Today’s choice

Previous poems

Ibrar Sami

 

 

 

Return

Across the barren land
where blood once played its savage Holi,
the fearless migratory birds
have returned again.

In the melancholy blue sky
their wings beat
with a message of arrival.

Blooming flowers fell
in the middle of the day—
they wait now
for the final hour of night.

The clouds travelled far
and came back as rain
in the twilight of monsoon.

By rivers and marshes,
at the start of the rainy season,
frogs croak endlessly—
announcing the return of peace.

The sea, which wept
through all these months,
has come back as a rising tide
with a vow to flood the shore.

The tired sun had lost itself
in darkness at the end of day—
it returns again at dawn
with its glow of crimson light.

Look there—
inside the chest of the proletariat
the collapsing mist of darkness
still trembles.

In this long exile of waiting—
will you continue to wait,
or will you extend your hand and say,
“Stand tall beside me—
once more?”

 

Ibrar Sami is a contemporary poet from Dhaka, Bangladesh, whose work explores the intersections of memory, solitude, and social consciousness. His poetry often delves into existential reflection, urban life, and the human struggle amidst silence and societal tension. With a focus on vivid imagery and philosophical depth, his poems have been translated into English for international audiences, making them accessible to readers worldwide. He can be found on Instagram @IbrarSami1

Matt Nicholson

      Light at the edge of the world It takes both of us to pull the door open before I follow her up to the light room, climbing what appears to be a thousand spiral steps. At the top, leaning on a bent rail worn by old hands, I am breathing hard, like...

George Cassidy Payne

      The Sturgeon The mechanics of suffering is not so daunting to understand it hurts for a while- gums and bellies pierced by an unseen passion... and then it is done the savory-sweet, cherry cough syrup scent of death dries and disappears, leaving...

Ellie Jenkins

      The Ceiling is Painted Vivid White Many things crave our attention: the plates maturing in the sink after last night’s spag bol; the poinsettia dying on the windowsill; the news constantly playing on phone screens or the TV; that photo that needs...

 Ginny Saunders

      The Biologist, the Poet and the Silverfish On my first ever date, he romances me not with poems but with talk of nocturnal dry-land fish, how they glide and skitter like mercurial swimmers and grace the damp of his bedsit grime. Like them, he has...

Jackson

      Many hands The day before the fridge broke down I wished it would shut up As I listened, trying to breathe, the noise separated I could hear the electrons shocking about in the wires the liquefied gas gurgling thinly in the pipes a ringing like a...

Gareth Culshaw

      The Lost Tongue Some said he had no tongue. The words he spoke came through his body. I watched him nod, put up a thumb, flick his head, shake a hand, shrug, and walk fast as if his feet were on fire. Not many people knew him or maybe they didn’t...

Sally Michaelson 

      No Show Poser un lapin is what I keep doing when I suggest we meet in the forest where the air is soft and the trees leafing as though we could walk side by side without touching as though you hadn’t entwined your feet round mine like roots...

Oliver Smith

      The Road to Witcombe Water As she passed the white hemlock weeds that crowded the verges beneath the wires from the Old Exchange, my mother left her footprints remembered by the gravel, dusty tracks by the lichgate, fifty years by the weathered,...

Charles G Lauder, Jr

      Sweeping out the Store Before the finality of his broom and the open door he    pauses to study the trails toing and froing along the dusty sidewalk some crossing this threshold to buy supplies a pair or two don’t stop head on past to the saloon...