead.

--Sarojini Naidu-- by ARJUN KAVYA AND HARSHITHA

# data[].attributes.headline
Paths by Sunitha Jain:          Coming from the pen of world reknowned poet from Haryana, Sunitha Jain has yet written yet another poem which has a deep meaning. The poet has taken us to the skies ths time. She has taken Birds as a path-maker and says that they enjoy their journey by singing all along. But the paragraph she states that the World loses the track of the paths the world made for itself. Adding to that she says the bird's path is defined.

# data[].attributes.subject
Paths by Sunitha Jain:          Coming from the pen of world reknowned poet from Haryana, Sunitha Jain has yet written yet another poem which has a deep meaning. The poet has taken us to the skies ths time. She has taken Birds as a path-maker and says that they enjoy their journey by singing all along. But the paragraph she states that the World loses the track of the paths the world made for itself. Adding to that she says the bird's path is defined.

# data[].attributes.body
K. Revanth Reddy 8-A Group 1

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Paths By Sunitha Jain:
Coming from the pen of world reknowned poet from Haryana, Sunitha Jain has yet written yet another poem which has a deep meaning. The poet has taken us to the skies ths time. She has taken Birds as a path-maker and says that they enjoy their journey by singing all along. But the paragraph she states that the World loses the track of the paths the world made for itself. Adding to that she says the bird's path is defined. 

K. Revanth Reddy 8-A 

# data[].attributes.headline
Coming from the pen of world reknowned poet from Haryana, Sunitha Jain has yet written yet another poem which has a deep meaning. The poet has taken us to the skies ths time. She has taken Birds as a path-maker and says that they enjoy their journey by singing all along. But the paragraph she states that the World loses the track of the paths the world made for itself. Adding to that she says the bird's path is defined.

# data[].attributes.subject
Coming from the pen of world reknowned poet from Haryana, Sunitha Jain has yet written yet another poem which has a deep meaning. The poet has taken us to the skies ths time. She has taken Birds as a path-maker and says that they enjoy their journey by singing all along. But the paragraph she states that the World loses the track of the paths the world made for itself. Adding to that she says the bird's path is defined.

# data[].attributes.body
What do you sell O ye merchants?

Richly your wares are displayed.

Turbans of crimson and silver,

Tunics of purple brocade,

Mirrors with panels of amber,

Daggers with handles of jade.


What do you weigh, O ye vendors?

Saffron and lentil and rice.

What do you grind, O ye maidens?

Sandalwood, henna, and spice.

What do you call, O ye pedlars?

Chessmen and ivory dice.


What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?

Wristlet and anklet and ring,

Bells for the feet of blue pigeons

Frail as a dragon-fly’s wing,

Girdles of gold for dancers,

Scabbards of gold for the king.


What do you cry, O ye fruitmen?

Citron, pomegranate, and plum.

What do you play, O musicians?

Cithar, sarangi and drum.

what do you chant, O magicians?

Spells for aeons to come.


What do you weave, O ye flower-girls

With tassels of azure and red?

Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,

Chaplets to garland his bed.

Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered

To perfume the sleep of the dea

# data[].attributes.body
Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.

Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?

Sarojini Naidu was born on February 13, 1879 in Hyderabad, India. Naidu wrote poetry from a young age, was very intelligent and was able to speak 5 languages.  While studying at Kings College in England, in 1916 she met Mahatma Gandhi who inspired her to become an activist and politician for Indian independence. She joined his movement and was greatly responsible for inspiring the women of India to stand up for their rights. Nine years later she was elected the first female President of the Indian National Congress. She was also the first female Governor in India. She is now known as “The Nightingale of India”; her birthday is celebrated as Woman’s Day. Her poems were her passion; she wrote poetry about Indian life.

In ‘Autumn Song,” Sarojini Naidu uses lyrical language with simple end rhymes in order to parallel personal loss and loneliness with the beautiful frailty of autumn. She capitalizes on wind as a metaphor for change and loss of “joy” in the fair frailty of Autumn. The change from the invocation of nature to the personal address in the last stanza, specifically in the last line, gives the speaker urgency to move on from the loss and not linger in sorrow that she hears in the “wind.”

# data[].attributes.body
TRIYAA
LIKHITHA
JAINA
PERFECTION

-Samartha Vashistha

POEM:

The boisterous weekend bazaar
springs to life with a roar.

Early evening -
the sky
like a broken cable in storm
hanging from the edge of the world.

Four horses, legs tied,
unable to complete the ascent -
the middle of their season of heat.

The sweet-meat vendor filling
curve after curve after curve
with sugar.

Proud of the new watch on his wrist
the little boy standing by his side
will tell the time when asked
correct to the last turn of the second.

Everything so close to perfection
yet so far away
till she turns to my side and says
I don't want to see again
this beard of yours tomorrow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Samartha Vashishtha is an Indian poet writing in English and Hindi. He has published two volumes of poems in English — Anhadnad, a collection of his childhood poems in the year 2000, and Shadows Don't Live in Walls in 2004. Samartha was born in 1983 into a literary family. His grandfather, Prof. Khushi Ram Vashishtha, was a poet of repute in the Indian state of Haryana. In 1968, Prof. Vashishtha was bestowed with the honorary title of Rajya Kavi (State Poet of Haryana); the first of the only two poets to ever earn this honor. Samartha's father, Dr Jitendra Vashishtha, a renowned poet himself, published three volumes of poems in his lifetime, and left behind several unpublished manuscripts in the wake of his untimely death.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION:

In this poem the poet conveys us a beautiful message that no one is perfect in the world and that they do not need to be perfect. He says that if a person has got a bad quality of his there will be a good quality of his which will overcome the bad one and we must move with the bad quality and utilize the good quality. The stanzas tell us that when we are faced in a bad situation we must try our best to overcome it like the horses whose legs are tied. The poet uses smiles and compares the sky with the brown cable in storm. The sentence “Everything so close to perfection
yet so far away” makes us understand that there is no perfection and imperfection and if there is perfection that is just our imagination. The message of the poem is that that humans itself by definition are imperfect and even the most perfect looking person has his disadvantages and the most imperfect looking person has his own advantages. The poem conveys that the imperfect thing is what makes us unique and there is a good thing in us which will make us forget about our drawbacks. In a sentence, the theme of the poem is that the imperfection is the perfect thing in humans and that is what makes us unique.

# data[].attributes.headline
Void by Samartha Vashishtha It always happens like that falling, you need a ground to strike solid, harsh; something to bang your head to crack your skull when you open your eyes in a cozy blue-lit room with a distant rain lingering in your senses and the neons flickering on statues in bedroom poses. It has no beginning to boast off it ends where it began bottomless like you.

# data[].attributes.subject
Void by Samartha Vashishtha It always happens like that falling, you need a ground to strike solid, harsh; something to bang your head to crack your skull when you open your eyes in a cozy blue-lit room with a distant rain lingering in your senses and the neons flickering on statues in bedroom poses. It has no beginning to boast off it ends where it began bottomless like you.

# data[].attributes.body
By Aditya Banerjee

# data[].attributes.body
What do you sell O ye merchants?

Richly your wares are displayed.

Turbans of crimson and silver,

Tunics of purple brocade,

Mirrors with panels of amber,

Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?

Saffron and lentil and rice.

What do you grind, O ye maidens?

Sandalwood, henna, and spice.

What do you call, O ye pedlars?

Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?

Wristlet and anklet and ring,

Bells for the feet of blue pigeons

Frail as a dragon-fly’s wing,

Girdles of gold for dancers,

Scabbards of gold for the king.

What do you cry, O ye fruitmen?

Citron, pomegranate, and plum.

What do you play, O musicians?

Cithar, sarangi and drum.

what do you chant, O magicians?

Spells for aeons to come.

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls

With tassels of azure and red?

Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,

Chaplets to garland his bed.

Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered

To perfume the sleep of the dead.

About the Author
Naidu's poetry includes both children's poems and others written on more serious themes including patriotism, romance, and tragedy. Published in 1912, "In the Bazaars of Hyderabad" remains one of her most popular poems. She was married to Govindarajulu Naidu, a general physician, and had five children with him. She died of a cardiac arrest on 2 March 1949.

Critical Appreciation

In the first stanza of this piece the first speaker, a customer of the bazaar poses a question. They ask, “What do you sell O ye merchants?”. In this case, the answer comes after the customer compliments the vendor. They state that their “wares are displayed” “Richly,” or beautifully. The owner of these products responds to the question by stating that they are selling “Turbans,” “Tunics,” “Mirrors,” and “Daggers.” Every one of these products is described appealingly, as one would expect.

In the second stanza, the customer’s question is altered to fit the product being sold. The stall carries grains and spices. They ask first what it is the vendors “weigh” and then what is it they “grind.”n the last two lines the speaker delivers another question, this time asking what it is the “pedlars” “call,” or announce to those passing by. The answer, “Chessmen and ivory dice.”

In the third stanza, the question is altered. This time to fit the “gold” of jewelry. The customer asks the “goldsmiths” what it is they make. They give the answer that they make “Wristlet and anklet and ring.” In contrast to the bells, the goldsmith also makes “Girdles of gold for dancers.” This would be a piece of wrapped jewelry that went around a dancer’s waist. Last, he mentions something more durable the gold used in the scabbards of kings.

-By Anirudh Varala
Class 8A
Individual

# data[].attributes.body
Autumn Song by Sarojini Naidu

-  Ananya
Harshit
Jaideep
Revanth
Sejal
Soham
Aditya

Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.

Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?

Sarojini Naidu was born on February 13, 1879 in Hyderabad, India. Naidu wrote poetry from a young age, was very intelligent and was able to speak 5 languages.  While studying at Kings College in England, in 1916 she met Mahatma Gandhi who inspired her to become an activist and politician for Indian independence. She joined his movement and was greatly responsible for inspiring the women of India to stand up for their rights. Nine years later she was elected the first female President of the Indian National Congress. She was also the first female Governor in India. She is now known as “The Nightingale of India”; her birthday is celebrated as Woman’s Day. Her poems were her passion; she wrote poetry about Indian life.

In ‘Autumn Song,” Sarojini Naidu uses lyrical language with simple end rhymes in order to parallel personal loss and loneliness with the beautiful frailty of autumn. She capitalizes on wind as a metaphor for change and loss of “joy” in the fair frailty of Autumn. The change from the invocation of nature to the personal address in the last stanza, specifically in the last line, gives the speaker urgency to move on from the loss and not linger in sorrow that she hears in the “wind.”

# data[].attributes.body
HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going?
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing?
Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you?
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth to wed you?

Mother mine, to the wild forest I am going,
Where upon the champa boughs the champa buds are blowing;
To the köil-haunted river-isles where lotus lilies glisten,
The voices of the fairy folk are calling me: O listen!

Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of pleasure,
Of bridal-songs and cradle-songs and sandal-scented leisure.
Your bridal robes are in the loom, silver and saffron glowing,
Your bridal cakes are on the hearth: O whither are you going?

The bridal-songs and cradle-songs have cadences of sorrow,
The laughter of the sun to-day, the wind of death to-morrow.
Far sweeter sound the forest-notes where forest-streams are falling;
O mother mine, I cannot stay, the fairy-folk are calling.
-Sarojini Naidu
Pagadpwar Harshit
VIII A
Roll no 2

# data[].attributes.body
PEACE COMES TO YOU
When you enjoy the rain drops
peace comes to you
When you hear the birds sing
peace comes to you
When you hear children laugh
peace comes to you
When you sit quietly watching sun rise an set
peace comes to you
When you
Let peace comes to you in diffrent ways
Let peace be with all of us
by -SUNITA JAIN
ABOUT AUTHOR
SUNITA JAIN - SUNITA JAIN is an indian writter and poet of english and hind litreture She is a former professor and the head of the department of Humanities and social sciences at the INDIAN INSTITUDE OF TECHNOLOGY , DELHI. She has published over 60 book of hindi and english . The government of india honored her of the PADMA SHRI IN 2004. She was awarded by VIYAS SAMMAN .

# data[].attributes.body
SEJAL
IN THE BAZZAARS OF HYDERABAD
-sarojini naidu
What do you sell, 0 ye merchants?

Richly your wares are displayed,

Turbans of crimson and silver,

Tunics of purple brocade,

Mirrors with panels of amber,

Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, 0 ye vendors?

Saffron and lentil and rice.

What do you grind, 0 ye maidens?

Sandalwood, henna and spice.

What do you call, 0 ye pedlars?

Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, 0 ye goldsmiths?

Wristlet and anklet and ring,

Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,

Frail as a dragon-fly's wing,

Girdles of gold for the dancers,

Scabbards of gold for the king.

What do you cry, 0 ye fruitmen?

Citron, pomegranate and plum.

What do you play, 0 musicians?

Cithar, sarangi and drum.

What do you chant, 0 magicians?

Spells for the aeons to come.

What do you weave, 0 ye flower-girls?

With tassels of azure and red?

Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,

Chaplets to garland his bed,

Sheets of white blossoms new-gathered

To perfume the sleep of the dead.

By Sarojini Naidu

About The Poet :

Sarojini Naidu, The Nightingale of India, was a patriot and freedom fighter, but her first love was poetry. When she started writing poetry, she imitated English poets. Soon, however, she began to write about Indian themes. She played an important part in the social and cultural life of Hyderabad for many years. This poem describes the various stalls in the bazaars of Hyderabad. The poem consists of questions and answers.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION
Coming from the pen of an illustrious and a venerated poet, I find
the poem most appealing.
with her vivid imagery.The poetess Sarojini Naidu in her poem
brings out the vibrance and true Indian spirit of the bazaars in Hyderabad.
the rich vocabulary like the
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,a
added sparkle to the creative expression of the poet.
she beautifully conveyed the music played by the  sarangi and sitharand
The poem ends with the irony that they also make sheets of white flower to be used for a dead.
The poem ends with the irony that" they also make sheets of white flower to be used for a dead".
It is a beautiful last line as it ends (although not ominous) on the note of death, rather like life itself.
The colorful and rich imagery bring the bazaars of Hyderabad alive to the reader.
The personification  and alliteration and other poetic
devices were a touch of class. this poem will forever echo in our mind

SEJAL JAIN
CLASS 8 A
GROUP 1

# data[].attributes.body
AUTHORS INTRODUCTION:

Sarojini Chattopadhyay Naidu (née Chattopadhyay; 13 February 1879 – 2 March 1949)[1] was an Indian political activist and poet. A proponent of civil rights, women's emancipation, and anti-imperialistic ideas, she was an important figure in India's struggle for independence from colonial rule. Naidu's work as a poet earned her the sobriquet 'Nightingale of India' by Mahatma Gandhi.[citation needed] She was called 'Bharat Kokila' by Rabindranath Tagore.

Born in a Bengali family in Hyderabad, Naidu was educated in Madras, London and Cambridge. Following her time in England, where she worked as a suffragist, she was drawn to Indian National Congress' movement for India's independence from British rule. She became a part of the Indian nationalist movement and became a follower of Mahatma Gandhi and his idea of swaraj. She was appointed the President of the Indian National Congress in 1925 and later became the Governor of the United Provinces in 1947, becoming the first woman to hold the office of Governor in the Dominion of India.

Naidu's poetry includes both children's poems and others written on more serious themes including patriotism, romance, and tragedy. Published in 1912, "In the Bazaars of Hyderabad" remains one of her most popular poems. She was married to Govindarajulu Naidu, a general physician, and had five children with him. She died of a cardiac arrest on 2 March 1949.
POEM:
In The Bazaars of Hyderabad

What do you sell, O merchants?

Richly your wares are displayed.

Turbans of crimson and silver,

Tunics of purple brocade,

Mirrors with panels of Amber,

Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?

Saffron, lentil, and rice.

What do you grind, O ye maidens?

Sandalwood, henna, and spice.

What do you call, O ye pedlars?

Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?

Wristlet and anklet and ring,

Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,

Frail as a dragon - fly's wing,

Girdles of gold for the dancers,

Scabbards of gold for the kings.

What do you cry, O ye Fruitmerchants?

Citron, pomegranate and plum.

What do you play, O musicians?

Sitar, Sarangi and drum.

What do you chant, O magicians?

Spells for the eons to come.

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?

With tassels of azure and red?

Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,

Chaplets to garland his bed,

Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered

To perfume the sleep of the dead.

--Sarojini Naidu--
by-Manas Chaurasia

# data[].attributes.body
IN THE FOREST
BY SAROJINI NAIDU

POEM:-
HERE, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead,
Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre
Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red,
Here let us burn them in noon's flaming torches of fire.

We are weary, my heart, we are weary, so long we have borne
The heavy loved burden of dreams that are dead, let us rest,
Let us scatter their ashes away, for a while let us mourn;
We will rest, O my heart, till the shadows are gray in the west.

But soon we must rise, O my heart, we must wander again
Into the war of the world and the strife of the throng;
Let us rise, O my heart, let us gather the dreams that remain,
We will conquer the sorrow of life with the sorrow of song.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION :-
"In the Forest" is another poem to an abstract idea. In this poem, she is speaking to her heart. It talks about taking time to reflect on dreams and memories in order to find the strength to face the everyday. capture some of the colors, scents, and images that were present in the Indian dance she is describing.

GROUP MEMBERS:-
-RACHIT
-SAMRIDHI
-SAMUEL
-TEJASWI
-VIVEK
-ANIRUDH

# data[].attributes.body
- Triyaa Balan
-Likitha
-Jaina
(group 5 activity)
POET''S INTRODUCTION:
Sarojini devi Naidu was a great patriot, politician, orator and administrator, of all the famous women of India, Mrs. Sarojinidevi Naidu's name is at the top. Not only that, but she was truly one of the jewels of the world. Being one of the most famous heroines of the 20th century, her birthday is celebrated as "Women's Day".She has written many famous poems like Palanquin Bearers,The golden Threshold and many more.

POEM:
SEE how the speckled sky burns like a pigeon's throat,
Jewelled with embers of opal and peridote.

See the white river that flashes and scintillates,
Curved like a tusk from the mouth of the city-gates.

Hark, from the minaret, how the muezzin's call
Floats like a battle-flag over the city wall.

From trellised balconies, languid and luminous
Faces gleam, veiled in a splendour voluminous.

Leisurely elephants wind through the winding lanes,
Swinging their silver bells hung from their silver chains.

Round the high Char Minar sounds of gay cavalcades
Blend with the music of cymbals and serenades.

Over the city bridge Night comes majestical,
Borne like a queen to a sumptuous festival.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION:
In Nightfall in the City of Hyderabad Sarojini Naidu describes various scenes connected with Hyderabad. The poet feels that the river Musi is white in colour. It means that the water in the river is pure. It flashes and sparkles as it flows through the city gates of Hyderabad. Sarojini Naidu uses a simile to portray the bend in the river. She says that the river is curved like the tusk of an elephant. To the poet, all things connected with Hyderabad including the Musi appear to be attractive. The religious culture of Hyderabad is also presented in the poem. Hyderabad is famous for its Char Minar and the devotion of its people. The Muezzin, a mosque official, calls Muslims to prayer from a minaret five times a day. Here the poet uses a simile and says that the call of the Muezzin floats like a battle flag over the city wall. Beautiful women in veils stand relaxed in the balconies. Elephants too walk leisurely through the winding lanes. Sounds of processions on horses round the high Char Minar blend with music of cymbals. Over the city bridge night comes like a queen attending a lavish festival. This poem is an example of the tremendous appreciation one can have for a city.

# data[].attributes.headline
What do you sell, O merchants?Richly your wares are displayed.Turbans of crimson and silver,Tunics of purple brocade,Mirrors with panels of Amber,Daggers with handles of jade.What do you weigh, O ye vendors?Saffron, lentil, and rice.What do you grind, O ye maidens?Sandalwood, henna, and spice.What do you call, O ye pedlars?Chessmen and ivory dice.What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?Wristlet and anklet and ring,Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,Frail as a dragon - fly's wing,Girdles of gold for the dancers,Scabbards of gold for the kings.What do you cry, O ye Fruitmerchants?Citron, pomegranate and plum.What do you play, O musicians?Sitar, Sarangi and drum.What do you chant, O magicians?Spells for the eons to come.What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?With tassels of azure and red?Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,Chaplets to garland his bed,Sheets of white blossoms new-garneredTo perfume the sleep of the dead.--Sarojini Naidu--

# data[].attributes.subject
What do you sell, O merchants?Richly your wares are displayed.Turbans of crimson and silver,Tunics of purple brocade,Mirrors with panels of Amber,Daggers with handles of jade.What do you weigh, O ye vendors?Saffron, lentil, and rice.What do you grind, O ye maidens?Sandalwood, henna, and spice.What do you call, O ye pedlars?Chessmen and ivory dice.What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?Wristlet and anklet and ring,Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,Frail as a dragon - fly's wing,Girdles of gold for the dancers,Scabbards of gold for the kings.What do you cry, O ye Fruitmerchants?Citron, pomegranate and plum.What do you play, O musicians?Sitar, Sarangi and drum.What do you chant, O magicians?Spells for the eons to come.What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?With tassels of azure and red?Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,Chaplets to garland his bed,Sheets of white blossoms new-garneredTo perfume the sleep of the dead.--Sarojini Naidu--

# data[].attributes.body
In the poem "In the Bazaars of the Hyderabad" , Sarojini Naidu has described the beauty of a traditional Indian 'Market' or 'bazaar'. She has touched upon all five senses and has been trying to unite the Indians to drive the British out of India. She is trying to encourage the Indians to buy goods from their traditional markets rather than purchasing foreign goods.When I read the poem, I liked the whole poem itself and there wasn't any part I disliked as there was a special charm in the lyrics.It did a picturesque and a spectacular description of the Indian wares. This poem is also a reminder of the truth of life , that there are both happy and sad phases in life which we have to face. Only the second, fourth and the sixth line of each stanza were rhythmic.Visual imagery is depicted with the use of vibrant colours like silver, crimson, purple etc. She has also used similes. 'Frail as a dragonfly's wing' is a fine example of this. In addition to this metaphors are also used in the poem such as 'to perfume the sleep of the dead'. It is a dazzling and a colourful poem which is appreciable.

ANIRVINYA.G

8-A

20

# data[].attributes.headline
English Activity               'Paths ' by Sunita Jain'.       

# data[].attributes.subject
English Activity               'Paths ' by Sunita Jain'.       

# data[].attributes.body
Paths

Bird,

the entire sky  is yours.

Each time you fly

you make your own path.

Then you travel

from one end of the horizon

to the other singing all the while.

But the world gets lost,

or is ruined,

or loses itself

travelling the paths

it made for itself.

Your path, bird, however,

is always defined.

In using it

you leave the sky pristine.-

About the  Poetess:-
This is a famous poem written by the revered poetess Sunita Jain.She is a former professor and the Head of the department of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi. She has published over 60 books, in English and Hindi, besides translating many Jain writings into English. She is featured in the Encyclopedia of Post-Colonial Literatures in English and is a recipient of The Vreeland Award (1969) and the Marie Sandoz Prairie Schooner Fiction Award (1970 and 1971). The Government of India awarded her the fourth highest civilian honour of the Padma Shri] In 2015 she was awarded the Vyas Samman by the K.K. Birla foundation for outstanding literary work in Hindi. Ms. Jain died in New Delhi on 11 December 2017 after a short battle with a rare blood disorder.

Critical Appreciation:-
Through this poem ‘Paths’, she tells the birds that the whole sky belongs to them. She proclaims that they make their own paths each time they fly. They travel from one side of the horizon to the other side when they sing while flying.

But when, this world loses it’s paths, or gets ruined or lost from the path it has made for itself, the poetess tells the bird that the path it has made in the sky for itself, gets defined and when it is used by the world, it makes the sky pristine.

Using a vivid variety of metaphor and imagery,  Ms. Jain is trying to convey a unique and a beautiful message that we and our minds should be as creative, innovative and beautiful  as the birds are when they fly. Each and every human being should live on thier own and not be dependent on anyone.
Thank you.
-Soham Sengupta

# data[].attributes.body
Shiv K. Kumar has donned many hats and lived many lives: poet, novelist, short-story writer, playwright, translator and critic. He was born in Lahore, where he received his school and college education. He obtained his doctorate in English Literature from the University of Cambridge. He was Professor of English at Osmania University and the Central University of Hyderabad. He was also Visiting Professor of English in various British, American, European, and Australian Universities.

Shiv K. Kumar has published thirteen volumes of poetry, five novels, two collections of short stories, a play, and this translation of Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s poetry into English. His own poems have appeared in several renowned newspapers and magazines like the New York Times, Poetry Review (London), Western Humanities Review, among others-and been broadcast on BBC. In 1978, he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (London). He received the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1987 for his collection of poems Trap Falls in the Sky. In 2001, he was awarded the Padma Bhushan for his contribution to literature.
-A.Sumana
Kashish bhargava
Lakshya Sharma
Manas Chaurasia
Nihal Vankaylapati
Nimith Reddy
Group-6
8-A

# data[].attributes.headline
ENGLISH GROUP ACTIVITY    KNIFE-SUNITA JAIN Another winter.                 And you have come like suns touch soothing my brow.                                    My chapped feet                My hands grown rough from domestic duties Where shall I hide these, And where the riches      You have trusted with me. The body is but weak      The heart raw with old knives                                 Did you know you were bringing new deaths    When you brought life?                        

# data[].attributes.subject
ENGLISH GROUP ACTIVITY    KNIFE-SUNITA JAIN Another winter.                 And you have come like suns touch soothing my brow.                                    My chapped feet                My hands grown rough from domestic duties Where shall I hide these, And where the riches      You have trusted with me. The body is but weak      The heart raw with old knives                                 Did you know you were bringing new deaths    When you brought life?                        

# data[].attributes.body
INTRODUCTION

Sunita Jain is an Indian scholar, novelist, short-story writer and poet of English and Hindi literature.[1][2] She is a former professor and the Head of the department of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi. She has published over 60 books, in English and Hindi, besides translating many Jain writings into English
CRITICAL APPRECIATION

English poetry can have vivid forms, each having its own beauty. A deep poem can bring light to the darkest of things. It can make death feel most alive. A good poem is that which makes the reader feel what the author felt, the happiness, the pain, the anger, even the excitement. This poem which we have chosen is written by a beautiful Indian woman poet. She deals issues such as gender discrimination and woman empowerment, these issues are a big concern in rural India and even some parts of the urban India. This poem when first read, gives the basic meaning of the tortures faced by an Indian woman. But slowly as you go by, feeling the lines, and understanding the emotions buried within the simple words. The work of a woman cannot be explained. It looks simple, but in reality, is very very complex. And with the burden of her family and what “the people will say” if you do this or do that, she doesn’t realize what she actually wants. She is like a martyr, a soldier in disguise. What she needs then, is a sun, a personal sun. That sun which balances out the clouds nicely for her.

One should realise that when he says yes to someone, that doesn’t mean it saying no to itself.

The words used in the poem are simple but when words are brought together into sentences, magics happens. The poetic device used here is symbolism.

This poem is simple epic and words aren’t enough to describe the hidden beauty and pain, but I have tried to put my views across and would appreciate it if it got even more recognition.

“Happiness creates poems

Pain creates masterpieces.”
_______________________________

Song of A Dream-Sarojini Devi Naidu

ONCE in the dream of a night I stood
Lone in the light of a magical wood,
Soul-deep in visions that poppy-like sprang;
And spirits of Truth were the birds that sang,
And spirits of Love were the stars that glowed,
And spirits of Peace were the streams that flowed
In that magical wood in the land of sleep.

Lone in the light of that magical grove,
I felt the stars of the spirits of Love
Gather and gleam round my delicate youth,
And I heard the song of the spirits of Truth;
To quench my longing I bent me low
By the streams of the spirits of Peace that flow
In that magical wood in the land of sleep.
INTRODUCTION

Sarojini Chattopadhyay Naidu (née Chattopadhyay; 13 February 1879 – 2 March 1949)[1] was an Indian political activist and poet. A proponent of civil rights, women's emancipation, and anti-imperialistic ideas, she was an important figure in India's struggle for independence from colonial rule. Naidu's work as a poet earned her the sobriquet 'Nightingale of India' by Mahatma Gandhi.[citation needed] She was called 'Bharat Kokila' by Rabindranath Tagore.

Born in a Bengali family in Hyderabad, Naidu was educated in Madras, London and Cambridge. Following her time in England, where she worked as a suffragist, she was drawn to Indian National Congress' movement for India's independence from British rule. She became a part of the Indian nationalist movement and became a follower of Mahatma Gandhi and his idea of swaraj. She was appointed the President of the Indian National Congress in 1925 and later became the Governor of the United Provinces in 1947, becoming the first woman to hold the office of Governor in the Dominion of India.

Naidu's poetry includes both children's poems and others written on more serious themes including patriotism, romance, and tragedy. Published in 1912, "In the Bazaars of Hyderabad" remains one of her most popular poems.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION

Poetry is by book definition is an interplay of rhythm and words. But there is more to that. A poem definitely consists of rhythm and words, but feelings and emotions or the primary goal to writing a poem plays an equally important role. A poem could be written for spreading awareness about a concerning issue, or raising a voice, or simply cam be a play of the different emotions. It could also be about something that the poet aspired for or thought about. “A song of a dream” poem is something like that. It is a mixture of a practical reality and a dreamland. Nothing pulls a reader to a written piece like a catchy title, which here is provided.

The other wonderful part about this poem is the sense of supremeness the poet leads in the poem, which is what anyone would want, attention. Also, when the poet finds herself in her mystical land of paradise, she gets to know herself more deeply, which connects her with the lonely readers who are also in search of something. That is what happens when one is alone. It gets to know itself. One gets to understand what he actually is and what is its place in the world, it gets to peep into its own heart. It is actually funny, that we don’t know what is going on in our own heart. Sometimes being alone can be lonely, sometimes it gives you a sense of fulfilment in life. Like understanding what your own expectations desire from you and how life is actually a journey.

One last thing that she uses to beautify the poem are the words she chooses. Like stars, truth, love, peace etc. these words in themselves give us this feeling that is inexplainable.

“Know yourself.

Find yourself.

Be yourself.”
_______________________________

DONE BY:
8-SAHASRA
9-VIDYA VIBHAS
10-AAROHI
11-ADI SIDDHU
12-BHAVANIKA
13-MALANG
GROUP ACTIVITY

# data[].attributes.body
(INDIVIDUAL ACTIVITY)
AUTHORS INTRODUCTION:-

Samarthan Vasistha is an Indian Poet writing in English and Hindi. He was born on 10 June 1983. Samarth is an accomplished writer and verbal communicator who has effectively engaged influencer. He is an old soul with insight that stretches far beyond tyrannosaurus rex.
POEM:-

Lesson-

One day

I’ll learn to use poetry as weapon.

From the silent plateaus of solitude

with the sheer power of voice

raise tides in these impotent seas.

One day

I’ll learn to call by name / the hawk.

Slicing pieces from my sun baked skin

scatter in all four directions.

Smash this shield of legitimacy.

Scream in the whistle of the mountain train.

Rise to the skies with the funeral flame.

One day

I won't search for logic in this poem.

Nor consider a sin writing one

waking right from the warmth of a night discharge.

And shedding, at last, my haste to sign beneath

sip / with all that is human in me

the Nirvana* in the last line.

One day

I’ll convince myself / with all the oratory I know –

not all poetry is about

coming to terms with life.

That day

poetry will flow in me

and I in poetry.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION:-

The lesson is a poem by Samarthan  Vasistha. This poem isn't just about the meaning it is about the poets feeling towards the poem he write. In this poem poet deals with many Poetic devices like Imagery, Metaphor, Personification and etc. It is a Narrative type of Poem as it is written with the Narrators Point of View. Theme is the lesson about life or statement about human nature that the poem expresses.

Poet wants everyone that his poems should be used weapons as he wants to become tide in a impotent sea, for that he has to do hard work during that he can break the shield of legitimacy and then he wants to rise in his funeral flames. He also says as the leaves shed a day he also will shed a day and sign beneath the ground. He also thinks that the day he will convince that the poetry is not about the terms of life that day poetry will flow in him and he in poetry.

THANK YOU
-SAMRIDHI CHORARIA
VIII A    ROLL NO. 15

# data[].attributes.body
When the Moonlight moves into the Dark

-  Varavara Rao

The blaze smites the vigorous,

Rising defiant, bloody fires.

Flames, flames – the bloody crops

Sprouting in the dwellings you burnt for just a nest no aborigine

Cuts away the wooded-shelter.

For the simple slash-burnt crop no man of the forest

Burns down the nurturing woods.

Even when the hill people

Cut the bases and burn the stumps,

And harvest,

On the hillside, in the slope, on the brink:

Whose sweat of the brow turns into whose burp?

A little moisture of the palm is enough

For the forest that fells and billows away in the Godari –

Forest, the target of hewn lacerations.

Taking forms it fails to find itself in.

This civilizing forest –

Who owns this hauled-out wealth?

In cities and in bungalows

All the riches hidden behind closed doors

Are the forest.

All the power, inciting rare game on the prowl,

Is pillaged from the woods.

Forest with its broken back and blown-out belly,

Dams spreading across its mouth

From reservoir to granary

Measuring heaps of sweat pearls

Burning the fuel of dismal lives-in-death.

In the wilderness of city

Cementing with flesh and blood of the forest

The iron system of justice.

In ‘safari’ robes stitched in the hide of skinned forest

On the intestinal pages of the woods

Death sentences preserved in writing . . .

In the forest reserve

As moonlight prowled –

Furiously, when you set the forest dwellings on fire

Those fires that would show your shady face to the world

Fires – your hideous greed that would put mankind to shame.

Those fires of tears that cannot quench your insatiable thirst.

down

Vines entwined everywhere

Flames are blossoming in the new world.

About the poet:-

Pendyala Varavara Rao was born on 3 November 1940 in Chinna Pendyala, Warangal district into a Telugu Brahmin family. He studied at Chinna Pendyala,Warangal and Hyderabad. In 1960, he completed a postgraduate degree in Telugu literature from Osmania University.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION

Coming from the pen of an illustrious and venerated poet,I find the poem most appealing.The poem describes nature and it’s beauty, and it also describes man’s actions that have led to the destruction of nature.The poet expresses that nature is a target of mankind’s evil actions and has made nature quiver.It has shown that all the buildings built in cities are cemented with the flesh and blood of the forest.He has shown that every human who causes jeopardy to the forest will be revealing his shady face to the world and is a shame for mankind.The poet has expressed that nature should be treated with the respect it has ALWAYS deserved. The metaphors of  this poem are simply extravagant.The amazing vocabulary used by the poet is breathtaking.Overall,I would like to say that the poet,with his remarkable skill with words,has expressed that nature should always be preserved and used carefully by mankind.After all,nature can live without man,but man cannot live without nature.

Jaideep,4,VIII A

# data[].attributes.body
When you enjoy rain drops
peace comes to you
When you hear birds sing
peace comes to you
When you see fish swim in clean water
peace comes to you
when you hear children laughing
peace comes to you When you sit quitely watching the sun rise and set
peace comes to you
Let peace come to you in diffrent ways
ways,
Let peace be with all of us
by SUNITHA JAIN
SUNITHA JAIN -SUNITHA JAIN is an INDIAN scholar, novist ,short-story writter and poet of english and hindi litreture . She is a former professor and the head of the department of Humanities and social sciences at the Indian Institude of Technology ,DELHI . She has published over

# data[].attributes.body
Nihal,34,8A

# data[].attributes.headline
Critical Appreciation on Village by Pagadpwar Harshit VIII A Roll no 2

# data[].attributes.subject
Critical Appreciation on Village by Pagadpwar Harshit VIII A Roll no 2

# data[].attributes.body
The poem 'Village Song' by Sarojini Naidu portrays the life a village girl who had to fetch water from long a distance regardless of the exhaustion and danger that she had to face.
In the first four lines, the poet mentions how the girl laments over the long distance she had to walk with her pitchers filled with water. Then the girl assures herself not to get distracted by the songs of the boatmen as it was getting late for her to return.
In the fifth to seventh line, the girl remarks about the fall of the darkness and the cries of nocturnal birds. It indicates that night is approaching. The girl becomes wary and thinks that she might get bitten by a snake and die there on the spot.
In the eight, ninth and tenth lines, the girl wonders how her family would react if she does not return home. She fears that her mother would weep and pray to God to protect her.
In the next four lines, she compares the nightfall to Jamuna river. Just like the river, she says that the night runs deep and dark.
Then in the last four lines, she again mentions what would happen to her if a storm comes. She says that if God does not protect her, she would be struck by a lightning and would die there.

ABOUT THE POET

Sarojini Chattopadhyay Naidu 13 February 1879 – 2 March 1949) was an Indian political activist and poet. A proponent of civil rights, women's emancipation, and anti-imperialistic ideas, she was an important figure in India's struggle for independence from colonial rule. Naidu's work as a poet earned her the sobriquet 'Nightingale of India' by Mahatma Gandhi. She was called 'Bharat Kokila' by Rabindranath Tagore.

# data[].attributes.body
Bird,

the entire sky  is yours.

Each time you fly

you make your own path.

Then you travel

from one end of the horizon

to the other singing all the while.

But the world gets lost,

or is ruined,

or loses itself

travelling the paths

it made for itself.

Your path, bird, however,

is always defined.

In using it

you leave the sky pristine.

About the poetess:-
This is a famous poem by the revered poetess Sunita Jain who is also an Indian scholar, novelist, short-story writer and a poet of English and Hindi literature. She is a former professor and the Head of the department of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi She has published over 60 books, in English and Hindi, besides translating many Jain writings into English. She is featured in the Encyclopedia of Post-Colonial Literatures in English and is a recipient of The Vreeland Award (1969) and the Marie Sandoz Prairie Schooner Fiction Award (1970 and 1971). The Government of India awarded her the fourth highest civilian honour of the Padma Shri in 2004. In 2015 she was awarded the Vyas Samman by the K.K. Birla foundation for outstanding literary work in Hindi.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION:-

This is a famous poem by the revered poetess Sunita Jain who is also an Indian scholar, novelist, short-story writer and a poet of English and Hindi literature. She died on 11 November 2017 in Delhi. Through this poem ‘Paths’, she tells the birds that the whole sky belongs to them. She proclaims that they make their own paths each time they fly. They travel from one side of the horizon to the other side when they sing while flying.

But when, this world loses it’s paths, or gets ruined or lost from the path it has made for itself, the poetess tells the bird that the path it has made in the sky for itself, gets defined and when it is used by the world, it makes the sky pristine.

Using vivid imagery and metaphor, Ms. Jain conveys a unique message. She tells all human being to be independent and live on their own.
Thank you. -Soham Sengupta

# data[].attributes.body
-Shiv K Kumar
By A.Sumana
8-A
36

# data[].attributes.body
THE JUNGLE

Few dare to mess with it.
The brave or the desperate.

Deep into the woods
Searching for bhang leaves each day;
And the foreign tourists
Looking for a forgotten waterfall
Named after a lord long dead –

To picnic;
“Which country?” we would ask,
“No coins!” they would reply.

And early mornings
Beasts’ hunting time still
The milkman who climbed
Four kilometers up the valley
To sell milk
Nine rupees a kilo;
Or women calling out at night
For their cattle lost in the dark.
Rauwolfias are threatening enough
To keep the rest home.

ABOUT THE POET

Samartha Vashishtha (born 1983) is an Indian poet writing in English and Hindi, . He has published two volumes of poems in English — Anhadnad, a collection of his childhood poems in the year 2000, and Shadows Don't Live in Walls in 2004. In 2017, Raj Kamal Prakash, the leading publisher of literature in Hindi, released his third book of poems, Sapne Mein Piyaa Panee (सपने में पिया पानी). .[1] He won a Poetry Chain-Poetry Society (India) Annual Poetry Prize in 2003 for his poem-sequence, .
CRITITCAL APPRICIATION
The poem "THE JUNGLE " is written by Samartha vashishta. In this poem the poet shows

# data[].attributes.headline
Escape                                  by                             Samartha Vashishtha           I know ways to take the awe out of the most horrendous.              Brown eyes; eyes brown; I sayshe had luminous brown eyesthat seared like two embersin the blistering heat of the sun.Words like pale torches of liesbreak deep into my realm of silence.Truths I’ve deemed to be truths all lifestare like rigid obsessions in the eye –Like calling this morbid whiplashing the bare back of my dreamsfreedom.The man jumping down the speeding busthe basket of groundnuts in his handreduce to a mere particle in trajectory.I toss my coin in the airwatch its skilful landing on the tableand get my work done.Burning tyres in Gujaratbrown as her eyesmy country weeps;I dream of white womenand the firmness of their breasts.Then sipping at my glass of Cokeletting the deluxe bus goI dream of a place called New Yorkmiles and miles from my bus-standcleaner than a river called Ganges.                    

# data[].attributes.subject
Escape                                  by                             Samartha Vashishtha           I know ways to take the awe out of the most horrendous.              Brown eyes; eyes brown; I sayshe had luminous brown eyesthat seared like two embersin the blistering heat of the sun.Words like pale torches of liesbreak deep into my realm of silence.Truths I’ve deemed to be truths all lifestare like rigid obsessions in the eye –Like calling this morbid whiplashing the bare back of my dreamsfreedom.The man jumping down the speeding busthe basket of groundnuts in his handreduce to a mere particle in trajectory.I toss my coin in the airwatch its skilful landing on the tableand get my work done.Burning tyres in Gujaratbrown as her eyesmy country weeps;I dream of white womenand the firmness of their breasts.Then sipping at my glass of Cokeletting the deluxe bus goI dream of a place called New Yorkmiles and miles from my bus-standcleaner than a river called Ganges.                    

# data[].attributes.body
AUTHOUR'S INTRODUCTION

Samartha Vashishtha (born 1983) is an Indian poet writing in English and Hindi, his mothertongue. He has published two volumes of poems in English — Anhadnad, a collection of his childhood poems in the year 2000, and Shadows Don't Live in Walls in 2004. In 2017, Rajkamal Prakashan, the leading publisher of literature in Hindi, released his third book of poems, Sapne Mein Piyaa Panee (सपने में पिया पानी). .[1] He won a Poetry Chain-Poetry Society (India) Annual Poetry Prize in 2003 for his poem-sequence, Simla.

Samartha has also contributed to prominent Indian literary journals. His work in English has appeared in Chandrabhaga edited by Jayanta Mahapatra, Sahitya Akademi's Indian Literature, The Journal of Literature and Aesthetics, The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) and Poetry Chain. His poems in Hindi have appeared in Pahal, an influential literary magazine brought out by Gyanaranjan from Jabalpur, Naya Gyanodaya, Vartaman Sahitya (Ghaziabad), and Sahitya Akademi's Samakaleen Bharatiya Sahitya besides several other publication

VEMULA HARSHITHA REDDY
CLASS VIII-A
23

# data[].attributes.headline
Sunita Jain is an Indian scholar, novelist, short-story writer and poet of English and Hindi literature.She was born in ambala , haryana on 13th july 1940. She is a former professor and the Head of the department of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi. She is featured in the Encyclopedia of Post-Colonial Literatures in English and is a recipient of The Vreeland Award (1969) and the Marie Sandoz Prairie Schooner Fiction Award 

# data[].attributes.subject
Sunita Jain is an Indian scholar, novelist, short-story writer and poet of English and Hindi literature.She was born in ambala , haryana on 13th july 1940. She is a former professor and the Head of the department of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi. She is featured in the Encyclopedia of Post-Colonial Literatures in English and is a recipient of The Vreeland Award (1969) and the Marie Sandoz Prairie Schooner Fiction Award 

# data[].attributes.body
by - Lakshya Sharma

# data[].attributes.body
AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION

Sarojini Naidu (1879–1949), Indian poet, feminist, and nationalist leader Sarojini  Naidu was born on 13 February 1879, the eldest child of Brahma Samajist parents: Varada Sundari Devi, who wrote Bengali lyrics, and  Chattopadhyaya, scientist and founder of Nizam's College in Hyderabad. Sarojini Naidu 's verses were published in four volumes: Songs (1895), The Golden Threshold (1905), The Bird of Time (1912), and The Broken Wing (1917)
Rise, brothers, rise; the wakening skies pray to the morning light.

poem-
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night.

Come, let us gather our nets from the shore and set our catamarans free,

To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the kings of the sea!

No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea gull's call,

The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all.

What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives?

He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives.

Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango grove,
And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon with the sound of the voices we love;

But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee;

Row, brothers, row to the edge of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION

Coromandel fishers is a complicated yet very beautiful poem written by Sarojini Naidu. This poem depicts the bond between the fishermen of the Coromandel coast and the sea. In this poem, she has also compared between the life on land and the life at the sea. She has personified nature in the best possible way.

Samuel Kirtan
8-A

# data[].attributes.body
In The Bazaars of Hyderabad
What do you sell, O merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of Amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.
What do you weigh, O ye vendors?
Saffron, lentil, and rice.
What do you grind, O ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna, and spice.
What do you call, O ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.
What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,
Frail as a dragon - fly's wing,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the kings.
What do you cry, O ye Fruitmerchants?
Citron, pomegranate and plum.
What do you play, O musicians?
Sitar, Sarangi and drum.
What do you chant, O magicians?
Spells for the eons to come.
What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.
--Sarojini Naidu--

# data[].attributes.body
IN THE BAZAAR OF THE HYDERABAD by : SAROJINI NAIDU
SRI SAHASRA GUDIMELLA
8A
ROLL no 8

# data[].attributes.body
In The Bazaars of Hyderabad

What do you sell, O merchants?

Richly your wares are displayed.

Turbans of crimson and silver,

Tunics of purple brocade,

Mirrors with panels of Amber,

Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?

Saffron, lentil, and rice.

What do you grind, O ye maidens?

Sandalwood, henna, and spice.

What do you call, O ye pedlars?

Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?

Wristlet and anklet and ring,

Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,

Frail as a dragon - fly's wing,

Girdles of gold for the dancers,

Scabbards of gold for the kings.

What do you cry, O ye Fruitmerchants?

Citron, pomegranate and plum.

What do you play, O musicians?

Sitar, Sarangi and drum.

What do you chant, O magicians?

Spells for the eons to come.

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?

With tassels of azure and red?

Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,

Chaplets to garland his bed,

Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered

To perfume the sleep of the dead.

--Sarojini Naidu--

# data[].attributes.headline
Nightfall in the city of Hyderabad  by Sarojini Naidu 

# data[].attributes.subject
Nightfall in the city of Hyderabad  by Sarojini Naidu 

# data[].attributes.body
SEE how the speckled sky burns like a pigeon's throat,

Jewelled with embers of opal and peridote.

See the white river that flashes and scintillates,

Curved like a tusk from the mouth of the city-gates.

Hark, from the minaret, how the muezzin's call

Floats like a battle-flag over the city wall.

From trellised balconies, languid and luminous

Faces gleam, veiled in a splendour voluminous.

Leisurely elephants wind through the winding lanes,

Swinging their silver bells hung from their silver chains.

Round the high Char Minar sounds of gay cavalcades

Blend with the music of cymbals and serenades.

Over the city bridge Night comes majestical,

Borne like a queen to a sumptuous festival.

About the Poet
Sarojini Naidu is  (born February 13, 1879, Hyderabad, India—died March 2, 1949, Lucknow), political activist, feminist, poet, and the first Indian woman to be president of the Indian National Congress and to be appointed an Indian state governor. She was sometimes called “the Nightingale of India.”Sarojini Naidu also led an active literary life and attracted notable Indian intellectuals to her famous salon in Bombay (now Mumbai). Her first volume of poetry, The Golden Threshold (1905), was followed by The Bird of Time (1912), and in 1914 she was elected a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. Her collected poems, all of which she wrote in English, have been published under the titles The Sceptred Flute (1928) and The Feather of the Dawn (1961).

Critical Appreciation

The poem "Nightfall in the City of Hyderabad" is written by Sarojini Naidu who is popularly known as 'The Nightingale of India'. Her poems depict various aspect s of Indian culture, customs and traditions. In this poem ,  she presents a vivid picture of Hyderabad at nightfall. She describes various scenes, sights, sounds and experiences associated with Hyderabad .The use of imagery is very appealing as well . She starts by saying that  at night the city of hyderabad is speckled and jewelled with embers of opal and peridote      ( minerals ) . The poet refers to the river musi as the 'white river that flashes and scintillates'. Then the poets uses a simile to portray the bend in the river. She says that the river is curved like the tusk of an elephant. The Muezzin, a mosque official, calls Muslims to prayer from a minaret five times a day. Here the poet uses a simile and says that the call of the Muezzin floats like a battle flag over the city wall. More over the poet describes Beautiful women in veils stand relaxed in the balconies. Elephants too walk leisurely through the winding lanes. Sounds of processions on horses round the high Char Minar blend with music of cymbals and serenades.  At last the poet says that Over the city bridge night comes like a queen attending a lavish festival. The poet has described Hyderabad at nightfall beautifully .
THANK YOU .

Kavya Patel 8 A
individual

# data[].attributes.body
For just a nest no aborigine
Cuts away the wooded-shelter.
For the simple slash-burnt crop no man of the forest
Burns down the nurturing woods.

Even when the hill people
Cut the bases and burn the stumps,
And harvest,
On the hillside, in the slope, on the brink:
Whose sweat of the brow turns into whose burp?

A little moisture of the palm is enough
For the forest that fells and billows away in the Godari –
Forest, the target of hewn lacerations.
Taking forms it fails to find itself in.
This civilizing forest –
Who owns this hauled-out wealth?
In cities and in bungalows
All the riches hidden behind closed doors
Are the forest.

All the power, inciting rare game on the prowl,
Is pillaged from the woods.
Forest with its broken back and blown-out belly,
Dams spreading across its mouth
From reservoir to granary
Measuring heaps of sweat pearls
Burning the fuel of dismal lives-in-death.
In the wilderness of city
Cementing with flesh and blood of the forest
The iron system of justice.
In ‘safari’ robes stitched in the hide of skinned forest
On the intestinal pages of the woods
Death sentences preserved in writing . . .

In the forest reserve
As moonlight prowled –
Furiously, when you set the forest dwellings on fire
Those fires that would show your shady face to the world
Fires – your hideous greed that would put mankind to shame.
Those fires of tears that cannot quench your insatiable thirst.

The blaze smites the vigorous,
Rising defiant, bloody fires.
Flames, flames – the bloody crops
Sprouting in the dwellings you burnt down
Vines entwined everywhere
Flames blossoming new world.

Pendyala Varavara Rao was born on 3 November 1940 in Chinna Pendyala, Warangal district into a Telugu Brahmin family.[1] He studied at Chinna Pendyala, Warangal and Hyderabad. In 1960, he completed a post-graduate degree in Telugu literature from Osmania University.[1]

Career and teaching

Rao initially taught Telugu literature at two different private colleges in Telangana, before joining the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting of the Government of India, as a publication assistant. He retired from teaching in 1998,before becoming a poet.

# data[].attributes.body
PERFECTION(individual activity)

-Samartha Vashistha

POEM:

The boisterous weekend bazaar
springs to life with a roar.

Early evening -
the sky
like a broken cable in storm
hanging from the edge of the world.

Four horses, legs tied,
unable to complete the ascent -
the middle of their season of heat.

The sweet-meat vendor filling
curve after curve after curve
with sugar.

Proud of the new watch on his wrist
the little boy standing by his side
will tell the time when asked
correct to the last turn of the second.

Everything so close to perfection
yet so far away
till she turns to my side and says
I don't want to see again
this beard of yours tomorrow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Samartha Vashishtha is an Indian poet writing in English and Hindi. He has published two volumes of poems in English — Anhadnad, a collection of his childhood poems in the year 2000, and Shadows Don't Live in Walls in 2004. Samartha was born in 1983 into a literary family. His grandfather, Prof. Khushi Ram Vashishtha, was a poet of repute in the Indian state of Haryana. In 1968, Prof. Vashishtha was bestowed with the honorary title of Rajya Kavi (State Poet of Haryana); the first of the only two poets to ever earn this honor. Samartha's father, Dr Jitendra Vashishtha, a renowned poet himself, published three volumes of poems in his lifetime, and left behind several unpublished manuscripts in the wake of his untimely death.
CRITICAL APPRECIATION:

In this poem the poet conveys us a beautiful message that no one is perfect in the world and that they do not need to be perfect. He says that if a person has got a bad quality of his there will be a good quality of his which will overcome the bad one and we must move with the bad quality and utilize the good quality. The stanzas tell us that when we are faced in a bad situation we must try our best to overcome it like the horses whose legs are tied. The poet uses smiles and compares the sky with the brown cable in storm. The sentence “Everything so close to perfection
yet so far away” makes us understand that there is no perfection and imperfection and if there is perfection that is just our imagination. The message of the poem is that that humans itself by definition are imperfect and even the most perfect looking person has his disadvantages and the most imperfect looking person has his own advantages. The poem conveys that the imperfect thing is what makes us unique and there is a good thing in us which will make us forget about our drawbacks. In a sentence, the theme of the poem is that the imperfection is the perfect thing in humans and that is what makes us unique
-LIKHITHA SAI AMRUTHA NUKALA

# data[].attributes.body
Draft of the poem:-
Bird,

the entire sky  is yours.

Each time you fly

you make your own path.

Then you travel

from one end of the horizon

to the other singing all the while.

But the world gets lost,

or is ruined,

or loses itself

travelling the paths

it made for itself.

Your path, bird, however,

is always defined.

In using it

you leave the sky pristine.

About the author:-
This is a famous poem by the revered poetess Sunita Jain who was also an Indian scholar, novelist, short-story writer and a poet of English and Hindi literature. She was a former professor and the Head of the department of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi . She is featured in the Encyclopedia of Post-Colonial Literatures in English and is a recipient of The Vreeland Award (1969) and the Marie Sandoz Prairie Schooner Fiction Award (1970 and 1971). The Government of India awarded her the fourth highest civilian honour of the Padma Shri in 2004. In 2015 she was awarded the Vyas Samman by the K.K. Birla foundation for outstanding literary work in Hindi..She died on 11 November 2017 in Delhi after a short battle with a rare blood disorder.

Critical appreciation of the poem 'Paths':-

Through this poem ‘Paths’, she tells the birds that the whole sky belongs to them. She proclaims that they make their own paths each time they fly. They travel from one side of the horizon to the other side when they sing while flying.

But when, this world loses it’s paths, or gets ruined or lost from the path it has made for itself, the poetess tells the bird that the path it has made in the sky for itself, gets defined and when it is used by the world, it makes the sky pristine.

Using a vivid variety of metaphor and imagery, Ms. Jai

# data[].attributes.body
AUTHORS INTRODUCTION:
Samarth Vasistha is an Indian Poet writing in English and Hindi. He was born on 10 June 1983.Samarth is an accomplished writer and verbal communicator who has effectively engaged influencer.  He is an old soul with insight that stretches far beyond tyrannosaurus rex.

# data[].attributes.body
Autumn Song by Sarojini Naidu

Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.

Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?

About The Poet
Sarojini Naidu was born in Hyderabad to Aghorenath Chattopadhyay, a Bengali Brahmin who was the principal of the Nizam's College in Hyderabad. Her parental home was at Brahmangaon in Bikrampur (in present-day Bangladesh).[2] Her father, Aghorenath Chattopadhyay, with a doctorate of Science from Edinburgh University, settled in Hyderabad, where he administered Hyderabad college, which later became Nizam College in Hyderabad. Her mother, Barada Sundari Devi Chattopadhyay, was a poet and used to write poetry in Bengali.

Critical Appreciation
The poems written by Sarojini Devi Naidu have an aura of their own. This poem in particular, describes the parallelness of the personal loss and and beauty of the autumn season.it seems like she has lost a close somebody who had a special place in her heart. It could also be her own expectations that have betrayed her. The word “wind” here is used as a metaphor to signify her pain and emotion which she hides in her heart but wants to discard. She is scared that for an eternity she is going to have a hole in her heart in the place that the person she has lost is supposed to be. Also dealing with the worldly problems is a major task to take on. The picture she paints in our mind is a beautiful one but sunset here signifies the start of “the dark night”. The way she directly puts her feelings in the last paragraph that how she wants to simply escape from all her problems and lead a happy life and questions why she needs to stay behind bearing the pain and the guilt.

“The worst day of loving someone is the day you lose them”
Aarohi Singh
INDIVIDUAL
8A
ROLL NO:10

# data[].attributes.body
- Triyaa Balan VIII-A, 28 (individual activity)

# data[].attributes.headline
Void    by  Samartha Vashishtha                                 It always happens like that falling, you need a ground to strike solid, harsh; something to bang your head to crack your skull when you open your eyes in a cozy blue-lit room with a distant rain lingering in your senses and the neons flickering on statues in bedroom poses. It has no beginning to boast off it ends where it began bottomless like you.

# data[].attributes.subject
Void    by  Samartha Vashishtha                                 It always happens like that falling, you need a ground to strike solid, harsh; something to bang your head to crack your skull when you open your eyes in a cozy blue-lit room with a distant rain lingering in your senses and the neons flickering on statues in bedroom poses. It has no beginning to boast off it ends where it began bottomless like you.

# data[].attributes.body
For just a nest no aborigine
Cuts away the wooded-shelter.
For the simple slash-burnt crop no man of the forest
Burns down the nurturing woods.

Even when the hill people
Cut the bases and burn the stumps,
And harvest,
On the hillside, in the slope, on the brink:
Whose sweat of the brow turns into whose burp?

A little moisture of the palm is enough
For the forest that fells and billows away in the Godari –
Forest, the target of hewn lacerations. Taking forms it fails to find itself in.
This civilizing forest –Who owns this hauled-out wealth?
In cities and in bungalows.
All the riches hidden behind closed doors,
Are the forest.

All the power, inciting rare game on the prowl, Is pillaged from the woods.
Forest with its broken back and blown-out belly,
Dams spreading across its mouth .
From reservoir to granary .Measuring heaps of sweat pearls
Burning the fuel of dismal lives-in-death.
In the wilderness of city
Cementing with flesh and blood of the forest
The iron system of justice.
In ‘safari’ robes stitched in the hide of skinned forest
On the intestinal pages of the woods
Death sentences preserved in writing . . .

In the forest reserve
As moonlight prowled –
Furiously, when you set the forest dwellings on fire
Those fires that would show your shady face to the world
Fires – your hideous greed that would put mankind to shame.
Those fires of tears that cannot quench your insatiable thirst.

The blaze smites the vigorous,
Rising defiant, bloody fires.
Flames, flames – the bloody crops
Sprouting in the dwellings you burnt down
Vines entwined everywhere
Flames blossoming new worlds.
by Varavara Rao

T.Kavish
24

# data[].attributes.body
When moon light moves into the dark

by Varavara Rao

T.Kavish
24

# data[].attributes.body
I Want You to Say

I want you to say
you love me
as leaves grow
on clinging vines--
say it again and again till
feeling is a net of veins
flowing with life.

Till music, hard and clean
like river water on stones,
courses through my soul-chime.
-sunita jain

nimith reddy
roll no : 35

# data[].attributes.body
Sunita Jain is an Indian scholar, novelist, short-story writer and poet of English and Hindi literature. She has published over 60 books, in English and Hindi, besides translating many Jain writings into English.[1] She is featured in the Encyclopedia of Post-Colonial Literatures in English and is a recipient of The Vreeland Award (1969) and the Marie Sandoz Prairie Schooner Fiction Award (1970 and 1971).[4] The Government of India awarded her the fourth highest civilian honour of the Padma Shri in 2004.[5] In 2015 she was awarded the Vyas Samman by the K.K. Birla foundation for outstanding literary work in Hindi.

-NIMITH REDDY
35

# data[].attributes.body
WEAVERS, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay?
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.

-Sarojini Naidu

CRITICAL APPRECIATION:

Sarojini Naidu, a celebrated poetess, spun magic through her poem 'Indian Weavers.'

It consists of three stanzas, each containing four lines with the rhyme scheme of AABB. In verse, the poetess talks about the three different types of dresses weaved by the Indian Weavers at three different types of the day.

The poem beautifully symbolizes the various stages of life in the form of the time of the day, and the dress weaved.

-D. Vivek Chandra
18