Criticism is an art,
The art of evaluation and assessment,
Judging the literary worth,
Appreciating a text.
But writes criticism now-a-days
Either the journalists
Or the failed artists
As the readers and judges?
Criticism is but reading,
Enjoying of the text
And of putting forward comments
Marking in red or blue pencils.
But today those who had not to be
Are also as for profession,
If it not then for promotion
To look professorially.
But who reads today,
Sits for hours and reads and writes,
Labour on
For critiques and comments?
What did the poet,
How did he,
When did he,
There is no time to think and brood over?
Today it has turned into admiration,
Mutual admiration
As it is done in contemporary Indian English poetry
For promotion and advertisement.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem