And on its dedication page, Cummings printed a concrete poem—a poem written in the shape of a funereal urn, listing the names of every publisher who had rejected him...
Even after releasing a novel, poetry collections, and plays, American writer E.E. Cummings’s proposed collection 70 Poems was rejected by 14 publishers. With a loan from his mother, he finally managed to publish the book in 1935, but with two noteworthy revisions. First, he changed its title to No Thanks, a reference to the dismissal letters he’d received. And on its dedication page, Cummings printed a concrete poem—a poem written in the shape of a funereal urn, listing the names of every publisher who had rejected him.
By Zeba Aziz
Again the night has come
Again the joy has come
The tears that waited
All day long
Are about to fall
Each tear that falls
Is filled with regret
Each of it embraces
The dark night
And states its story
The moon is the lamp
In the hands of the night
The stars are fireflies
So bright
The joy and melancholy
Both in the air
With the time that passes
The tears weep more
The dawn is to appear
The departure is near
Alas! The night has gone
Again, the joy has gone
By Rumaissa Chouhan
When the stars get blurred by the clouds
When the moon hides behind them
When the wind kisses your eyes
When the drops of rain blesses your cheeks
Remember me, my name
My soul and my heart
Remember my love
That lingered around you
And then...
When you remember
Pray for me, pray for my soul
Pray that it gets healed and cured
For all the love I showered upon others
Finds me too, in the darkest nights
Pray that I find peace within my true self
And when…
The stars get visible
The clouds disintegrate
When the moon shows its grace
When the rainbow embraces the sky
And the wind plays with the leaves
Run towards me, run to embrace me
Run to show me care and affection
To tell me that I am loved
To tell me I am worthy of love
Of care, of attention
Run so I can be proud of my life
Run before the clouds blur the stars
Before the moon hides
Run, run towards me, for me.
By Ali Asghar Ghani
On a frosty winter night
under an old mapple tree
The black wind dances with
forgotten songs of the past
Compiled by SK
