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
Dilys Wyndham Thomas
we walk through the exhibition hall lost
amongst water-logged bones, a sunk haul lost
Ruth Lexton
It is late at night and the kettle is boiling,
a quire of steam fanning out in the white kitchen
you are holding me as if I were your girl again
Stewart Carswell
It’s the house at the end.
White paint flakes off the front gate,
wood rots beneath.
Chris Kinsey
Hey cat, you’re doing really well,
three fields stalked and only one to go.
Holly Magill
. . .you’re swallowed whole
into this cocoon: pine-scent, antibac and the dry
whoosh of his heater – lean your careworn bones into
synthetic leather snug, . . .
Dave Simmons
My sky is a hole from which the bucket drops.
Like all heretics, I am put to work processing stones.
Paul Fenn
To impress you, I became
a seven-year-old son of Sparta.
A little hard man, crayon
marching down the page.
Ruth Aylett
God had been playing computer games
for a chunk of eternity when he became aware
he’d left creation in the oven for a long time
Chris Campbell
The View From This Hospital Window
I admire an empty bench for hours –
then a glum couple sit to share strawberries.