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. Effects Of Distance 3/26/2012
12. Canticle For A Bridge 3/26/2012
13. Annotation To The Ustad's Treasury Of Verses 3/26/2012
14. To The Sanskrit Poets 3/26/2012
15. Quietus 3/26/2012
16. A POEM FOR GRANDMOTHER 3/10/2018
17. ANNOTATION TO THE USTAD'S TREASURY OF VERSES 3/10/2018
18. CLOSING ACT AT THE OLD THEATRE 3/10/2018
19. EFFECTS OF DISTANCE 3/10/2018
20. LANDSCAPES WITH SAINTS 3/10/2018
21. SPEAKING A DEAD LANGUAGE 3/10/2018
22. THE MURDER OF THE GENIE 3/10/2018
23. The Archaeologist At Noon 3/26/2012
24. Golden Orioles 3/26/2012
25. The Orientalist 3/26/2012
26. Closing Act At The Old Theatre 3/26/2012
27. Miror 3/26/2012
28. To Name A Sea 3/26/2012
29. Fern 3/26/2012
30. Shore Leave 3/26/2012
31. The Hotel Receptionist's Confession 3/26/2012
32. Milarepa 3/26/2012
33. Footage For A Tranc 3/26/2012
34. Madman 3/26/2012
35. Vigil 3/26/2012
36. The Postman's Last Song For The Moon 3/26/2012
37. Speaking A Dead Language 3/26/2012
38. A Poem For Grandmother 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

A Poem For Grandmother

A door. A stair. And two steps inside that dark,
the straight-backed chair my grandmother sat in,
a lace net draped across its mahogany arm.
And on the table, a volume of stories
open at the flyleaf, its tissue quill-scarred.

The photographs seal her in a shell of relations:
the sepia corset would have her no more
than an empress delegating domestic chores;
in this room, imagine her gravely accepting
tributes of porcelain and sparkling brass
or setting tiger lilies afloat in bowls, or stocking
pots of pickled mango in the attic of summer.

But the ...

Read the full of A Poem For Grandmother

Landscapes With Saints

Mean as knives, his burnished limbs
rotted and stank when the gateman came
to call his number. Gorakh forgot
his body was just a borrowed suit,
one size too large.

*

He's forgotten the river pilot's song.

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