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
Geraldine Stoneham
The silence and peace of this place
creeps through on birdsong.
Emma Lee
The instruction invites overthinking:
describe your hometown through
the medium of simple sentences
Vanessa Napolitano
I ask my father to dinner, pretending he is still alive,
ask him what he’d like. He says a pork chop which is not
something I know how to cook.
David Forrest
I don’t know why you bother with poetry Vlad mutters as he adjusts the current in the magnets, forcing them to rhyme with each other.
Neil Fulwood
Today’s operative on the ohrwurm shift
has hacked the WiFi password
in the ear canal and now I’m looping back
endlessly to a misheard lyric . . .
Ira Lightman
Laid down, his upraised face is
White – offputting – on a plumped pillow.
Dave Wynne-Jones
“The all-consuming passion
is rarely found
more than a recipe
for misery,”
you read
Pat Edwards
He appears like a paper bag blown onto the feeder,
punching his beak time and again into the peanuts.
Kate Noakes
If you follow faerie lights
that wisp where boardwalk
becomes trackway, make sure
you’re stocked with milk,
or bread and salt.