Dom Moraes

(19 July 1938 – 2 June 2004 / Mumbai / India)

Comments about Dom Moraes

  • Bijay Kant Dubey Bijay Kant Dubey (1/14/2020 12:11:00 PM)

    They call him a British poet,
    But he is not
    An Indian poet,
    A Goan Christian
    Of Portuguese descent
    And a Catholic,
    He was not a romantic
    But an alcoholic
    And a womanizer,
    A poet abandoning poetry
    For journalism
    And name and fame.

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • bilkilnton (3/11/2019 6:23:00 AM)

    just before I saw the receipt that said $7527, I accept that my mom in-law woz like actualey making money in there spare time from there pretty old laptop.. there aunt had bean doing this for less than twentey months and at present cleared the depts on there appartment and bourt a great new Citroën 2CV. look here.......
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    0 person liked.
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  • franko (9/4/2018 12:40:00 PM)

    wow nice poem how should i get summary if it possible send me link

    1 person liked.
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  • Vasana (6/19/2018 7:11:00 PM)

    A letter and sinbad of dom morace with their analysis

    3 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • David Taylor (1/17/2018 1:45:00 AM)

    A great poet, with all that the word implies. Gifted with the ability to evoke powerful and dramatic images in all his poems, where the rhyme and the sense meet in a perfect blend of meaning. Read Dracula, the poem works on two levels. I feel privileged to have spent a couple of enjoyable evenings in his company and that of Leela Moraes his mercurial wife.

    2 person liked.
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  • Reena modak (12/21/2017 10:07:00 AM)

    What is the name of Dom moraes

    3 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
Best Poem of Dom Moraes

Key

Ground in the Victorian lock, stiff,
With difficulty screwed open,
To admit me to the seven mossed stairs
And the badly kept garden.

Who runs to me in memory
Through flowers destroyed by no love

But the child with brown hair and eyes,
Smudged all over with toffee?

I lick his cheeks. I bounce him in air.
Two bounces, he disappears.

Fifteen years later, he redescends,
Not as a postponed child, but a letter
Asking me for his father who now possesses
No garden, no home, not even any key.

Read the full of Key

Key

Ground in the Victorian lock, stiff,
With difficulty screwed open,
To admit me to the seven mossed stairs
And the badly kept garden.

Who runs to me in memory
Through flowers destroyed by no love

But the child with brown hair and eyes,

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