"I have never felt salvation in nature. I love cities above all."Michelangelo

Capitals are epitome of our imagination and are considered the highest achievement of human civilization in terms of art, literature and architecture. Countries are often addressed by their capitals. India is referred to as New Delhi, Russia as Moscow, and the United States as Washington DC. Generally each country has one national capital, however there are some countries which have more than one capital. For example South Africa has three capitals while Bolivia has two. Some countries such as Monaco or Vatican are synonymous with their capitals. Some countries do not have a capital at all, for example, Nauru does not have a capital city. Some cities are also known as world capitals, for example, London and New York often compete for the title of the world capital.

 The word Capital is derived from Latin Capitalis meaning "of the head," hence "capital, chief, first". Capitals are seats of political and often financial power and thus provide patronage to the finest art and culture including poetry. No wonder, architect Daniel Libeskind says— "Cities are the greatest creations of humanity."

Our planet is divided into 193 plus sovereign nation-states, each with its own power-centers located in its capital city. In the contemporary age of globalization, the flow of ideas, people, goods among these capitals is greater compared to other cities or regions. It can be safely said that capitals are at the forefront of globalization.

After travelling many countries and to their capitals as a poet and as a diplomat I have realized that capitals are tied together by a common thread despite their seeming differences on the surface. As Italo Calvino, the author of The Invisible Cities puts it so beautifully-"Travelling, you realize that differences are lost: each city takes to resembling all cities, places exchange their form, order, distances, a shapeless dust cloud invades the continents."

Each day a legion of diplomats, parliamentarians and officials travel to these capitals to carry out the affairs of the state. Scores of businessmen, tourists, students, journalists and workers travel for business, sightseeing, visiting friends and relatives, education, reporting and employment. A large number of travel writers and photographers visit different corners of our planet and publish their travelogues and photographs. They are all consciously or unconsciously helping the world to come together, creating a close-knit community of global citizens aware of the exquisite beauty and diversity of our planet.  

Cities have always fascinated me. I grew up in Nalanda, Bihar before moving to New Delhi for studies. I studied Geography in the College and at the University. After joining the Indian Foreign Service, I have worked in New Delhi, Moscow, St. Petersburg and Kathmandu before moving to Brasilia. As part of my work, I often visit capitals of different countries at a very short notice.  Wherever I go I want to see and experience that place through poetry.

 As I could not find a readily available poetry atlas of the world, I decided to create one for my own reading pleasure. I set out on an impossible journey of finding a poem on each capital city of the world. These lines of Caliph and Hassan inspired me "Caliph Ah, if there shall ever arise a nation whose people have forgotten poetry or whose poets have forgotten the people, though they send their ships round Taprobane and their armies across the hills of Hindustan, though their city be greater than Babylon of old, though they mine a league into earth or mount to the stars on wings- what of them?  Hassan They will be a dark patch upon the world."         

I wanted to light my own candle in the darkness surrounding me. The journey looked arduous as I did not know many poets outside my own country. I asked for help from those whom I knew, thinking they would know the poets across the world being well networked. However I was surprised and shocked to find out that even the most well connected poets, in their sixties, did not know poets from the two-third of the world. My journey looked impossible. Nevertheless, the glory of the goal gave me strength and the Internet provided me means to connect with poets across the world.

I set out to explore hoping on the way I would meet poets whom I had never known or even heard of, would read their poems and hopefully one day would even meet them in real life.

Poetry Parnassus curated by Simon Armitage alongside London Olympics in 2012 came as the only close parallel to my mind. An anthology titled World Record was published on the occasion containing works of the participating poets in the Parnassus. Many countries were represented by their poets who were long dead. A BBC report of that time informs that the organizers of the Poetry Parnassus in London had difficulties in finding poets from Monaco and a host of other countries. A public call went to twenty-three missing countries in search for poets who could represent them in the Poetry Parnassus. 

My experience has been equally challenging. I could not find poems on a number of capitals despite my best efforts and had to write a few poems myself for this anthology. Editing this anthology I learned that poets from Europe and America were connected well to each other compared to the poets from Africa and Asia. I faced difficulties in finding poets from countries where Arabic, Spanish, French and Portuguese are spoken. Very few poets write in English in these countries. It was difficult to find a good translator who could translate their works into English. There is need for more translations.

 As J. D. McClatchy quotes Aristotle in The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry “The basis of all poetry is metaphor. Nothing can be freshly or truly seen in itself until it is seen first as something else. It is this image-making impulse that unifies world poetry, and gives it its spiritual force.” This anthology tries to bring out the distinct images and individual experiences of the capital cities through poetry. The anthology not only tries to connect poets with each other but also attempts to exhort travellers and the local residents to look at the capitals from the eyes of the poets.

 It is a unique anthology that covers most of the planet. The anthology brings together poets of different genres and ages, the only link being their poems on the capital cities. Most poets have written about their own capital cities giving a degree of intimateness and individuality to their poems. However, there are a few poets who have contributed poems on the cities travelled and explored by them. So there is also the outsider’s perspective to poems on some capital cities.

The anthology is ordered alphabetically— Africa, Americas, Asia-Pacific and Europe. I have merged North, Central and South America into one region —Americas, and brought a few countries of Oceania into Asia-Pacific because of their geographical proximity.

The anthology begins with a poem on Abuja, the new capital of Nigeria, by Jumoke Verissimo— "Signpost/This capital is under construction/So enter into this rock town/shaped like a mug/and see that/still when nothing happens/it moves into the news." It sets the mood. She adds further— "I watch you – struggle to become/a city with a soul./On the shoulder of trembling grounds/your eyes though open cannot see/the earth is shifting. You’re saving sand./I will not be swallowed. I’ll move on." The poet takes us to Abuja's dark underworld and bares her soul.  She expresses her deep fears to be swallowed and at the same time hopes to move on.

Kwame Dawes in his poem Green Boy takes us to a night in Accra when drums are heard instead of the sound of guns — "That night, they stared into/the orange dusk over Accra, poured libation,/listening for guns first, but soon/it was drums, the celebration."

 Liyou Libsekal describes Addis Ababa— ''this dappled green core pulses with early song/ taxi boys in convulsive refrain." In Christopher Merrill's Algiers "the ashfall hasn’t reached the city, and yet the sky at noon is pitch-black." Betsy Orlando visualizes Antananarivo as a lady walking with grace carrying a basket on her head. In Bamako, a lady longs for a husband. Grandmaster Masese proclaims the immortality of the capital of the Central African Republic— "Bangui never dies."

I had heard a lot from my diplomat friends about Cape Town, one of the three capitals of South Africa but had never imagined the way Gabeba Baderoon visualizes Cape Town in her poem —"I step on the old silences of the city./What can explain/this exact and unjust beauty?/In the last flash of the sun, the city gleams/white and hard as bone."

I have never been to Conakry but Gerard Noiret's poem on Conakry instantly makes me feel the heat of this capital city in capital letters— "WHO FORGOT TO INVENT SHADE IN THIS COUNTRY?"

 Charlotte Hill O'Neal reminisces about her city 'In Memories of Dar es Salaam, '—"Charcoal smell wraps ‘round makaa coals/Sizzling and fizzling and assaulting my nostrils/with acrid sweet odors that I will never forget."

 Tim Cummings finds old men squatting in the heat of the sun in Khartoum—"Time moves like grain through wood,/memory opening up like a palm,/fermenting in buckets for moonshine/booze that scrambles the eyes/of old men squatting in the heat/of the sun, generous in its embrace." 

 Sita Namwalie' Kigali — "… is a mirror of shifting moods,/A place of heaving seasons."

Frank M. Chipasula brings out the racial and linguistic fissures in Lilongwe evocatively in his poem —"Though the white city curses the black/in fluent Afrikaans, it stutters on the bird-/lime of Mandarin and carefully broken English."

Meg Pierce finds herself yawning in Lome where— "The din of night,/meanders into early morn./Under the motionless,/moonlit sky a lone moto/hums along, silently scattering/plastic scraps./ I yawn."

Jekwu Ozoemene is stared down by an angry sun in Lusaka. Yusuf Adamu's Niamey is a capital of contrasts and segregation. Only a poet can compare the river Niger to a mirror in which Niamey refuses to see its face— "In this city of contrasts, the city of segregation/I breathe the scent of Hausaland in Zango/In this brownish city of lower and upper markets/I see the new capital refusing to see its face/In the mirror of the river Niger."

Karla Brundage can't forget Yamoussoukro of her mother's days and with great pain writes—  "The wildlife is gone/ No ivory left in the Ivory Coast/It is cliché to tell young people that/The elephants have gone/My students don’t care/They want an iphone 6."

Joseph Brodsky remarked once— "What I like about cities is that everything is king size, the beauty and the ugliness." Viola Allo's Yaounde is a such a mish-mash of contrasts —"I see the maddening mish-mash/of wealth and adversity, and/I squeeze my father’s hand,/clamber back into his car and stay there." 

Poems on African capitals take us on a journey to this continent through memories, sounds of silence, drums, birds, taxis and guns; racial tensions, segregation, heat, natural beauty, loss of wildlife to a growing craze for modern gadgets. We see Africa in all its vibrant colours through these poems.

Our poetic journey of the Americas begins with a poem by Imruh Bakri on Basseterre, the capital of the Federation of St. Kitts and Nevis, the smallest sovereign state in Americas in terms of both area and population. In his poem he writes—"The circus clock/was standing still/and going nowhere/when Marcus Garvey/stood on Basseterre Bay Road/not far from the old slave/market in Pall Mall Square/His voice took the sea/breeze inland/where volcanic rock resides."

 Amparo Osorio's Bogota is— "like a swarm of fallen angels/the afternoon's reddish clouds descend/In the hollow of the city" and "it is impossible    /to meditate in silence." Marcus Freitas's Brasilia is a— "city without traditions" living in "half a century of solitude/within the central highlands."

 Linda M. Deane writes about Bridgetown— "we kill more Time—/another round and later, leave the way we came,/passing men and boys at ground level, still/Playing games at the edge of Bridgetown."

 Buenos Aires is—"an invisible city, continuing, made of messages/Strung together by those who have most cherished/The lucid pleasures of thought," in words of Clive Wilmer. In Marcela Sulak's Caracas— "it´s raining/on her bright breasts, it´s raining on her belly/down her thighs; the people below are wet/with stolen light."

Mark Mcwatt's has many Georgetowns in his memory fleeing—"Georgetowns of my memory flee/from me now, taking with them/those long-lost houses, whose quiet corners/and dark, hiding cupboards used to sing/songs of comfort and belonging."

Pedro Pérez Sarduy in his poem Searching for an Unemployed Lover writes—Havana lives on the edge of darkness/with its air contaminated by tourists/and uncommon dissidents./ Havana was there mine and more sensual than usual /leaning out as always from her balconies."

 "On Kingston’s flat worn earth,/everything is hard as glass./The sun smashes into the city – no breath,/no wind, just the engulfing, asthmatic noonday"— writes Kwame Dawes about the capital of Jamaica.

In the evening in Ernesto Cardenal's Managua—" the neon lights are soft/and the mercury streetlamps, pale and beautiful /And the red star on a radio tower/in the twilight sky of Managua/looks as pretty as Venus."  Zoe Brigley's Mexico City— "is an island like a jewel or scarab/on the flat lagoon where herons wade./They walk the circling zócalo from city door /to city gate.

Luis Bravo's Montevideo— "is not a city for tourists but for explorers of the spirit, in Montevideo the poets dream a dream within a dream.”

In Alfred Corn's New York—"They stare back into an increate future,/Dead stars, burning still." Lucy Cristina Chau's Panama City is surreal — "while you’re sleeping –/a woman is drawing herself/using the precise lines of the infinite/and preparing – as in an invented ritual–/the clandestine meeting/with your kisses."

In Derek Walcott's Port of Spain—"Night, the black summer, simplifies her smells/into a village; she assumes the impenetrable/musk of the negro." Delroy Nesta Williams asks— "How do you walk through Roseau/And not smell the stench?"

Luis Chaves's — "San Jose was nothing but/some lights in the distance:/a bureaucratic constellation/looking a little less underdeveloped in the dark." In Veronica Zondek's Santiago —"Pregnancy is a circumstance./Life is weird/and stretches out as a statistic./Death hides away behind thick walls/in a black disposable bag."  Jael Uribe's  Santo Domingo is a place where —"Happy people/run wild in the streets/shadows dance on concrete." Alex Bramwell finds the Bolivian capital confounding— "The city of the House of Freedom/has four names and forty languages/but all words are the same."

In Kim Roberts' Washington DC— "The Lincoln sinks into the Potomac/with a sigh" while in Myra Skalrew's Washington DC earth talks—"In this freest city. Oh if earth/could talk. Earth does talk in the neatly framed yards/where death thinks to lay us down to rest. Asleep,/the marker stones." 

Journey to each capital seems a journey to the wonderland, as if riding on a broomstick, flying around the world.  Could there be a better way than to see Asia with the eyes of the poets and to begin with Ankara, the capital of Turkey?

Look at Müesser Yeniay's Ankara fending for itself alone like a widow— "colds, winters, leaves piercing/inside the body of a girl/—Ankara is alone like a widow" or Astana of Temirkhan Medetbek for that matter—"It is so bitter cold here/that your spittle becomes ice/and face swells/as a pumpkin."

Poet Salah Al Hamdani's Baghdad is a fallen city— "Oh Baghdad/cursed city/like you perhaps, I'll die among exiles/and I'll bind my tears to yours/and to those of your impotent gods." In Arthur Sze's Beijing—"man hauling coal in the street is stilled forever./Inside a temple, instead of light/a slow shutter lets the darkness in."  

Poet P.S. Cottier's Canberra is a city "built as a compromise." Michelle Cahill finds Canberra with —"A swathe of poppies, memorial to Darafshan,/a father’s odium for the rogue soldier."

Two poems on Jerusalem, one by Asa Boxer, another by Mahmoud Darwish, show us two different visions of the historic city. Asa Boxer brings out terror hiding in nooks and crannies of the city in his poem —"Terror lives in the cornerstones, and in the small/monuments around what seems like every bend./Terror at the children murdered in their dawdling."  Mahmoud Darwish's poem so beautifully translated by Fady Joudah has altogether a different vision and depth— "In Jerusalem, and I mean within the ancient walls,/I walk from one epoch to another without a memory/to guide me. The prophets over there are sharing/the history of the holy."

Ali Al Jallawi's Manama sheds tears —"Like two sycamores/Like doves/Landing on a wire of his ideas/God poured from his chest/His knees dropped onto a star/And nearby, anama cried." Marra PL. Lanot's Manila is— "… rich with the warm/Spit of barbers and shoeshine boys,/Of guitars strumming for stolen chickens/ Manila that is mother earth/For it is brave enough to own/Heroes killed for unremembered cause."

Ashjan Hendi ruminates on Riyadh—"Let my dreams reach the sky/please don’t wake me up/and don’t ask me why/dreams should be sweet/when they come true/in luscious Riyadh."  Kim Gyeongmee advises on how to eat in Seoul — "Be a heart like the bean sprouts boiled to the core/Never spill a single grain of the quiet in the shade of rice." Alvin Pang tells us — "if S’pore exists, if it is to be/found within the bounds/of this island and not just/in the colour of my passport, of my smart card."

Sudesh Mishra's Suva is a happy place —"Yes, it rings true: we are the happy few./We have been kept in the dark for so long/We see in it the first stirrings of dawn." Hamid Ismailov reflects on his life in Tashkent — "In your life you’ll still write another/twenty five books in the little square/among the mass of stone, ugly memorials."

“I love to travel in the night in dark streets of Tbilisi” —writes Sabrina Masud and then explores the city's history, myths and legends through her poem.  Mimi Khalvati asks questions in Tehran —"What if the city/that gave credence to your sickness/were as vanished as the home/you took for granted you would bless/with success and happy children?"

In Jan Napier's Tokyo—"… nights are charred paper./ Whispers transform them to flakes of ash/ the wind lifts and whirls like fairy skirts." G. Mend-Ooyo writes about the sparrows of Ulaan Baatar —"The last leaves tear from the trees and fly away./A flock of sparrows come in to take their place." 

Bryan Thao Worra Vientiane is a — "Sandalwood city/The moon hangs high above us/Night fragrant and calm./ So many temples here,/Monuments and kind people/The Buddha strolls by." In Jennifer Compton's Wellington —"There is a darkness..: and also an itinerant rainbow/strolling like a twister with one lazy finger dipped in water."  Lola Koundakjian sees in her dreams in Yerevan nights —"herself on a bed of clouds/Reclining/Reposing."

Europe is presented in different moods from Helsinki to Nicosia, from Dublin to Moscow by the European poets as well as the poets from other continents.

Joris Lenstra writes about Amsterdam—"He’s got a mouth like a river, juicy and toothless./Everybody loves him because he’s willing to shoulder anything/Without ever complaining./He shifts tons through small waterways to Germany." In Andorra la Vella of Ester Fenoll Garcia— "the sky and lakes/guard the silence of dawn."   

In Athens it is so hot that Claire Askew is at loss—"All night, under the chattering fans,/I think about the girl’s chapped throat,/the boy she lies beside,/their mouths. None of us sleeps."  She adds—"Things that thrive here: mules/and stones, crickets loud as fire alarms,/the harder vines. Old women/whose hands and feet are tough,/whose men worked boats or built homes/all day in the big heat,/and died young."

In Jelena Lengold's Belgrade—"The old people in…street/walk in the park every day staking their life with their cane/like leaves./Sometimes they stake through the heart of a young green leaf/which utters a moan." Milan Dobricic's Belgrade carries—"The smell of linden-trees/a tremor of water/the scuttling of sparrow."

 Hatto Fischer is in a bit of a shock in Berlin—"That was not what I had expected to see, Berlin at the end of the bar, mind you the Einstein café was created by an architect friend from Hamburg, and who went to Paris for the materials to cover the seats and sofas, while the carpenter of this longest bar had already fitted out Onassis' yacht."

 Brigitte Fuchs compares Bern with a bear after which the city is named—"Since he lent the city its name, he holds /the Berner (clumsy and unhurried) on his toes." Charles Baudelaire lands up in Willem Roggeman's Brussels—"With a burning suitcase full of melancholy/…in order to escape his creditors/and in the hope of finding a publisher/for all of his poems."

 In Astrid Alben's Bucharest—"Distant voices hum along arthritic electricity poles./Ravens lick their scabs." George Szirtes's Budapest —"… offers you no evidence /Except the collage of the overheard,/Extended clauses of a broken sentence."

 Phillip Nikolayev reminisces about his happy Soviet childhood days in Moldova's capital —"Those were days of cholera epidemics/in Moldova. We’d buy peasant-cooked/fodder corn on the cob when we got hungry,/haggled with old ladies over pennies."

 Philip McDonagh writes about Copenhagen— "At Horsholm, Holte, and along the coast/the subfusc autumn colours of the trees;/by every bus-stop workers at their post/before the dawn, in silent companies."

 In Anni Sumari's Helsinki—"snow falls in slow motion/someone wades into the dark/the unpronounced polar dawn is/quelled by snow sweepers." Anatoly Kudryavitsky's Kiev is—"a gaping wound in the sky./ The city has been running /a high fever: buildings swollen,/all the corners rounded." Xavier Frias Conde's— "Lisbon/wanders barefoot."In Les Wicks' London - "Long-distance buses are a sort of death/every bodily function closes down in an odoriferous, slumped shuffle."

 Valzhyna Mort asks in Minsk —"How hard it is to pull ourselves up /from the pose of a question mark/into the pose of an exclamation?" In Phillip Nikolayev 's Moscow—"The parks begin to yawn, where statues still /stand half-emphatically, as if leaning /toward the vacuum of a lost empire. "

“Inconsolable, I gave myself to the sullen/glory of great poems and ended up here, on the/windiest corner of the windy city.” “Go to Oslo,”/said the young woman, “there is no wind in Oslo.”" —writes Mark Strand.

Remembering her father's city, Pascale Petit writes—"All of Paris is quiet, while the oxygen machine/struggles to fill your lungs."  "I was wanted in Paris. Paris, astounded by my splendor/and charmed by my excitable manner,/waited to open its arms to me." —writes Vijay Seshadri.

Adam Borzic's Prague—"… is dressed up as a warder/In long flowing cloak, the color of rain/Seeks all fragile souls/And every time gives them the same frozen kiss."Luca Benassi's—"Rome is red sunsets/and golden days swept away from hills/with nothing left/but ruins that nurture a romance." In Anatoly Kudryavitsky's Sarajevo— "a boy wearing headphones/ walks off the edge/ into his silent music." In Sudeep Sen's Sarajevo— "air is memory, memory photo-plates,/ plates repository of translucent images/of fire, birth, and now — your time now."

 Magdalena Horvat's— "Skopje is cigarette smoke/its "sky pierced by chimneys and factory towers/ the language stuck in our throats, in our lungs." Kapka Kassabova's Sofia— "is the place where in dark, empty apartments the people you love live inside mirrors."

Mathura (aka Margus Lattik) remembers Stockholm of his childhood and very poignantly puts it—" Stockholm is beautiful. I am ordinary." In Hasso Krull's Tallinn— "The trees look medieval. A half-naked girl in golden shoes steps out on the street from a cellar. Somebody stops you: hey, do you have a lighter?"

 Mathias Ospelt on Vaduz roundabout does not know what to do next—"Should I go now to the “Löwen”? /Or should I go now to “Lett”? /Should I go to the movies? /Or should I go home to bed/I could also just idle in this roundabout/Staying here wouldn’t be so bad/Outside it’s way too dangerous/Out there the world’s gone mad."

It is not all rosy out there in Immanuel Mifsud's Valetta—"A dog’s turd in the middle of the street, crowned by a legion of flies. A couple of filthy strays wagging their tail." Irish poet Pat Boran writes about the Vatican City— "Barbarians inside the gate, we could tear down/this whole splendid city, this gilded confection, this stunning/insult to the poor, the queer, the fallen out of grace."

Priya Sarukkai Chabria's Vienna is— "A peephole, an iris closing on itself:/My view of Vienna or von Stroheim’s shimmering/film of him playing his dream: the Count immaculate in debauchery."

This anthology ends with a poem on Zagreb, the capital of Croatia by Tomica Bajsic who waits at an ATM to get hold of a banknote of a thousand Kunas with a portrait of Ante Starčević, the father of Croatia. He ends up complaining that he has grown old waiting in queue to meet the father of his nation.

What I have learned from these poems about the leadings cities of our planet, I would not have learned reading a thousand travel guides. The beauty of language, imagery, metaphors used to describe the capitals by the contributing poets is simply extraordinary. These poems are the most original and individual expressions of poets inviting to see our capitals through their eyes. Therefore, the expectations of objectivity, rationality, reality, generally known picture-portraits reading travel guides and stereotypical images are futile. The originality of this anthology lie in its ability to awe, shock and surprise you, taking you to the less travelled paths and showing you a world that exists in the eyes of the poets.

Majority of the poets who have contributed to this anthology are eminent poets including a Nobel Laureate but there are also a small number of not so well known poets who have contributed to this anthology as their poems add value to it. Several poets have contributed their previously unpublished work here while a few have contributed their published poems.

Editing this unique anthology that almost covers the entire planet has taken me over two years. Scottish Poetry Library, Australian Poetry and Theatre Without Borders helped me in this endeavor by spreading the word about the anthology. However, I faced the inherent challenges involved in undertaking such a humongous task, foremost of them was the language barrier. Poets who write in Spanish, Portuguese, French, Dutch and Arabic had difficulties in contributing to this anthology. As a result I have not been able to cover every capital city. I could not get good poems on some capitals despite my best efforts. I received many poems which were not worth including in this anthology and hence rejected them.

Sadly, Mark Strand left us before the completion of this anthology. When I wrote to him requesting him to contribute a poem on Oslo, he replied instantly on 4 October 2014 with his words— "Go right ahead." He left us on 29 November 2014 but his poems will live on reminding us of the extraordinary beauty that surrounds us. Inara Cedrins who contributed her poems on Beijing and Cairo to this anthology also left us before its completion. She will be fondly remembered.

Editing the anthology has been an experience of great learning and pleasure. The greatest pleasure for me has been to get to know poets of over 160 countries, to read their poems and see the world in a refreshing way through their eyes. I spoke to a number of poets during this exciting journey including the Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott, a truly humble and gentle soul. His poems on Castries and Port of Spain feature in this anthology.  

Now as the anthology is ready with poems on major capital cities of the world, I offer you words of Tony Robbins— "The only impossible journey is the one you never begin." I have tried to present you the face of these capital cities we rarely get to see like the dark side of the moon.  

Through this ambitious anthology, I want to bring together poets of the world living in different continents. I want to create a more closely knit global poetic community ranging from Seoul to Sucre, Ottawa to Wellington, and Reykjavik to Cape Town. The Metcalfe’s Law tells us how the value of a network grows exponentially with each new node whether a telephone or a human, it’s our interconnectedness that enriches us.  I hope this anthology will enrich us by bridging the communication gap among the poets of Africa, Asia-Pacific and  America, among the poets of English and non-English speaking world and will intensify creative exchanges leading to the birth of a true global poetry community. 

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