Biography of Khurshid Alam
Is a writer by profession. He writes poems, stories and on other subjects. His especial contribution is in the genre such as Investigative Poetry and Grammophile (a term coined to mean a campaign against incorrect grammatical usage and carelessness in writings post Internet era) . Currently he is writing a novel.
Khurshid Alam's Works:
Soon a collection of poems is coming.
Khurshid Alam Poems
A Drop Of Dew
A dropp of dew can enliven the thirsty buds can cause a new life can create a reason.
The National Library
Many couples couple to the serene campus But they don’t love; never marry each other Yet they’re apace for a feeling unrealised They often take bits of paper and make equations
Tiger, tiger burning bright He’ll leap up above the sky When the Moon would shine And the Sun would define
Leaves foliage, the green turbans, on The silky branches to clutch on unsuccessful Efforts.
Weave Dreams Into Act
We sleep to dream We sleep to dreams We wake to act We wake to facts.
I’m Slave To Myself
I’m slave to myself. I’m slave to my desire: My desire is boundless. I’m slave to my fantasy:
I’ve seen many men of lesser quality rise upwards and have immense influence
The Grass Is Shaking
The grass is shaking a mouse may be nibbling at the root The grains will soon turn
They take shelter in the auto rickshaws in the daylight and sit in much calm in much commune with the police on patrol and invite the passers-by at Laldarwaza.
An Inclusive India
Ajnabi is registered a Christian at school And bargains exemption of fee by half And all miscellanies full; and sings hymns To Jesus and celebrates Christmas.
The Mysterious Man
My mother scoffed at us for ours no fault She had put sweets from offerings in a box To distribute the sacred eating equally among us all: “All should have equal favour”, she taught.
A Poet Laments
Stars are shining bright and the moon is up Clouds are making homes for them They lead to their destinations in peace. I find no reason to write on disharmony.
The Golden Birds
The golden birds flock To the fields Fluttering and dropping beads Weaving them into garlands.
In Search Of Peace
I’m in search of a home Where lights twinkle And burn the house warm People share their haves.
Psephologists competing with their opinion polls
A prophecy they draw to the final hustings
Bouleversement for one wing; anti-incumbency for the other
They profess for the polls to be polled at the booths.
James W Lain’s Shivaji: the Hindu King in Islamic India
Or the burning Gujarat; or the Lucknow saree-stampede
Are the pawns of the Nationalists’ games in the fray.