Vijay Nambisan, poet and writer, dead. By Lifestyle Desk New Delhi. Updated August 1. Vijay Nambisan was 5. Source You. TubePoet and writer Vijay Nambisan, who became the first All India Poetry Champion in 1. Thursday. He co authored Gemini, a poetry book, with Jeet Thayil and Dom Moraes. Watch The Danish Poet Online MoviesSince his screen debut as a young Amish Farmer in Peter Weirs Witness 1985, Viggo Mortensens career has been marked by a steady string of. Get the latest international news and world events from Asia, Europe, the Middle East, and more. See world news photos and videos at ABCNews. Shop modern sofas and sleepers at Design Within Reach. Contemporary couches, modern couches and sleeper sofas available. Find a sleeper sofa at DWR. He championed the ethical use of language and made an appeal to readers, writers and enthusiasts of literature in his book Language as an Ethic. He was 5. 4 years old. His poem Madras Central garnered rave reviews from critics as well as the others, for which he went on to win the All India Poetry Competition organised by the Poetry Society of India in association with the British Council. A graduate from IIT Madras, Chennai, Nambisan also translated the devotional poetry of famous poets Poonthanam and Melpathur Narayana Bhattathiri. His wife Kavery Nambisan, a famous writer herself, wrote books like The Scent of Pepper, The Truth Almost About Bharat and The Story That Must Not Be Told which went on to be nominated for Man Asian Literary Prize 2. Many, including Thayil, Ramachandra Guha took to Twitter to pay their condolences to the veteran writer. For all the latest Lifestyle News, download Indian Express App IE Online Media Services Pvt Ltd. Watch the latest Featured Videos on CBSNews. View more videos on CBS News, featuring the latest indepth coverage from our news team. Watch breaking news videos, viral videos and original video clips on CNN. SuperSoul Sunday Oprah sits down with religious scholar Karen Armstrong Watch the full episode online or tune in at 11 a. MV5BNDg0MTFiODEtODBkMi00MDAxLTg0OWYtZGRlMzEzOWQ2YzNmXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMzAzODY0NzE@._V1_SX300.jpg' alt='Watch The Danish Poet Online Stopwatch' title='Watch The Danish Poet Online Stopwatch' />Watch The Danish Poet Online VideoPoetry Features. Shari Wagner. Photo by Will Dunlap. October 2. 01. 7                                The Art of Suspension                    The Poetry of Marianne Boruch. Marianne Boruchs nine collections of poetry include The Book of Hours, a Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award winner, and Cadaver, Speak, plus the recent Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing listed on The New Yorkers best loved books of 2. Copper Canyon Press. Her 1. We Jumped out of a Hole to Stand Here Radiant forthcoming, is also from CCP. Shes the author of three collections of essays about poetry Poetrys Old Air In the Blue Pharmacy The Little Death of Self and a memoir, The Glimpse Traveler. Her poems and essays have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, American Poetry Review, Poetry London, The  Nation, Kenyon Review, Narrative and elsewhere. Founding director of Purdue Universitys MFA Program where she still teaches, Boruch has receivedfellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment forthe Arts, residencies at Yaddo, Mac. Dowell, the Bellagio Center, the Anderson. Center in Red Wing, Minnesota, two national parks Denali and Isle Royale and,in 2. Fulbright Professor in Edinburgh, Scotland. She also teaches in thelow residency MFA program at Warren Wilson College. Theres so much to admire in a Marianne Boruch poem where to startI love the surprising metaphors the complexity of ideas the enjambment of lines that leave me slightly off kilter and in suspense the intimate relationship between sound, sense, and form. Maybe what I love most is Mariannes passion for the act of seeing, for surveying the world up close, from a distance, or in the wings. She raises the camera, the binoculars or the stereopticon. In one poem she notes how her son peers at the enormous eye of a horse, and in another she adopts the perspective of a hundred year old cadaver, head wrapped in towels, who views her own dismemberment. She ventures into the eagle eyed perch of a virtual bombardier, one who hones in through the remote sensing device of a drone. In Mariannes poems, the act of looking has many dimensions, including the ethical. The importance of seeing is reinforced here by the poets original watercolors artwork never before exhibited. Though the woman in Nap in Leaves has her eyes closed, I suspect by means of dream shes still observant. The leaves arched above her appear alert. They seem at oncesuspended by their own grace and the power of the dreamer. Note Before you start reading, heres a link to an additional poem by Marianne Boruch The Tin House, one of my favorites. In 2. I chose it for Indiana Humanities celebration of National Poetry Month. Nap in Leaves All artwork is copyrighted 2. Marianne Boruch. From Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing Copper Canyon Press, 2. The Art of Poetryisnt sleep. Isnt the clocks steadyone and one and one though seconds eventually makean hour. And morning passesinto a thing it might not recognize by afternoon. Or you practice the ordinary artof shrinking strangers back to children, who theycould have been  bangs straight across,boys and girls the same. I blink kids into grown ups too, who theymight be, the exaggerated gestures we do,the weight on each worda warning, kindlyor just so full of ourselveswe cant help it. But this oddestnot old or young, male, female,this century or thatit simplyvisits. This who, thiswhat. This artof suspension. Wait. If youve ever acted, you understand what it is,standing in the wings, the darkmurmur out there. Every dreamfor days you nightmare that. Saying or not saying. Then wake to lights, the otherpretenders on stage bowing, happy enough. Except its notlike that, this wishbeing small  to make emptinessan occasion, the art of calling it down. To wonder for the first time as I write it. And elegantis good. And story.   And edgyhalf uttered in fragments is good. Always thatsense of the dead overhearing. Or simply  voice I never,not once in the world, give me a sign. Ill pick up the thread. Dally with it, sit in its coma,wait for its news in the little roomoff the nurses station. Dont bemaudlin, says the garden, dontbe pretty pretty pretty, and dont think whimsyunto irony disguises. Because it isa garden. You walk and walk and twilight now,its darker halfhalf floats a yellow still visible in high spiky things. Theres a dovecote where nothing nests. Theres an expanseorderly as blueprint but flowers get wily, onlymake believe they agree the best placeto stand or lean. Its not the sun. I cant decide anything. Cant decide. Begging bowl, askuntil asking is a stain. Every gardens a mess. Am I poised at an angle  Am I listening A stillness sodifferent than winters, lush and forgetful thoughall the lost summers lie in it. Old photographs,children a century ago whonever thought to leave still busyfading into sepia, making houses in the yard out ofporch chairs tipped over,and sheets. Their worn shirts, their hair everywhich way. Someone loved them. She raised a camera. But I dont,dont mean that. Its the art of the makeshiftalmost house. Or how the childrendont see her, so arentdear yet. The Three of Us, with Snorkels All artwork is copyrighted 2. Marianne Boruch. Song Again, in Spring. The birds hunger, seeking shape  a worm shape, greenwater bug shape passing out ofwinters clawed shape, its toothed shape where itfroze and stayedfreezing, the hawk up there, branchor ledge, staring out and blinkdown. So be itin the imperial age of the 2. Nevada, home of the sand fleawhose life span is about two minutes the last. I checked though in truth,Ive never checked. Its not a matter of just knowing. Or that maybe the virtual bombardier is weeping at nightand feels bad about it. Truth toldunto us  a worm shape is notthe worm. A worm, merely born to it likean apple to its red eventually,or the sea to its vast floating crosshatch of garbage,plastic bags and cups from the big boatsand every who gives a good damn cute littlecoastal spot, used once forksgoing brittle, snapping, drifting out to join theircheap brethren, shining semi continent of crap neverto decodede evolvedeletefor a thousand years if then, detritus of our time. This we, this our and us thing A remote sensing device, garden path to a darkdarkest wood in the middle, etc. Confusionas part, part coward, part crashburning to quiet there. Recalculate, recalculate, says the grown uprobo voice in the car, youve driven past your turn. The turn was I want I want alights onoblivious, mouth sized. Somewhere sobbing. Its spring A thing with wings taking aim. Pink Teapot, Blue Cups All artwork is copyrighted 2. Marianne Boruch. From. The Book of Hours Copper Canyon Press, 2. My mothers body to wires, to tubes. My mothers body to wires, to tubesand their liquid, days she turned toward meor away, winter but so much sunfrom car to door. I followed it past nursesat their station talking movies, whos goodin one and not the other. Gown tiedat the back and neck, she slept besidea window. I wedged my chair there, reading,looking up, readingwho knows what. I readher legs, bruised, thin, arms batteredby the doctors needle. Her face.   Can Isay this plainly now  There was lightas she grew less. She drifted to it. Im not hungry, not religious, Im in a spot,she told me one afternoon thenclosed her eyes to that radiance again. Paintbox All artwork is copyrighted 2. Marianne Boruch. From Cadaver, Speak Copper Canyon Press, 2. Movie Trailers Street Fighter Alpha on this page. Cadaver, Speak. 6. What to hate most  this mummy way theyvewrapped our heads, thick wet towelsclose, in orbit. Or the distant shock of it.