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
Samantha Carr
She has few secrets with her translucent map skin of blue underground rivers visible to scale.
Alison Patrick
A dozen snail shells exposed on dry soil
in the archangel’s cut brown stalks.
Banded like fairground sweets and helter-skelters . . .
Julie Egdell
At the shore of impossibility
last moments come to nothing
all our plans die in the salt air
of another new day on the black sea.
Elena Chamberlain
My trans friends and I just want to go swimming
in cold water
without a thousand eyes watching.
Regina Weinert
It was the snatch of a dream,
someone said this is not
what you do in the desert,
it was one precise thing, not a list . . .
Philip Dunkerley
We leave early, drive for two and a half hours,
park, find the church where you were married.
Marc Janssen
The sky opens
Blinking its single slackened eye.
Sigune Schnabel tr. Simon Lèbe
She cut letters out of me,
which quietly and unnoticed
danced red poems.
Pat Edwards
He is in white-out, stopped in his tracks,
dying for the comfort of a fag.
He makes a chalice around the flame,
hands becoming shield so he can light up.
