Biography of Hemant Shesh
Hemant Shesh (Hindi: हेमंत शेष) was born on 28 December 1952 in Jaipur, Rajasthan) is an Indian Hindi writer, poet and civil servant.
Shesh completed his post graduate education from the University of Rajasthan in Jaipur. He then joined the Rajasthan Administrative Service in 1977. He has worked as District collector and magistrate in Pratapgarh district of Rajasthan state, and is currently working as a Registrar for the Board of revenue in Ajmer, Rajasthan.
Writings and Publications
He has published over twenty books including 13 of his own writings while the rest were ones he edited. and has been editor for Kala-Prayojan a quarterly literary magazine. Among his published work are eleven poetry collections. His poetry has also been translated into other languages, including non-Indian languages. Shesh has received many awards and honors.
Awards and Honors
He was awarded the K. K. Birla Foundation's Bihari Puraskar, a national award for the year 2009 for his collection of poetry titled Jagah Jaisi Jagah.
Hemant Shesh's Works:
Jaari Itihaas Ke Viruddha, 1974 (long poem)
Beswaad Hawayen, 1981 (monograph)
Kripal Singh Shekhawat, 1981 (monograph)
Ghar-Baahar, 1982 (poetry collection)
Neend men Mohenjodaro, 1988 (poetry collection)
Vrikshon Ke Swapna, 1988 (poetry collection)
Ashuddha Saarang, 1991 (poetry collection)
Kasht Ke Liye Kshamaa, 1995 (poetry collection)
Kripayaa anyathaa Na Len, 1999 (long poem)
Aap Ko yah Jaan Kar Prasanntaa Hogee, 2001 (poetry collection)
Jagah Jaasee Jagah, 2006 (poetry collection)
Bahut Kuchh Jaisaa Kuchh Naheen (poetry collection)
Prapanch Saar Subodhnee (poetry collection)
Books in Print
Rajasthan Mein Aadhunik Kala (art criticism)
Khed-Yog-Pradeep (poetry collection)
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Hemant Shesh Poems
Ashudhha - Saarang
A colorful candle has just lit inside me And the wax of words has started melting Thus after many days- Opened the window of poetry……
The world is narrow And a silence clings around the trees. What the future shall be like No one knows…………
A Poet Departs
And ultimately a poet unsung Leaves the world silently And shatters nothing, anywhere!
The Pretty Woman
You would repent That you could not kiss her. Her being utterly beautiful is the first condition for an imaginary kiss. You are worried that kissing her is not that simple.
Salutations To Sun
Certainly That broken bridge shall somebody repaired. We shall remember the lost spring. Where is everything? What is the future of things in the darkness?
The Very Same Dream Everyday
We see the same dream every day That flower are blooming silently And the spring is descending from the firmament just like dew-drops. In its utmost sacredness - the fragrance of March is creeping in the foliage
On Not Remaining, As Before
I do not know you Apoorva But know you since many many years, Where the words untold are concealed within the words uttered, This mute conversation begins
Our present Playing with the fingers of uncertainty Weaves the yarn of miseries. All alone lies in the boat of time the paddle of darkness.
The Sixth Sense
At the same time this train passes every day. I remember the dreams I had seen once. Those cruelties, Those affections, Those examinations I had passed
We shall forget the names of many of our classmates. The faces of relatives. We will forget those Railway platforms Where we once descended during our journeys.
Now there is no use feeding milk to your own sleeves. Snakes have appeared just at a hand shaking distance. I had said to those aged men Who had strong belief
Where are the race-course gone? The man tethered in the stable is crying hoarse.
Empty Boats In Yamuna
How many were there - The boats: empty, abandoned and waiting, Where did the travelers go who were to ride them on their return An afternoon was passing through our bodies like a train and there were A few swifts with colors of sunset glittering in their eyes
Everyday the things are recorded to have gone away. Barges of moments reach banks and return answered. Someone somebody ascends the stairs unknown tethered the finger of terror Everybody the things are recorded to have gone away
Everyday the things are recorded to have gone away.
Barges of moments reach banks and return answered.
Someone somebody ascends the stairs unknown tethered the finger of terror
Everybody the things are recorded to have gone away
Only the leaves and trunks turn pale
The landscapes change color.
The morbid tales are throne up retting shelves of experience.
Doleful stories of life are discarded down from the high opening