Essay from Vo Thi Nhu Mai

Young East Asian woman with long dark hair and a blue blouse with flowers on the sleeves looking down on a blue book. She's got a bracelet with brown beads and a few rings and stands in front of a tan patterned pillow and window to the outside with green leaves.

MELODY OF A POETIC HEART

(Võ Thị Như Mai)

That graceful lady, on a rainy afternoon, opened for the first time a notebook filled with scribbled lines of poetry. At first, she felt confused, as if hearing a foreign language. But then, with each rhythm and each resonant word, she was amazed to realize: poetry was speaking for her own heart. From that moment on, poetry became a companion, helping her to understand the world and herself. People often say, “Poetry is the blood of the heart, the voice of the soul” (Gibran). Indeed, poetry is everywhere: in lullabies, in letters, even in dry chronicles. It not only arranges words but distills emotions, turning the personal into a shared rhythm. Thus, poetry is like a bridge spanning generations and feelings. If you have ever been puzzled by a poem, do not rush to blame it for being inaccessible. Like any art form, poetry requires patience and an open heart. When we listen and allow ourselves to be moved, poetry will bloom. To fully appreciate it, readers should begin by understanding poetry’s structure: from lines, stanzas, rhyme schemes, to rhythm, all are pieces that harmonize into a meaningful picture.

As she began to explore the world of poetry, she gradually realized that reading poetry is not merely about receiving brief phrases but a journey opening layers of emotions and reflections. Poetry is a condensed world where each line, each image carries a hidden meaning, waiting for the patient reader to unfold. A poem, seemingly simple on the surface, actually contains a whole universe of the soul. Everyone approaches poetry with their own perspectives and experiences, making the meaning of a poem never fixed but always shifting with each heart that receives it. Poet Robert Frost once said: “Poetry is a conversation between the heart and the mind, a way for people to extend their voice across time.” And so, decoding poetry requires subtle understanding and attentive listening.

One autumn afternoon in August, the graceful lady sat by the window holding an old poem gifted by an unknown author. She read it repeatedly; each word and phrase gradually revealed images, tones, and emotions she had never noticed before. She learned not to rush analyzing each word but to let the entire poem flow smoothly through her soul, until everything naturally became clearer. She began to ask: Who is speaking in the poem? To whom are they speaking? What is the surrounding context? These questions opened a space for deeper understanding—not only of the author but also of herself. There is a saying: “The best reader is one who journeys alongside the author in discovering meaning” (Ezra Pound). And the graceful lady gradually realized that reading poetry truly means not only understanding words but living with the poem’s breath and feelings.

Poetic language is a world different from everyday speech, a place where symbolic images, subtle metaphors, and harmonious rhythms combine to give the work life. Once, in a conversation with a seasoned poet, she heard him say: “Metaphor is the soul of poetry. A single image can carry a vast range of emotions, transporting the reader from reality to imagination.” Like when Shakespeare called life “a fool’s tale, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,” just a few words made readers feel the futility and brevity of human existence. Martin Luther King, Jr. also used metaphor in his famous speech, calling the American South a “burning desert of oppression” and hoping it would become “an oasis of freedom and justice,” powerful images that stirred the hearts of listeners. The graceful lady understood that metaphor not only enlivens language but also enables poetry to transcend ordinary language limits and reach the listener’s heart.

But the journey of writing poetry is not always smooth. Some days, the graceful lady sat at her desk staring at a blank page, her mind tangled, unable to find a single idea. Feelings of frustration, fear, and anxiety hung like a shadow. She recalled Ernest Hemingway’s words: “Writing is a lonely job but sitting still and not writing is lonelier still.” In that moment, she understood that writer’s block is inevitable, and how she overcomes it matters most. She tried stepping outside to breathe fresh air, watching people passing by to calm her mind. Sometimes, just a short story about a bird flying past the window would brighten her thoughts, making words flood back. She began jotting down fragmented sentences, small ideas, imperfect but real, and from there, the creative flow resumed.

As poet Rainer Maria Rilke once advised: “Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without noticing it, live your way into the answer.” The graceful lady learned that creativity does not always require a perfect plan; sometimes a small step or a spontaneous idea is enough to break through the wall of stagnation. Music, nature, and small everyday objects all became precious sources of inspiration, helping her reclaim emotions and continue raising her own voice.

In the end, she realized poetry is a process of empathy, between the writer and themselves, and between the reader and the author. Each poem is like a mirror reflecting hidden corners of the human soul, helping us better understand ourselves and the world around us. As poet Langston Hughes said, “Poetry is understanding people with the heart, not just the mind.” And when the graceful lady sat down to write her first verses, she knew she was not alone. Like generations before her, she was gathering fragments of words and rhythms of emotion to create her own symphony, a melody of the heart echoing through past, present, and future.

V.T.N.M.

Võ Thị Như Mai is a translator, poet, and educator lives in Western Australia. She is known for translating Vietnamese poetry into English and vice versa, helping to connect and promote cultural and linguistic exchange between the two literary traditions. Her poems have been published on many major platforms attracting wide attention from readers both in Vietnam and abroad. In May 2025, she was honoured with an award from the Vietnamese Consulate General in Australia, recognizing her outstanding contributions to the development and promotion of Vietnamese literature overseas.

Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin

South Asian man with reading glasses and red shoulder length hair. He's got a red collared shirt on.
Mesfakus Salahin

Accepting ls Life

‎No illusion, no love;

‎No light, no shadow;

‎No conversation of contentment in life

‎A diagram of the difference is in the paths

‎If I am on this path, you are different

‎The caterpillars of dissatisfaction spread across the cultivated land

‎A fence of weeds is all around

‎There is a severe drought across our Mahananda.

‎No day, no night;

‎No eyes in the eyes, no hands in the hands;

‎No heart in the flowers.

‎The embryo of love is  bound by the chains of time

‎Seeing from one side of the river to the other

‎The boat of blame floats on the water’s surface

‎The moments of the village play throughout the world

‎Turning the pages of the calendar, thinking of mistakes as flowers.

‎No moon, no stars;

‎No song of the clouds, no poetry of the rain;

‎No blue sky across the sky.

‎Different planets under one roof.

‎Wrong trees in every corner of the world.

‎The rain of acting is on the branches of the Kadamba tree.

‎Dreams are broken by the sharpness of silence.

‎The rain is pouring down, but the rain is not touched.

‎No seasons, no cycles;

‎No color of the black peak, no beauty of youth;

‎No tide of excitement

‎The sigh of the night pierces the sound of rain

‎The light is eaten away by specks

‎A bird’s wings lose their life force in the yellowing

‎The lost traveler walks with wounded hands

‎Who knows when the boat will arrive at the pier?

‎Hang the volcano of mistakes on my fingertips

‎You pass unnoticed, your list of mistakes

‎Arrange the braids of hair on volcanic rocks

‎Let n’t me decorate  the rainy heart

‎Deep love thirsts for spanish cherry to explain the reason

‎The spanish cherry cries, the kiss line on her forehead is a dead river

‎Jasmine wakes up and sees the empty eyes of the morning

‎The sun, swaying in the rain water, melts in the sky

‎I store the pain of the night in the moon

‎The moon of separation melts in the explosion of neurons

‎The ribs spread across the chest in the gust of wind.

‎The tomb of dead memories walks across the sands of the Mahananda 

‎Tears roll down in the eyes of time

‎Tears freeze in the wounded heart

‎The blossoming flower of love loses its fragrance

‎I have to accept it – so accepting is life!

Poetry from Marjona Baxtiyorovna Jo‘rayeva

Young Central Asian woman with long straight dark hair, brown eyes, a tan coat, white blouse, and small necklace.

I Am a Football Fan

Like many others, I have many interests,
But let me tell you just one of them.
Sitting in front of the television screen,
Watching football—that’s my favorite hobby.

The kings of football: Ronaldo, Messi,
And I’m also a fan of Neymar Junior.
When Marcelo strikes with his amazing shots,
My eyes light up with joy and delight.

Running on a lush green field with the ball—
It’s not easy, facing tough rivals.
When luck is on your side, you score a goal,
But if it’s not, you might not even touch the ball.

Some win, and others lose the match,
Often, the final minutes decide it all.
We share in the winners’ celebration,
And stand by the losers with hearts full of empathy.

It’s not easy for those who lose either,
For behind them stands an entire nation.
Sometimes, we must admit who earned victory,
Sometimes, defeat teaches more to a man.

I mentioned the world’s most famous players,
Spoke of the greats and their shining names.
But truly, let us never forget
The footballers of my own Uzbekistan.

They have skill, courage, and speed,
Win or lose in every game they play.
No matter the outcome, behind them always
Stands the hopeful Uzbek crowd watching with pride.

We have “Jaloliddin,” we have “Abbosjon,”
Carried in every Uzbek’s heartfelt prayer.
May your feet never grow tired on the pitch—
You are tomorrow’s world champions!

Marjona Baxtiyorovna Jo‘rayeva was born on October 18, 2003, in Termiz district, Surkhandarya region.
She studied at School No. 6 in her district from 2010 to 2021. From grades 5 to 11, she actively participated in the “Knowledge Competitions” and “Subject Olympiads” in the subject of Uzbek Language and Literature, winning first place in district-level rounds and becoming a winner at the regional level. She graduated from school with an honors diploma and a gold medal
In 2022, she was admitted to the Uzbek Language and Literature program at the Faculty of Philology of Termiz State Pedagogical Institute on a state scholarship. Currently, she is a third-year student at the institute and also serves as the coordinator of the “Mushoira” (Poetry) Club. In addition, she works as a teacher of Uzbek language and literature at the specialized School No. 12 in Termiz district.
She is a member of the Democratic Party of Uzbekistan “Milliy Tiklanish” (National Revival). She has a good command of both English and Turkish languages and holds a B2 level certificate in Turkish.

Poetry from Yongbo Ma

East Asian older man in a short sleeved tan shirt and dark pants seated on an old style carved wooden chair next to other Asian looking museum artifacts on a red wall.

Fog over Incheon

Drowsiness is like the fog over Incheon

lingering long over the sea

like an army before landing, quiet and patient

in the enigma, some lonely water molecules

hang motionless in the air

On the morning beach, only a few large crows

caw and fly chasing each other

seemingly frolicking while provoking the waves

seagulls seem to have retreated to the sea

Landing fog can end the sun’s white reign

even temporarily, it can shift a line named by numbers

like a vernier caliper, moving to and fro

trying to make “three” and “eight” equal

The whole world sharing the same heat and cold— that’s unscientific

unless the earth is flat, with no front or back

Then someone shouts from the fog, you three-eight

answering cries come from no known direction

go away, stinky three-eight

Written on the plane from Incheon to Harbin, July 3, 2025

《仁川的雾》

困倦像仁川的雾,在海上久久不散

像登录前的军队,安静而耐心

谜团中,一些孤独的水分子

静止地悬在空中

清晨的海滩上,只有几只大乌鸦

啊啊叫着追来追去地飞

似乎一边嬉戏,一边挑衅着海浪

海鸥似乎都退避到了海上

登陆的雾可以结束太阳的白色统治

尽管是暂时的,也可以把一条以数字命名的线

像游标卡尺一样挪来挪去

试图让”三”和”八”变成均等

环球同此凉热,那不符合科学

除非地球是扁平的,且没有正反面

于是,雾中有人大喊,你个三八

不知从哪个方向会有回应传来

滚开,臭三八

2025年7月3日于仁川回哈尔滨飞机上

Poetry from Dr. Debabrata Maji 

Young South Asian man with straight dark hair, reading glasses, and a yellow scarf over a pink collared shirt.

Power of Dedication 

The power of dedication forced 

To move in smiles deserving life

It’s a powerful ointment treatment 

May change your goal perspective.

Dedication forced to sacrifice

It is always bonded faithfulness

Forced to be a gentle greatness 

Strong perception of commitment.

Help to overcome any obstacles 

Strength mind to face challenges 

It’s an arising mood of soul winnings 

Overcome any kind of weakness.

Motivated the eternal sunshine 

And propelled the inner strength

Destructive catalysts of shame

Strength the sense of discipline.

But it’s also certain limitations 

Never compromise with resilience 

Life makes more perfect in goal

Transforming dreams into reality.

Dr. Debabrata Maji’s journey is one woven with the artistry of words, the precision of engineering, and the resounding echoes of literary passion. Born on September 6, 1961, in the serene Deulpur Village of Howrah District, West Bengal, India, his life’s path meandered through the structured world of engineering before blossoming into an awe-inspiring legacy in the poetic realm. With the gentle guidance of his parents, the late Harendra Nath Maji and late Nirmala Maji, Dr. Maji grew up immersed in the rhythms of nature and the unspoken poetry of life.

Despite pursuing a career in engineering, the written word never loosened its grip on his soul. It was as if poetry was inscribed into his very being, waiting patiently for the right moment to erupt into brilliance. And erupt, it did. What followed was an unstoppable rise through the ranks of the World Poetic Fraternity, marking Dr. Maji as a luminary in contemporary literature. His works—potent, evocative, and timeless—captured hearts across borders, earning him a place among the greatest voices of his era.

His literary prowess, distinguished by a profound sensitivity and refined craftsmanship, has been recognized far and wide. The world acknowledged his contributions by bestowing upon him twelve Honorary Doctorates, a testament to the depth and impact of his work. Recognition followed in waves, with nine prestigious Annual Literary Awards adorning his illustrious career—one of the most remarkable being the Silver Saraswati Statue, a symbol of divine wisdom and artistic excellence.

The weight of his influence is evident in the vast array of publications that carry his name. His unique poetic creations have graced numerous magazines, newspapers, and contemporary anthologies, reaching readers across India and beyond. His artistry, rooted in heartfelt emotions and intricate expressions, carved a distinct space within global literary landscapes.

Dr. Maji’s written legacy is solidified through six remarkable poetry collections, each bearing the coveted ISBN. His books—*Kavita Bichitra*, *Kavita Darpan*, *Probad Angina*, *Premer Boikunth*, *Sonnet Bhaskar*, *Harano Bamsari*, *Smarane Manane” and *Dreamscape* — are more than literary works; they are extensions of his soul. They have found their way into the hands of eager readers, offering solace, beauty, and wisdom through poetic verses that transcend time.

The accolades are endless, honoring his artistic contributions with the most distinguished awards: *Bharat Gaurav Ishan Award*, *International Solidarity Award*, *Kabi Ratna Award*, *Sarat Sahitya Ratna Award*, *Bengal Shiksha Gaurav*, *International Kabi Ratna Award*, and many more, including the *Royal of Art and Literature Award*, *Bishwa Bongo Sahitya Award*, *Golden Pen Award*, *Golden Star Award*, *William Shakespeare Award*, *Poet of Nature Award*, and the revered *Gold Poetry Prize Winner*. These titles bear witness to his unwavering commitment to poetry and the sheer brilliance of his literary craft.

A life dedicated to poetic excellence naturally garnered admiration and respect, culminating in six prestigious Lifetime Achievement Awards. These recognitions not only celebrate his mastery but also solidify his place in the pantheon of poetic greatness. His presence as a guest in numerous literary organizations further reinforces the esteem he commands within intellectual and artistic circles.

Through every verse, every accolade, and every page that carries his name, Dr. Debabrata Maji’s journey remains an extraordinary testament to the boundless power of words. His story is not merely about accolades or achievements—it is about a man who dared to transform life’s melodies into poetry, leaving behind an enduring legacy that will inspire generations to come.

Poetry from Thathanahally B. Shekara

Middle aged South Asian man in a light blue collared shirt. He's got short hair and a trimmed mustache and is outside on a sunny day with trees and other people behind him.

Our kingdom

I am become victim

For your beautiful smile,

The flirtation of lightning eyes.

Many emotions erupting in the mind

Unbearable impatience

No awareness of the world around me

Sweet feeling in the heart

The feeling of flying in the sky

Your presence is hope.

The sweetness of your voice.

I’m lost, don’t search for me anywhere

I will find you.

Accept me, my life is become delicious.

In our own kingdom,

You are the queen

I am the king

Nobody in our state.

SHEKARA T B. Thathanahally Basavaraju Shekara

I was born on 04.02.1981 in Hassan District, Karnataka State, India.  I graduated from Mysore University and did post-graduate work in Kannada literature and earned a MA from KSOU Mysore. I’ve been interviewed on many radio programs in AIR Hassan in graduation level, many poems of mine are published in many books, and some poems are published in local and international newspapers.  I believe in equality among human beings, freedom of expression, and peace and fraternity in the world.

I write poems and stories in Kannada and English that are published in international literary journals and the Global Nation of Bangladesh, The Primelore, Bangladesh. I’m published in Poetry Tribune Rumenia, Atunis Galaxy Poetry, Literary Barcelona Magazine Egift, Obra Maestra Canada, IACL, Humayun Editorials Monthly Journal of Poetry and outlets on social media.

As a writer, I want to give a voice to marginalized classes of our society, to people of different cultures, religions, and languages. I believe that people are all similar underneath our differences. This strong belief provoked me to write.

Poetry from Cherise Barasch

Legs and brown workboots of a man digging into red soil on a sunny day next to yellow shovels.

PEOPLE EARTH

I watch them from my living room window

The thermometer reads 96 degrees, in the shade

They work in teams, pulling orange cables from one hole to the next.

My eye catches one head of thick, black hair,

poking up through my lawn.

Surrounded by a mound of red, clay earth, with shovel in hand, he emerges from the depths of the South Carolina clay. 

They are the same hue of red, the earth and he.

They are as one, in the heat of the blistering sun

Exposed, thirsty, scorched, relentless in their work.

One goes in the hole, the next emerges with a length of orange cable in hand.

The next enters another portal, followed by the next, it goes on, in an unnatural pattern, for as far as I can see.

Men of the earth, covered in clay, digging into the mother, on a hot, summer’s day.

Their sweat, mixed with the clay earth, has changed the color of their shirts from white to a blood stained red. 

He removes his sombrero, wipes his brow.

And awaits the arrival of his mid day meal.

A Suburban pulls up to a group of a dozen or so earth-painted, people.

Salutations are exchanged in Spanish, some hugs, a few kisses, and lots of smiling faces embrace the arrival of la comida.

Hot, homemade, food is distributed from coolers, by the hands of grateful, gracious, brave and courageous women. 

Back to the earth, for back breaking digging.

Into the mother to earn a living.

These are the earth people, the ones who know that the only way to reach the other side…is to go through.