Poetry from Don Bormon

Don Bormon

In a Day of Winter

Winter is a season of cold and mist
This time dew shines on the leaves
It shows a lot of beauty of nature
In a day of winter,
I was walking on the street, I saw
The trees were dry
The leaves left the trees, I think
The leaves did not want live with the trees
The sun rays hide back of the dew
It wants to reach on the earth, I think
If I could be the sun rays!
I would come on the earth
To make happy the trees
To remove the dew and mist and make clear the sky. 

Don Bormon is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.  

Poetry from Wazed Abdullah

Wazed Abdullah

The land of Bangladesh

In the land of Bangladesh, 
Where the monsoons bring life and breath, 
The people thrive with an unyielding zest, 
And their spirit shines through every test. 
From the mangrove forests of the Sundarbans, 
To the tea plantations of Srimangal, 
Every inch of this country bears witness, 
To a beauty that's beyond measure or scale. 
With a rich history and vibrant culture, 
Bangladesh's story is one of grit and nurture, 
Where heroes and legends stand tall, 
Their stories echoing through every hall. 
The red and green flag waves high, 
A symbol of pride and unity in the sky, 
For a nation that stands strong and bold, 
Defying all odds with a heart of gold. 
So here's to Bangladesh, 
A land of wonders and endless zest,
May her people always find their way, 
And her glory shine bright every day.

Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. 

Poetry from Robiul Awal Esa

Robiul Awal Esa

Bangabandhu, The Hero of Bangla

Bangabandhu, you are the hero
Not only in a movie or a drama
You are the hero 
Of the whole Bangla

You are the icon of truth
Have shown your patriotism in every root
You are the icon of brave
Having no fear of falling to the cave

You are the poet of independence
Opening the eyes of every Bengalis lens

You are the icon of motivation
Never stopped in any severe situation
Fighting in faith 
Salute to them for the country who are dead

You are the icon of love 
Remaining in every Bengalis heart

You are the icon of true sole
Hats off to you, to your role.

Robiul Awal Esa is a 1st year student of Diploma in Nursing Science & Midwifery Course in  Government Nursing Institue, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. 

Poetry from Az Emina Krehic

Az Emina Krehic


I'm not going down the river
Nor do I look at your window crouched down
Between the red bricks,
I no longer call out in the dead of night
Fearing that nothing would be heard from There.

I'm not going anywhere from this room
From this song, from the last walk.
Can I be where I was
Even though it's not anymore?!
(But I was only with You
There where I am not...)

It scares me that I will forget your voice!
How does one start to forget?!
First, one wrinkle is corrected,
Then another,
The laughter dies down,
All the moles on the neck and hands fade,
You start to dream silently
And that face is getting farther and foggier,
Like a river and air
From last night

I'm not going anywhere outside these walls
And I should go somewhere else,
Lean on random shoulders
In passing and untangle from the hair, with long fingers,

An intricate poem.

Az Emina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia.
Winner of several international awards for poetry, including:
Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,
„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020.
Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021.
„Fra Martin Nedić“ Award, 2022.

She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.

Poetry from Mahbub Alam

Mahbub Alam

The Love-Rose

Give me a rose
I will give you all my force
I know you are the strength of my heart
The blue lagoon and the azure sky
The seagulls beautifully make the link
Matching the environment of the sea and the heaven
I know you remain always by me 
Like the seagulls 
Who does not like to fly over?
Or float on the waters?
Years after years throughout the long future round
The generation must read the way in the twinkling stars 
And can dive deep into the water of the scented rose.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
10 March, 2023

Living in a Circle

I'm wandering in a circle
It's my globe, a globe - like circle
My neighbour came out and asked me
"How are you going, dear?"
I replied with a long sigh
"This is my world getting smaller day by day
Filled with dust from every side of the space
Evoking the past on the spot by the way
I like to think, wander and play
I like to sing, write and recite
Though nothing is certain for performing well
I like to do some more
Being loved wandering in this circle."

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
10 March, 2023


Poems from Clive Gresswell


i sing in career (korea)
at opera
drenched to my bones
in such oily fish
and she won’t see me
in my carpet of gold
the ink substance
seeps thru my veins
i am half yours in
theory but we both know
it will go in a flash
& all that will be
is memories of the flesh
plus its spilt-blood of christ-water.

in lives entwined
then visited once again

as stones to silent rumours
a golden chain of command
seeps thru his ears
as if any of it mattered
what he wrote and didn’t write
it’s all decay in the end
in the end it’s all decay
withering and dwindling
like the hungry fox
who blemishing his
by turning a soldier
in the year before they met
in kansas
and then later he drew breath
at her & asked her to leave
move another one in
his old heart beating like an ox
time moved on
time stood still.
he was an angel
but also a broken memory.


in memory of sean bonney.

the sentence listed
against the plain wall
previously that was
not now
now it says your money kills
i would like some too.

not death sean

the day moves towards its zenith
while there is hardly anyone left
the clock on the station wall
says it is noon local time
birds fly high thru station’s balcony.

in the blink of an eye
the travellers have gone
about their busy ways
and pierre takes out
his golden pocket watch

presented by the railway
company to its 100th customer
this afternoon he is going to pawn it
while still hoping anxiously
next week
he can get it back again


the silence of the black and white film
is choking him

he needs to get out for some fresh air
& watch the flying fish
And he tries to tempt them with bread
even though hunger presses in
and throws him to the ground.

The Lark

the lark its hopes
dashed upon brigg hill 
it screams across the drawing-room claws: its yellow teeth
its stinking breath
and fortunes wasted on drink.

and half-crazy women
but the cuts do not show
they disperse on the wind
with the mounting notes
of her singing. 


Judges’ riddles in plaster-cast moons 
steps of wounded soldiers
fresh & bloody from battles
beyond  the corner wall
to the corner gate
their melting pleas fall on deaf ears
rattling drums/rattlesnakes
circled by banker’s drums
crashing into death’s headlines
the breaking waves: such gentle wars.

Stink of The Rich

time & skies blue lock
faultless jaybirds
swooping on derelict avenues
they, desperate, stink of the rich
fleshlings in a void
such homeless a number
imagined as in millions
glass howls at bellowing poverty
then shatters epileptic 
as boris johnson-kind don robot suits
head for the coal mines
(where it all began maggie).
now ‘tis shelter.

in everyday tongue screams
the professor
whose illegitimate claims
to an oxford chair
disembowelled a cancer chain
X  marks this spot where folklore blood was
& among creeping vines
& such graffiti as
the 21st century can muster
                                                    lies the piss & shit
                                                     the human belly of hunger.