Vijay Seshadri - Vijay Seshadri Poems - Poem Hunter.
Seshadri, a former editor at the New Yorker, is a professor at Sarah Lawrence College. For the past eight summers Vijay Seshadri has left his Brooklyn apartment to teach poetry at Provincetown’s.
View the contents and read select essays, articles, interviews,. Poet. Bronxville, NY 10708. Author's Bio. Vijay Seshadri is the author of 3 Sections, winner of the Pulitzer Prize; The Long Meadow, winner of the James Laughlin Award of the Academy of American Poets; Wild Kingdom; and The Disappearances. Seshadri has received fellowships from the New York Foundation for the Arts, the NEA.
Vijay Seshadri (born 1954) is a Pulitzer Prize-winning American poet, essayist, and literary critic of significant repute. Seshadri was born in India, and came to the United States in 1959 at the age of 5. He grew up in Columbus, Ohio, and has lived in many parts of the United States, including the Northwest and the upper west side of Manhattan in New York City.
The Paris Review, that essential rubric in the path of any player in the English literary field, has named the Indian origin poet Vijay Seshadri as its new poetry editor. The magazine announced the decision late on August 1. Bengaluru-born Seshadri will be the 12th poetry editor of the magazine. He was recently guest poetry editor of its issue 229; the masthead of its website still has his.
Vijay Seshadri has contributed to The New Yorker since 1991. His most recent book, “3 Sections,” won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 2014.
Vijay Seshadri is the author of three collections of poetry, including 3 Sections, which was awarded the 2014 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. The Pulitzer Prize committee praised 3 Sections as: “a compelling collection of poems that examine human consciousness, from birth to dementia, in a voice that is by turns witty and grave, compassionate and remorseless.”.
Vijay Seshadri's “The Descent of Man” SHARE. The Descent of Man. My failure to evolve has been causing me a lot of grief lately. I can't walk on my knuckles through the acres of shattered glass in the streets. I get lost in the arcades. My feet stink at the soirees. The hills have been bulldozed from whence cameth my help. The halfway houses where I met my kind dreaming of flickering.