Inklette- Vol. 1, Iss. 7

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Inklette The Club Inkers’ Newsletter Inside This Issue Page 2 The Soldier by Rupert Brooke “How Sleep The Brave!” by Walter De La Mare Page 3 Bestsellers @ NY Times The Editor‟s Bottle of Ink Page 4 & 5 Katha by Maanav Jalan Page 6 Artwork by Ashwin Pandya Submission Guidelines

Today’s Inker To mark the centenary of the World War I, Club Ink organises an Open Mic on the Literature during World War I. The event will take place on November 11, Tuesday, 2014 at Swami Vivekanand Library, Bhopal, India from 5pm to 7pm. The participants will receive free memberships of the American Library and other goodies given by the U.S. Consulate in Mumbai, India.

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Poetry During World War I I did not exist during 1914-1918 but many people did exist and some, unfortunately, ceased to. War is not just a reflection of political relationships or ties between countries. It is not so much about systems and technicalities or analyses as it is about emotions. War prompts us to enter a world that is desolate and vacant. It is not easy to see a neighbourhood being deprived of its inhabitants. It is not easy to see newspapers collecting more obituaries than headlines. The poetry of this age clearly reflects that more than just thinking about economic, social and political issues, people consider people more important. War will not prompt us to contemplate about fiscal deficiency as much as it will affect us when we see a young soldier‟s

corpse feeding on dust. Fire seems to be grand, eloquent and powerful but when it is put out, it can almost injure us.

your heart ache when you saw guns firing, and life taking life?

War means erasing one‟s all-too rigid self. It is the removal of humanity by humanity. When you look into someone‟s wandering eye and if suddenly, that eye were to still and penetrate itself deeply and darkly into you, would you let it? Would you not be struck with grief and pain? Wouldn‟t your mind sicken and

Humans are not perfect and every event in history reiterates this fact. Grief is invincible. It cannot be overcome merely by grief or bliss. It is an indelible mark. It tears us. Forever. But poetry can aid us when we need to aided.

Language is mysterious. Even one syllable can contain a lot within, and war has one syllable. But through language, we are transported to that place in that time. Mothers lost their sons and “The poetry of this age clearly only a poem can reflects that more than just truly explain how thinking about economic, social and political issues, people con- those mothers must have suffered in sider people more important.” their sons‟ eternal absence.

Devanshi Khetarpal


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