Thank you so very much for this beautiful gift. I look forward to a good and perhaps disturbing read.
I certainly support your campaign against the ghastly attempt at eradicating these splendid creatures so gruesomely. You can if you need to, publicise my support of your campaign.
God bless you,
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Publishing poetry remains a myth.
The poem remains the most acute structure far more relevant than prose. It is the very soul of the individual and terrains that have been suddenly surfaced. To have distilled many such values, such woven sheaths, such words and to have given them to a publisher to create paths felt and followed is almost impossible, and in all its crudity, commercially nonviable.
But the sky still remains overshadowed with doubts and we do hold a book of poems to read only if not to buy. The publisher’s responsibility of creating a river from an unknown rain is challenging. Fathomless or not Poets Printery has been driven to the verge of irresponsible sanity where sometimes even words disappear and colours take over.
Poems, Art and You the poet and reader have touched us, touched our pages, touched the streaks of a remnant fever.
Demystifying publishing poetry is the unknown.
We live here
We welcome you here
in a most economical way.
Poetry doesn't sell but we are here to sell poetry in stapled / perfect binding and even as coffee table books.
We are into buying poetry, vintage poetry books whose authors have passed away or who wants us to redesign their poetry books and market it for them, we would love to publish them again in a new format.
We are also online poetry publisher and compete annually for the prestigious Pushcart Award.
If u are a poet / artist and do not have the means to be published, we would be the only one globally for you.
Medicine Art and Poetry, do they have anything in common? Can we prove through statistical associations that there is some significant value proving a common ground? I am not going to do that nor are those thousands if not millions of doctors who indulge in Poetry and Art with such passion, reserving a small section of consciousness for Medicine.
Well, whoever heard of a doctor artist or a doctor poet or even a combination of all three?
Just go to the friendly doctor in your neighbourhood and ask him. He might be able to enlighten you about some if not in lots.
An interesting article appeared in the Time Magazine January 15 1945 -
‘A surprising number of good poets have been doctors, and a surprising number of good doctors have been fair (or entertainingly poor) poets. These two facts are demonstrated by an anthology of verse by doctors, Poet Physicians (C. C. Thomas, $5), published last week.
Almost everyone who has read The Chambered Nautilus knows that the elder Oliver Wendell Holmes was a doctor. But not many know or remember that John Keats, Oliver Goldsmith, Friedrich Schiller, Tobias Smollett, George Crabbe, Robert Bridges, Francis Thompson, and Lieut. Colonel John McCrae (In Flanders Fields) were doctors too....’
Tonight, An Anthology of World Love Poetry
It has always been my greatest desire to know the different ways love is expressed in words, around the world. Poetry has found its way in words as early as the history of mankind. I would be partial if I may say that the most beautiful love poetry came from Urdu and Arabic literature dating back to sixteenth century but love poetry has been there far before that in the hieroglyphics of Egyptian pyramids and Mayan temples.
Extract from a 3,000 year-old Egyptian papyrus:
She is one girl, there is no one like her.
She is more beautiful than any other.
Look, she is like a star goddess arising
at the beginning of a happy new year.
I wouldn’t even hesitate to say that love poetry remains the only poetry I recognise, a poetry that has limitless horizons, unlimited landscapes, the flavour of humid earthy togetherness, the rain drop on a first kiss, summer of cobweb memories and winter of unflinching promises clouded with time.
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life effervescing then in a close knit pashmina
i thought of words written on bargain threads
not knowing breaths had sealed then
an oddly different sky
at a connaught place middle street we kissed
life flowed in each other quashed in the shawl
i asked of a river
it had always escaped
afternoon of repertoires
in a faint punjabi accent
touching your tongue
i saw a sun went hiding
in our ancestral sharing
eyes closed in pursuit
we hurled in colours and stars
of another momentary season.
Poem / Pastel / Watercolor by Amitabh Mitra
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