i should
 
i take part in an online discussion
and know i should stay with it
as it could assist me with something
but i leave the chat and go outside 
under the full moon
and watch bats flying high in the sky
 
my grape vine is spreading
across the neighbour’s fence
into all their trees
and i should do something about it 
but i don’t as i like its rapid climb
and the visual chaos it delivers 
 
i need a new car urgently
so on the way back from the city
i stop at a car yard i’m told is ok
and almost go in there
but instead i drive off in my old car
singing a song above all the rattles
 
my passport has expired
and lately i’ve been thinking of travel
so i look up renewing information
as i should get this sorted out
but i don’t read the renewal website 
as there are way too many words
 
as i walk towards the water
a man tells me a shark was just seen
i thank him for the information
and know i should not swim here
but i wade into the ocean anyway
and swim out deeper than usual

a fabulous publisher contacts me
offering to publish my next poetry book
i am excited by the opportunity
and know i should go for it 
but the idea of a book launch is daunting 
so i refuse and suggest we do it later   
 
i should answer text messages
pay unpaid bills 
and respond to emails
but instead i sit under a friendly tree
and start writing a poem 
about everything i should do




Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s been commissioned often, and had 20 plays produced, with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His poetry is published often. His next book drops soon. He has performed his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen’s play, ‘Johnny Chico’ ran in Spain for four years. 

Yet Tomorrow is Inevitable

We may be tired, with our hands tied down,
the bluelight staining our eyes.
We may be crying with wants to wallow,
to sink down, down, down.
We may sleep in, under the covers, begging to 
steal warmth for our own.
We may long for company and still,
push those we love away.
We may wish for a different life,
to be someone else.
But you are so beautiful when
you hate the world.
But your tears look like falling stars,
ones I could wish upon.
But you want to live in a single, good piece
of time and be happy, happy, happy.
But I beg for my ribs to break so I could pull out
my heart, and give it to you,
bloody and beating.
Yet tomorrow is inevitable,
always coming, always running towards us.
What if we fell in love
with the world, all over again.
What if we admired the small moments and
became hoarders of the mundane.
What if we search closely, for the 
interconnectedness, of all things.
What if we step off the path just to 
watch the trees sway.
What if it rains and we lie,
in a pool of cloud tears, soaking.
Because I, too, fear being perceived.

A Sound of the Body

The world with its ecosystem has a physical body
Where we live and die - the elements are inter related 
As the sky with its stars and planets 
The human body - with its flesh and blood
Good or harmful deeds- feeling bright or sick
Time is passing so rapid that makes it aged, decay and die
The condition is the same for body of us and the earth
By the cutting down of so much trees 
The weather getting imbalanced day by day
Takes it so hot and dry, breaks the banks of the rivers 
Seeping the oil on the waters
It is as if the hungers feed
Emitting the carbon dioxide much on water and surface
That the greenhouse effect we suffer from the terrible heat of the sun
The life is changing to decay, die day by day
Because of its misuse of everything, ignoring all we should have
As the sight of the disbelieving incidents of the earth
Feeling sleepy at the time of raining, I go to my bed
In the sunlight or moonlit night 
I walk on the carpeted ground with its beautiful green
How far the glorious fitness of the body will continue
The condition of my body inside and outside speaks out, speaks out.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh,
12 April, 2024.



Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. 

He has achieved three times Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been being published in an International Online Magazine - Synchronized Chaos from America for seven years. 

WHEN I WRITE A POEM…

When I write a poem,
all the beauty appears in front of me.
giving life to the lines,
My verses make a riot

When I write a poem, as if my pen
My heart is in a rush.
My lines don’t fit on the paper,
It will busy without finding a way.

When writing a poem, the whole world,
Sing accompaniment with me.
The total human of the earth,
Thoughts of goodness and peace.

When I write a poem, it’s like the world,
It is visible in the palm of my hand.
Mother Earth is the whole existence,
Hold it in a warm heat.

When I write a poem, my proud feelings,
He shouts out of pride.
Feelings dormant in the depths of the heart,
As long as it is full, it will blow.

When writing a poem, it is as if the ocean,
I will sink to the bottom
My world in my mind,
I will fly in the sky.

Saodat Kurbanova
Uzbekistan 

The Ways They Didn’t 



He and her worked

In so many ways

But when things

Got tough

The ways 

That the 

Two of them worked

Seemed to matter

A lot less

Than the ways

They didn't.



Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “In the Arena,” his third full-length poetry collection, was released on April 3.

  Heights

From these Heights we can see it all,

The place of it. Things as they are.

Things as we imagine them to be.

Bays and small harbors, beaches

And boats. These are the pictures

We take away, cameras full of this,

Memories filled with what we saw

And what we thought we saw. This

Is a place we read about, a place

We’ve filed away, getting ready to

Talk about. From the Heights it all

Became clear, the people become

Pieces in this puzzle, live as best

They can, surrounded by the natural

Beauty of the place, playing their

Part on the edges of what tourists

Bring to it, see and imagine. Natives

Of places like this live at the bottom

Of the Heights, live on low wages or

Play their parts in the unemployed.

From these heights the native population,

The day-to-day people of places, like

This, almost disappear into the beauty

Of this place.

 

   What We Take Away

All these fat cats roll by

Filling up their afternoon

And their excursion bus

With jokes and jawing

Spying, commenting on

As they make their way

Make their day going about

The business of tourists

Getting their photos to                                                                                         .

Bring home, spending as

That group does, on things

That fit expectations back

Home, refrigerator magnets

Another pen or coffee cup

With their destination’s name

In bold bright lettering – while

Some go off for duty-free items

Watches and jewelry. They’re

Here then gone, making very

Little impression on the place

They’re passing through on

Their way to the next day.

 

                   This Cold

This cold, this coughing, this sneezing

Followed me down here to the tropics

With its sunshine and warmth. Followed

Me down from the north with its snowing

And cold. Followed me as I tried to escape

Escape the inevitable. Booked this cruise

Island to island here in the Caribbean, and

It must have snuck aboard, stowed away

And waited. I heard it in the distance at first

Somewhere in the audience at the stage show.

Then it slowly approached me, nearer and

Nearer at dinner, behind me in line as we

Disembarked in the last port. I should have

Recognize his noises, coughing and sneezing

But I mistook who he was after. He was some

Other person’s cold, something they brought

Along to share their vacation. But early this

Morning, too early for me, I woke to him and

His various wiles – his stuffy nose that begins

To run, his short bursts of coughing, and his

Scratching at my throat. He followed me, he

Watched me for a time planning his next move

And now he’s here, my winter cold I thought

I could leave behind but couldn’t. 

House by the Sea 

On the shore of the blue sea, 
Stands a house, white as snow, 
Under the wind it rustles, bringing cold through the window, 
While gray ravens circle the sky, as if reading fate. 
Seagulls soar over the waves, 
Causing unrest with their cries, 
While the scent of salt beckons the soul to journey, 
Into the endless blue, where the sky touches the water. 
In that house by the sea, 
You hear only silence, except for the whispering of the wind, 
And the sounds of waves caressing the shore, 
As love envelops the heart with its warmth. 
Gray ravens, seagulls, sea, and wind, 
Become part of the landscape, part of the story of life, 
In which every emotion is reflected, 
Like waves that caress the shore, over and over again.

Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". 
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro,and shealso is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.