R.K.Singh awarded for his poetry

THE WORLD PRIZE FOR LITERARY EXCELLENCE 2019-2020, APPROVED BY THE PROVINCIAL Municipality of URUBAMBA, THE Hispanomundial UNION OF WRITERS (UHE), OF PERUHE; MOTIVATIVATIONAL STRIPS, THE SULTANATE OF OMANATE OF OMANATE OF OMANATE AND THE WORLD NATIONS WRITERS UNION, BY KAZAKASKAN

Image may contain: ‎text that says "‎URUBAMBA ন UNION HISPANOMUNDIAL DE (UHE) MOTIVATIONAL STRIPS SULTANATO OMAN) WORLD NATIONS WRITER'S UNION (KAZAKSTAN) Confieren Presente PREMIO MUNDIAL A LA EXCELENCIA LITERARIA 2019-2020 Otorgado Ram Krishna Singh (India) En RECONOCIMIENIU extraordınario trabajo y aporte de Nacional Mundial. Urubamba, Cusco-Peru Febrero del 2020. tavor BEALARCEL URUBAMBA רכיל <CE CARLOS GERENTE URUBAMBA, Cusco, SHUUH. PRESIDENTE EJECUTIV SULTANATO DE OMAN STRIPS KAIRAT ARMAN PRESIDENTE WORLD NATIONS KAZAKSTAN‎"‎

 

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Motivational Strips Honours

MS Certificate

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R.K.Singh awarded for his poetry

Image may contain: ‎text that says "‎URUBAMBA ন UNION HISPANOMUNDIAL DE (UHE) MOTIVATIONAL STRIPS SULTANATO OMAN) WORLD NATIONS WRITER'S UNION (KAZAKSTAN) Confieren Presente PREMIO MUNDIAL A LA EXCELENCIA LITERARIA 2019-2020 Otorgado Ram Krishna Singh (India) En RECONOCIMIENIU extraordınario trabajo y aporte de Nacional Mundial. Urubamba, Cusco-Peru Febrero del 2020. tavor BEALARCEL URUBAMBA רכיל <CE CARLOS GERENTE URUBAMBA, Cusco, SHUUH. PRESIDENTE EJECUTIV SULTANATO DE OMAN STRIPS KAIRAT ARMAN PRESIDENTE WORLD NATIONS KAZAKSTAN‎"‎

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Poem by Ram Krishna Singh

ATUNIS GALAXY POETRY

Poem by Ram Krishna Singh
 
 
A Seasonal Grace
 
Amidst trees without fruits
and the rising jungle
flowers a seasonal grace
in colours coexist
with disfiguring autumn
 
 
 
A Tribute
 
The world is too big
& my share seems so small
thank God my name’s alive
on the net they can find
my lyrics not read in print
though none care to comment
for academics to hail me
a poet for PhD
 
 
 
Above The Earth’s Green
 
He is a solo drum
trying to get his rhythm
against the sputtering rains
 
the mud sticks on trousers
wet and cool it can’t sleep
in the thorns of our yard
 
I seek my balance in
yog-nidra in the closed
room think his thoughts and lies
 
we weave to ensnare spirit
that pricks the balloon we pump
to rise above the earth’s…

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SILENCE: A WHITE DISTRUST

SILENCE: A WHITE DISTRUST

ever evading

happiness for the now—

unfinished song

 

 

 

moonless

this November night

livelier with stars

and breathing silence

perfumed with night queen

 

 

 

still lingers

her scent on the linens

drying in shade

 

 

half painting

palette and easel

collect dust

in the studio

painted silence of mother

 

 

 

lemon tea—

shade of her lipstick

on my lip

 

 

 

last night’s rain

paves way for a clear sky

this morning

the breeze is cool and the sun

adds a new hue to the spring

 

 

 

 

filling emptiness

waves dance over each other—

the sky meets the sea

 

 

 

life is beautiful

when you enter another

body…mind

and become one

in each other

 

 

 

closed eyes:

smelling the cleavage

crescent wanes

 

 

 

her name

a soothing music

in the mouth:

I forget the pain in back

I seek the sky in silence

 

 

unzipping her back—

hundreds of nights grow wings

with wasp touch

 

 

 

intruding

the darkness of bedroom

a tree’s silhouette:

she whispers its masked presence

and says no to making love

 

 

brightness of the star

half-closed bedroom window:

moon shies away

 

waking to a morning

tainted with prayers

on the toilet seat

nude nature waves a dull sun

smitten by the night’s long eclipse

 

 

moon energy

fills up the inner space—

call to wake up

 

 

the busyness

and weariness of now

they toss about

regulating their sleep

by one another’s

 

 

stain-dried lingerie

reminds of the night’s act—

flowers of lips

 

 

smallness of the small

no sharing half-chewed betel—

mischievous whisper

in bed fuzzy sensation

ruddy lips that’s no love

 

 

I didn’t want to stare

her derriere lacks

definition

 

 

things get hairy, scary

with body failure

ailments pop up

spirit dries up

mind disconnects

 

 

hestitating

to take the first step through—

stands at the door

 

 

 

unhappy

with how I look and

feel right now

seek a best version

and just look within

 

 

silk silence

the sky measures

new cup of joy

 

 

 

in the white of night

sighs for supreme delight

steal tender pleasure

manipulating wetness

in bed unmask simple sin

 

 

 

greet the sun

on the terrace—

two roses

 

 

November morning–

too many thorns to reach

the only rose

and the tormenting thought

that I am forsaken

 

 

stunted bud

in the earthen pot—

winter sun

 

choking air

in a walled colony:

two tired pigeons

perch on overhead tank

whisper pity on us

 

 

 

a robin whispers

our talk in bed last night—

another bird

 

 

 

light switched off

love sliding on

window pane

moon too shies away

behind the bare tree

 

 

 

parking lot:

stolen truck

for a quickie

 

 

 

frozen

in the icy wind

my fingers

she fears the chill

on her cheeks

 

 

 

journeying

on a late-running train

squirrels frisk near track

 

 

 

if I die today

it won’t matter to any—

I have no worth

they all care for themselves

search nearest in curved space

 

 

 

repeats daily

in the mind my own story—

a feature film

 

 

 

a couple of drinks

and soft music to forget

the year’s hard days

now welcome the new morning

bid good bye to factious party

 

 

darkness of the heart

bouts of quiet clashes:

midnight oracle

 

 

 

visit Vinayak

each day new prayers inside

years old faces

at the threshold hit their heads

the dumb deity stays unmoved

 

 

visiting home—

shadows of forgotten days

on the wall

 

 

 

spider’s network

between two photo frames

bridge or bury

sensations no longer

spurt action in silence

 

on the terrace

facing the sun

an empty chair

 

 

black pigeons

sitting in a row

parapet

cracked for seeds to die

before they fly back

 

cease growing

new lines on the palms:

broken bangles*

 

 

(*indicates widowhood in India)

 

I’m not alone

waking up in the grave—

angels await

my rise to eternity

my love’s union again

 

 

 

noise of crackers

monotony of light

Diwali

 

 

4 a.m.

a noisy start to

Chhat puja*:

blaring songs from neighbourhood

sweet smell of frying from kitchen

 

 

 

(*a post-Diwali worship of the sun with 48-hours fasting, especially in Bihar, but now celebrated in many of the states in India)

 

 

incense sticks

perfume the air around—

offering on altar

 

 

 

 

end of May—

scorching heat follows

rain and hail

before iftaar this Friday

prayer promises bliss

 

 

Easter Sunday—

blood stains stick on the cross

more bomb blasts

 

 

wearied winter

each night bed a living grave:

drying breathing passage

and lonely shadows

delaying disaster

 

 

dirt conscious

everyday struggle:

rising up

 

 

 

 

 

too small to explore

the sea of the unknown:

island existence

breathing hell of darkness

dreading hungry excursions

 

 

 

cleaning the remains

of burnt out earthen lamps—

dusky temple yard

 

 

 

source of salvation

depository of sins

no cake cutting

in church promise of reaping

if we sow recovery seed

 

 

 

 

aching legs—

nightly tension crowns

moon sickness

 

 

 

an island

between the head and fate lines

bridges black hole

in life’s labyrinth shadows

move always ahead of me

 

 

 

 

after the discourse

beer and biryani in lunch—

Happy Drinksgiving

 

 

 

 

earthy body

and nightness of silence

fear in mirror

return to the river

echoing hollowed sound

 

 

 

long waiting

short consultation—

ophthalmologist

 

 

 

morning smog—

an asthmatic with grandson

coughing restlessly

on the terrace even

a limping crow seeks fresh air

 

 

 

she stoops down

writes her name on the sand

waves return

 

dark alleys

chaos on the road

fear delays

homeward move at nine

lumpens lie in wait

 

 

 

in the street corner

breeding maggots and vermin:

abandoned father

 

 

 

the wounds exit

the pain of truth lingers

under my sky

savage head battles for

vacuity, a victim

 

 

Good Friday

clouds and wind without rain:

boasts of giving

 

full blue moon—

divine channel from heavens

illuminating

arrival of Easter Sunday

and April, the angel month

 

 

 

full moon puja

knees not bending for years

blames her husband

 

 

before retiring

swallow pills to mitigate

her hackles

that walk me through to death

of desire for love in bed

 

 

 

pre-monsoon ramble

wilderness in harmony—

worlds within world

 

 

 

 

hail stones

lashing mango florets

my car too:

I fear thunder squall and rain

leaking roof and wetting bed

 

 

 

wild sugarcane

no animals savour

ageing monsoon

 

 

 

 

fishes swim

weeds disheveled

silent lake

I inhale

the city’s garbage

 

 

 

sudden downpour–

even in sleep I worry

about the virus

 

 

secret faces

unmask in sleep I see

signals through holes

that hide the heat of birth

through printed rag in clods

 

 

 

 

a long golden net

surges on the ocean tide—

fishing memories

 

 

 

 

two-wheelers

running on footpaths

all roads blocked

for pedestrians no way

in Bangalore living hell

 

 

 

near her eyes

signs of crow’s feet:

slaps of cold water

 

 

in the air

I expected romance—

corona

avoid her kiss

and breathing too

 

 

 

with spring comes

burial of romance:

COVID-19

 

 

 

quarantined

I clear my throat

behind the face mask

breathe in unknown viruses

suffer new repressions

 

 

 

now lockdown

cut off life:

castration

 

 

 

 

Covid-19

reading the astral transit

ceaseless lockdown

over-sanitized hands

playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’

 

 

 

 

her painting

a Phryne on the wall—

fear of touch

 

 

a sensualist

searching the spiritual

shakes so many hands

blathers academic worth

offers pearls for the pigs

 

 

 

house arrest:

full moon of April

a shadow stirs

 

 

ridicule

their exploring gaze

veiled women

with colours   patterns

and seismic movement

 

 

 

 

on the bed

physical distancing—

end of sex?

 

 

 

 

voiceless friends

in aloneness of the room

unread books

human’s unseen plenum

my sympathetic nerves

 

 

 

pre-morning mushrooms

bloom on the pubes:

dreamy arousal

 

 

 

self-renewing

greenness of the tree

blessed seed

every passing day

my limbs fade and fail

 

 

 

a drop of blood

her no to sex for months:

Lysistrata

 

soul’s yearning

resounding roar in the sky

leo moon:

heal, fire passion

my dying cells vibrate

 

 

 

a hammer pounding

my still body in the dark tube:

MRI

 

 

 

with foreign sound

I couldn’t be a lasting poem—

provisional body

nude smell and white distrust

play freedom in mounds of cloud

 

 

 

dreamy waves

gentle energy—

new moon

 

 

 

astral sky

new cycle of quest

changed mindset

a better version of self

sublimation of love-life

 

 

 

–R.K.SINGH

 

REVIEW:

Singh, Ram Krishna, “Silence: A White Distrust,” The Haiku Foundation Digital Library, accessed July 5, 2020, https://www.thehaikufoundation.org/omeka/items/show/6058. View also https://issuu.com/prof.r.k.singh/docs/newhaikutankabook .

Talking about Prof Ram Krishna is a real pleasure for me.  I met him on the Web about twenty years ago and his poetics hit me hard that time like  today.  Born in Varanasi in India, in my opinion, he is one of the most interesting  contemporary English-language Indian writers,  published  all over the world.

 

His new book, SILENCE: A WHITE DISTRUST, confirms a style  and, above all, a rare coherence in today’s literary panorama.

 

This collection consists of high quality haiku and tanka poems and can be approached as a long chain of linked verses (as suggested by the sub-title itself), or as a set of poems that can be read separately.  Since I am not a writer and an expert in tanka poetry, I will concentrate my analysis especially on his haiku.  For example, the set consisting of two haiku and a tanka:

 

greet the sun

on the terrace—

two roses

 

November morning–

too many thorns to reach

the only rose

and the tormenting thought

that I am forsaken

 

stunted bud

in the earthen pot—

winter sun

 

is one of my favourite. The idea of solitude,  but much more the abandonment, is effectively conveyed by the use of images such as “November morning” and “winter sun”, for example. Or the following sequence of two tanka and one haiku:

 

earthy body

and nightness of silence

fear in mirror

return to the river

echoing hollowed sound

 

long waiting

short consultation—

ophthalmologist

 

morning smog—

an asthmatic with grandson

coughing restlessly

on the terrace even

a limping crow seeks fresh air

 

which brings attention to the dramatic problem of pollution in India.  Among his haiku and senryu present in this collection, the following three are notable for simplicity (but not triviality),  in my opinion, which is a peculiarity of this poetic form:

 

visiting home—

shadows of forgotten days

on the wall

 

on the terrace

facing the sun

an empty chair

 

and this one inspired by the famous Indian holiday, Diwali:

 

noise of crackers

monotony of light

Diwali

 

But there is also room for other topics in his writings. Many of his works are highly erotic. This one, for example:

 

stain-dried lingerie

reminds of the night’s act—

flowers of lips

 

and also the Coronavirus pandemic, which seems to have inspired many authors around the world in this period, finds its place:

 

sudden downpour–

even in sleep I worry

about the virus

 

A theme masterfully taken up in this sequence of two haiku and a tanka:

 

 

 

 

with spring comes

burial of romance:

COVID-19

 

quarantined

I clear my throat

behind the face mask

breathe in unknown viruses

suffer new repressions

 

now lockdown

cut off life:

castration

 

This collection is something that leaves a mark on the reader. Poetry proves once again to be an effective means of communication to convey entire pieces of our life, and thinking of the poems of Prof. Ram Krishna Singh, the choice of Japanese-inspired poetics, with its essentiality, turns out to be once again a good choice. SILENCE: A WHITE DISTRUST is a beautiful book not to read quickly.

 

Andrea Cecon

 

 

 

Bio note:

Andrea Cecon is a hearing aids technician, a traveller, a haijin published all over the world and also an ebook apprentice. His first ebook won the 3rd place in Sharp Writ Book Awards contest 2011 (category: poetry). Residing in Cividale, Italy, with his wife, Russian haijin Valeria Simonova-Cecon. He finds his inspiration in memories, travels, and the everyday life. His books can be viewed on www.amazon.com/author/andreacecon

 

Review published in Italian on Luca Cenisi , 15 July 2020

Presentazione della silloge Silence: A White Distrust. An Experimental Poem in Linked Form di Ram Krishna Singh (2020) a cura di Andrea Cecon.

Parlare del Professor Ram Krishna non è facile, per me. Lo conobbi in rete una ventina di anni fa e la sua poetica mi colpì forte allora come oggi. Nato a Varanasi, in India, compone haiku in lingua inglese da circa quattro decadi e ha già pubblicato 46 libri. Presente anche all’interno di riviste internazionali, rappresenta uno degli autori indiani contemporanei più interessanti.
Questa sua nuova fatica letteraria – Silence: A White Distrust – mostra uno stile e, soprattutto, un equilibrio sempre più rari nel panorama letterario odierno.

La raccolta si compone di haiku, senryū e tanka di alta qualità. Nel complesso, il suo lavoro può essere visto sia come una lunga catena di versi collegati (come suggerito dal titolo stesso), sia come un insieme di poesie fruibili separatamente e parimenti godibili.

Non essendo uno scrittore od un esperto di poetica tanka, mi concentrerò principalmente sui suoi haiku in questa mia analisi.
Per esempio, l’insieme formato da due haiku e una tanka:

greet the sun

on the terrace—

two roses

 

        (accolgono il sole/ sulla terrazza –/ due rose)

 

November morning–

too many thorns to reach

the only rose

and the tormenting thought

that I am forsaken

 

(mattino di novembre –/ troppe spine per raggiungere/ l’unica rosa/ e il tomentoso pensiero/ del  mio abbandono)

 

stunted bud

in the earthen pot—

winter sun

 

                (una gemma acerba/ nel vaso di terracotta –/ sole d’inverno)

 

è tra i miei preferiti. L’idea della solitudine – anzi, di più, dell’abbandono – viene veicolata efficacemente attraverso l’utilizzo di immagini quali “November morning” e “winter sun”. Oppure ancora la seguente sequenza:

 

earthy body

and nightness of silence

fear in mirror

return to the river

echoing hollowed sound

 

(un corpo di terra/ e l’oscurità del silenzio/ fremono allo specchio/ ritornano al fiume/ echeggiando vacue sonorità)

long waiting

short consultation—

ophthalmologist

 

                (una lunga attesa/un breve consulto –/l’oftalmologo)

 

morning smog—

an asthmatic with grandson

coughing restlessly

on the terrace even

a limping crow seeks fresh air

 

(smog mattutino –/un asmatico con il nipote/ tossisce senza sosta/sopra il terrazzo anche/ un corvo zoppicante in cerca d’aria fresca)

 

che porta l’attenzione sul drammatico problema dell’inquinamento in India. Tra gli haiku e i senryū presenti in questa raccolta, si fanno poi notare, a  mio avviso, i seguenti tre per semplicità (nota: non banalità), peculiarità che è propria di queste forme poetiche:

 

visiting home—

shadows of forgotten days

on the wall

 

                (visita a casa –/ ombre di giorni dimenticati/ sulla parete)

 

on the terrace

facing the sun

an empty chair

 

(suono di crackers/ monotonia di luce/ Diwali)

 

Ma c’è anche spazio per altri argomenti nei suoi scritti. Molte delle sue opere si caratterizzano, infatti, per tonalità decisamente erotiche, come nell’esempio che segue:

 

stain-dried lingerie

reminds of the night’s act—

flowers of lips

 

                (la lingerie macchiata/ rievoca l’atto notturno –/ fiori di labbra)

 

 

nonché la pandemia da coronavirus, che sembra aver ispirato, invero, molti altri autori a livello globale:

 

sudden downpour–

even in sleep I worry

about the virus

 

                (acquazzone improvviso–/ anche nel sonno mi preoccupo/ del virus)

Si tratta, in realtà, di un tema ripreso efficacemente anche in questa sequenza:

 

with spring comes

burial of romance:

COVID-19

 

                (con la primavera arriva/ la sepoltura del romanticismo:/ COVID-19)

 

quarantined

I clear my throat

behind the face mask

breathe in unknown viruses

suffer new repressions

 

(quarantena/ mi schiarisco la gola/ dietro la mascherina/ inalando virus sconosciuti/ e subendo nuove restrizioni)

 

now lockdown

cut off life:

castration

 

                (ora il lockdown/ recide la vita:/ castrazione)

 

Presupponendo una buona dose di riflessioni e ragionamenti, affrontare questa raccolta lascia indubbiamente il segno nel lettore. In essa, infatti, l’esperienza personale e quella collettiva si fondono insieme in maniera feconda. La poesia si dimostra ancora una volta un mezzo comunicativo efficace per trasmettere interi frammenti della nostra vita, e pensando alle opere del Prof. Ram Krishna Singh, la scelta della poetica d’ispirazione giapponese, con la sua essenzialità, risulta ancora una volta vincente.

 

 

 

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Writing Haiku

Over five years ago, there was an interesting Groups Discussion going on at LinkedIn’s ‘Poetry Editors & Poets page about the effect of haiku and tanka writing on one’s poetry. I too reflected on the matter and wish to share my thoughts with friends here. Maybe, they too have something to say.

I have been practicing haiku and tanka for about three decades. It’s a difficult genre.Not always will happen a good poem in these forms. However, these do have serious impact on one’s regular poetry writing. This could be positive as well as negative. The positive effects include an inner ‘discipline’, improved imagery, brevity, and near-life and genuine expression. The imaginative quality is much improved, often with a spiritual touch,even in (or about) things that are most material, ordinary, banal, or sexual. In fact, I have found haiku and tanka a resplendent form, essentially spiritual, natural, lyrical, and just happening. It activates creativity from a higher consciousness.

The negative impact is, one often becomes confined to the form and ‘limited’. The frequency of regular poetry decreases considerably. As the artificiality of the ‘creative writing’ coached practitioners gradually disappears,or as one ceases to sustain the poetic inspiration for a long, the imagination tends to ‘reduce’ to silence. One moves from brevity to greater brevity, crowning in silence. Possibly one ceases to be a poet and turns into a saint, withdrawn within. But lesser poets might end up writing epigrammatic, didactic, or moralist three-liners, lacking what has been termed as ‘haiku spirit’.

-R K  Singh

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World Haiku Series 2019 (155) Haiku by Ram Krishna Singh

Thanks Hidenori san for your generous support to my haiku

Akita International Haiku Network

World Haiku Series 2019 (155)

Haiku by Ram Krishna Singh

cold and naked

in perils of water–

stumbling boatman

寒くて裸

水の危険の中で

つまずく船頭

winter holidays–

my son chases butterflies

flower to flower

冬休み

私の息子は蝶を追いかけます

花から花へ

cleaning the remains

of burnt out earthen lamps–

dusky temple yard

焼けた土製ランプの遺物の掃除をしている

薄暗い寺院の庭

unemptied

the cup of remorse–

begging bowl

空でない

後悔の杯

懇願するようなボウル

too small to explore

the sea of the unknown:

island existence

小さすぎて探索できません

未知の海を

島の存在

filling emptiness

waves dance over each other–

the sky meets the sea

空虚さを埋めている

波はお互いに踊る

空と海が出会う

moon energy

fills up the inner space–

call to wake up

月のエネルギー

内側の空間を埋める

目を覚ますように呼びかける

closed eyes:

smelling the cleavage

crescent wanes

閉じた目

くぼみのにおいをかぐ

三日月がかける

journeying

on a late running train

squirrels frisk near track

遅い電車で

リスが線路の近くではね回る

post-retirement

my watch not worn for days:

horologist

退職後

時計が何日間も身につけられていない

時計学者

— Translated by Hidenori Hiruta

Bio note:

Ram Krishna Singh, an Indian English poet, has been…

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PARO

The blue hillocks look at the vegetation below
green forests, orchids, firs and pines smile
over the rocky slopes horses graze and
down below a river teems with fishes
in the land of Dragon Paro is a bride
beautiful, angelic, loving
everyone cherishes her matutinal grace
I love her, and love the mastoid mountains
of Druk Yul, a greater heaven on earth

–R K Singh

(First published in Kuensel, Vol. IX, No. 17, April 28, 1974)

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Interview: R K Singh: In Conversation with Abnish Singh Chauhan / Creation and Criticism: ISSN: 2455-9687 (A Quarterly International Peer-reviewed Refereed e-Journal Devoted to English Language and Literature)

ATUNIS GALAXY POETRY

R K Singh: In Conversation with Abnish Singh Chauhan

http://creationandcriticism.com/113.html?fbclid=IwAR33F-tnM_o_X8qRrLk92YmnV32diVTQ2JyXhiR3cdRPHEsMRFuU_UuCTcI


“A poem rests
on brain signals imaged
in words and silence
one decodes with dog sense
smelling twists and turns in rhythm
that turn it prophetic.” (A Poem)

The journey of poetic composition, as the poet says himself, begins with the poet and ends with the reader for which requires verbal competency, intelligence and constructive environment in order to code and decode the ‘signals’ of creative beauty in a forceful and effective manner. Since the poet is the first reader and critic of his poetic piece, he should have the capacity to articulate and interpret his own words in prose in order to judge the suitability, profundity and authenticity of his ‘signals’ in the form of emotions, ideas and images for inter-personal and intra-personal communications. T S Eliot also emphasized this in The Music of Poetry; however, in the…

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Interview with Abnish Chauhan reproduced on ATUNIS

https://atunispoetry.com/2020/06/14/interview-r-k-singh-in-conversation-with-abnish-singh-chauhan-creation-and-criticism-issn-2455-9687-a-quarterly-international-peer-reviewed-refereed-e-journal-devoted-to-english-language-an/

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