Ranjit Hoskote

(29 March 1969 - / Mumbai / India)

Ranjit Hoskote Poems

1. Landscapes With Saints 3/26/2012
2. The Murder Of The Genie 3/26/2012
3. Travelling Light 3/26/2012
4. Nazm 3/26/2012
5. Shaman 3/26/2012
6. The Soloist Performs With An Orchestra Of Eevents 3/26/2012
7. The Empire Of Lights 3/26/2012
8. The Invention Of The Senses 3/26/2012
9. Miniatur 3/26/2012
10. Dome 3/26/2012
11. The Archaeologist At Noon 3/26/2012
12. Golden Orioles 3/26/2012
13. The Orientalist 3/26/2012
14. Closing Act At The Old Theatre 3/26/2012
15. Effects Of Distance 3/26/2012
16. Canticle For A Bridge 3/26/2012
17. Annotation To The Ustad's Treasury Of Verses 3/26/2012
18. To The Sanskrit Poets 3/26/2012
19. Quietus 3/26/2012
20. Miror 3/26/2012
21. To Name A Sea 3/26/2012
22. Fern 3/26/2012
23. Shore Leave 3/26/2012
24. The Hotel Receptionist's Confession 3/26/2012
25. Milarepa 3/26/2012
26. Madman 3/26/2012
27. Vigil 3/26/2012
28. The Postman's Last Song For The Moon 3/26/2012
29. Speaking A Dead Language 3/26/2012
30. A Poem For Grandmother 3/26/2012
31. Footage For A Tranc 3/26/2012

Comments about Ranjit Hoskote

  • Joshua L. White Joshua L. White (3/30/2014 4:15:00 AM)

    Really like the poem Milarepa

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Best Poem of Ranjit Hoskote

Footage For A Tranc

The hours stop in my veins.
Evening falls, a spotted tissue
draped across dayglo streets.
The clocks go on marking
the time in another city
where the trains still run,
taking people home.

Over my shoulder, I see my country vanish
in a long unfurling of cornflower-blue sky.
My limbs are clear as glass.
The wind grazes my shoulders,
the animal buried in my voice
wakes up and growls.

Script thrown away, I'm on my own.
The detectives will find me
when a rainbow prints itself
on the litmus sky at noon.
I clear my throat,
the movie ...

Read the full of Footage For A Tranc

Travelling Light

Eat slowly. Read what you can by available light.
Take nothing with you
except the sky stencilled in the window

to picture the next stage in this journey
that will carry you past the poplars of home,
past scrub and palms to the unyielding sea.

And when the train stops at the last beach,

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