THE POET – Featured Poetry – August, 2021

Featured Poetry – AUGUST, 2021.


By Monica Manolachi (ROMANIA)

My first English dictionary

had an author with a Russian surname

not easy to pronounce.

It was a birthday present.

Mother wanted me to have another mother

when she was away at work.

A mother with pages.

We had moved to a new home,

the living room was empty

and grandpa had brought us a turkey.

After she gave me the dictionary,

the revolution broke out.

I began to flip through it more often,

imagining myself in a foreign city,

where my sister was waving from a bridge.

Cot, pot, bun, pun, plug, rug, ham, ram…

Each and every new word halved me

like a bird halving the sky.

When I first sang a song in the new language,

nobody around understood me

nor did I know what I was singing.

Then I kept silent for some time

in all sorts of languages from the planet.

A silent night with bones.

Grandpa died when I was in a foreign city,

where I saw a turkey in a park.

Eventually, I gave the dictionary away

and freed the albatross from its cover.

I loved people before grasping their words.

On the path of translation

I have found the child I used to be.


➡️ Điểm qua bộ sưu tập stt hay về cuộc đời tại đây. Toàn những câu nói giúp bạn thấu hiểu hơn về mọi mặt của cuộc sống.

Award-winning poet Monica Manolachi is a lecturer of English and Spanish at the University of Bucharest. She has published three collections of her own poetry, and has translated other poets, as well as classical and contemporary novels, into Romanian.

FB: @monica.manolachi


By Isioma Jemimah Okonicha (NIGERIA)

Your name is mentioned everywhere

Each day you struggle for a ticket as you hang your bag

Looking for either local or advanced means of transport.

Your ways we do not understand

A job that keeps you on a path through journeys

You do not have a family

You spend each day booking tickets and staying in lines

All passengers have had contact with you

They speak of your weird nature

You never speak to anyone except travel is mentioned

That’s when you suddenly awake

You sleep throughout the way as you snore loudly

We know your mark your identify

You do not accord time for anything else

As you clinch right to the bag that you prefer to hold

You’ve been voted as the king of travels

Yet you disagree as you deny holding a certain bag too

With marks of deep sleep

As you talk on a full speed

No one has the right to criticize you though

We are only eager to know your destinations

Call it a gossip, but our reasons are genuine

You are always saying a goodbye.


➡️ Xem thêm Nhà có tang có nên gọi đầu không? Có nên cắt tóc không?

Isioma Jemimah Okonicha is a Nigerian writer and poet, with several works published in magazines, journals and anthologies. 


By Hanh Chau (USA)

The melting pots

They called this place is

Where the mixture is originated

With the diversity display

Do you see where you belong

With the colour of image skin

The mother tongue that you speak

The ancient history you represent

Your REAL identity that it was asked

To ensure where it fits

In the mainstream society

One MUST break out

Of own comfort zone

And come out from its own shell

To learn the true value

To showcase where it begins

I found my own heritage comes

With bravery and beauty posses

To carry out with a beautiful legacy

I am humble to call myself

ABC – American Born Chinese

That I still eat with chopstick and rice

That instilled me with


To define for the potential

of greater opportunity

In the land of freedom

For a better future

Yet, it reminded me

Never lose in touch

With my own heritage root

Where I come from 

Be proud of you are

And stand firmly

To show gracious kindness

Of one true radiant colour

With the own unique individuality


➡️ Xem thêm: Những câu nói hay về cà phê (Có tiếng Việt & tiếng Anh)

Born in Vietnam, of Chinese descent, Hanh Chau has a Bachelor’s and Master’s degree in Business administration and enjoys writing poetry in her spare time.

E: [email protected]



It was lovely at Hasiba’s

Summer kitchen she used

In winter

As a matter of fact, she wasn’t just cooking there

She was receiving women there

She was cutting pilaf there, she was making preserves there

It was a place for dining and sleeping

She would take us into the house and show us around

Both stories of the house

We only never went into the bedroom

With a balcony where Hasiba’s son was sleeping all the time

Tough and sturdy guy

We would tiptoe back

To the summer kitchen

Where a tea pot was waiting for us

An elder tree tea

So tasty and so sweet

I would fall asleep in the corner listening to

Knitting needle clicking

Women have always had something to talk about

And they were happy with their knitting work

But one day the war – why? – took away

Hasiba’s only son and soon

The green grass covered him

She got ill for short while

And died of sorrow not seeing the end of the war

Her husband locked the summer kitchen

But he too soon washed

Ashore the river half eaten up

The summer kitchen inherited

A cousin living in America, who never came over

These days the kitchen is decayed, only

Stone walls are there through which elder trees

are branching out

And those not fearing snakes are going there gladly

To collect elder tree flowers, as big as flames


➡️ Xem thêm: Câu nói nổi tiếng của Hai Bà Trưng là gì? Ý nghĩa

Naida Mujkic has published six books of poetry. She survived the Bosnian war and currently lives in Bosnia & Herzegovina.

E: [email protected]


By Marija Trifunovska Taseska – MACEDONIA

Bloodshed, rivers of cries

An innocent man dies.

Why? Why should such despair exist?

So that some can comfortably sit in their chair,

So that some can decide who lives and who dies.


Let there war be no more!

For blood does not bring victory,

But peace does.

For not hatred, but love can bring happiness.

Instead of showing power,

Give flower to those who now cannot arise

And finally, END this bloody despise.


Marija Trifunovska Taseska teaches English at a primary school in Bitola, south Macedonia. She has published one book of poetry and two novels, and has been published in a number of magazines and websites.

E: [email protected]


By Mtende Wezi Nthara (MALAWI)

Not beautiful shoes, just shoes

Is all it took to get to the top

One step after the other

In a straight but slanty position

Sometimes windy, and steep

And sloppy, surprisingly

Thinking of it gives goosebumps

Experiencing it lifts the soul

Upon hearing the sounds of nature

Annoyingly good, when out of breath

A sit down comes in handy

To restore the broken spirit

No predator, in the name of nature

Can break the hope in the spirit

Even trees smile back and forth in admiration

Wishing to be your escort

But the best offer is a peep

And a whisper to the next one

Turning back is not an option

For the minutes of glory await

Getting there soothes the body

And the spirit as well

The peak is all smiles

While bidding farewell to the narrow road


Mtende works at the Catholic University of Malawi as an Associate Lecturer in the English and Communication Studies Department. She has had a number of poems published and edits for Nthanda Review,

E: [email protected]


By Allen Ashley (ENGLAND)

My father said to me:

“Close your eyes for a moment.


The after-image

of the bright floodlights

meant that Charlie George and Johnny Radford

still buzzed about in red and white,

being kicked by Billy Bremner.

My father said to me:

“Go on, pick up a handful of maggots,

they won’t hurt.”

For a short time I could tell the difference between

roach and perch,

dace and bream.

But The Beatles and the local park

appealed much more than angling.

My father said to me:

“Tell your mother I don’t feel too good.

I’m going to sit in my armchair in the corner,

have a ciggie

before the ambulance arrives.”

And I crossed my fingers

hoping it would be just like last time:

a couple of weeks on the ward

and then back home to fill the empty space.


Allen is an award-winning writer and editor from London and President of the British Fantasy Society. He works as a critical reader and creative writing tutor. He is the founder of the advanced science fiction and fantasy group Clockhouse London Writers.



By John Nixon (SWEDEN)

We slept in the still of a late summer dusk

When the warmth of the day still hung in the air

And the windows yawned open, as all through the dog-days,

To catch any breath of a breeze in the night

We slept

and at two or three in the morning

The seasons changed place on their stage of the year.

We woke to a white light flash, filling the room

And a grumble of thunder far over the sea

And a movement of cold caused the curtains to sway,

Swung frames on the walls, blew papers about.

Susurrus of rain we sensed far, rushing closer,

So up out of bed we scrambled at once

To shut all the windows, but not quick enough

And a wind from the west slapped the house in the face

Slammed windows unlatched, knocked a vase to the floor

Then the sound of the rain, seething nearer and fast

On the trees, on the grass, on the roads, on the glass

Of the windows still open, our faces soon wet

As we saw Summer flee, written out of the plot

And September, the Diva, step into the spot.


Based in Gothenburg, British born John Nixon writes poetry, flash fiction, longer short stories and articles, and translator of technical and educational texts.



By Claudia Hardt (GERMANY/BAHRAIN)

Come, the light of the unclouded dawn.

Come, melodic music.

Come, lull us with lyrics of fidjeri,

let us set the sails and raise the anchor.

Come, Dana, come.

Come, soul of the deep blue sea.

Come, leave the shallow waters.

Come, reveal your nacreous lustre,

enchant us with your shimmery countenance.

Come, Dana, come.

Come, well-spring that gives in times of plight.

Come, hope and growth.

Come, with happiness and joy

after a time of destitution.

Come, Dana, come.

Come, back to the shores of the ‘two seas’.

Come, after months away from home.

Come, fill our homes with love and laughter

and the warmth of a close family.

Come, Dana, come.

Bring my loved one back to me.


Writer and poet Claudia Hardt discovered writing as a teenager, and was the first female deputy editor of her high-school magazine in Germany. She has used her passion for travel to create stories, poetry and columns which have been published worldwide.

E: [email protected]


By Guna Moran (ASSAM)

Translated by Bibekananda Choudhury

Had a little time for myself

To eat and to sleep

That I gave you all

Put aside a little amount

To tide over the tough days

That I spent for you

Father handed me a little plot

To save me from being homeless

That I got registered in your name

I built a house

With the intent to stay together

With my daughter-in-law and grandchildren

But there space fell short for me

After doling out everything

I took refuse as an old horse at your house

You pushed me out and dumped here

But my mind stayed back there

Every moment your memory haunts me


You are all educated

Please invent a medicine to control the mind

So that

Once one turn old

Imbibe it


Can move to Old age Home


➡️ Xem thêm: Tổng hợp tác phẩm tiêu biểu của Xuân Diệu, tập thơ được yêu thích nhất

Guna Moran is an Assamese poet and critic. His poems are published in more than 150 international magazines and journals, and into over thirty languages.

E: [email protected]


By Ghazi Al Shehabi (BAHRAIN)

I would have loved to love you.

If there was ever anything there between us

Other than projected emotions

And the wishful thinking of a hopeless romantic

I held on to that illusion because I wanted to feel



Even when it drove me mad

But I finally see the truth that

I would have loved to love anyone

Because I’m incapable of loving myself.


Ghazi Al Shehabi Is a Bahraini who currently works as a journalist for one of Bahrain’s English language newspapers. His major themes focus on his journey with depression, coping with loss and isolation, as well as finding hope.




I have to leave this landscape;

It’s getting late, you know?

But I can’t move a single step

Because your ghost won’t let me go.

Perhaps Time is like a river

And as I watch the river flow,

My eyes are drawn to the other side,

And your ghost won’t let me go.

Or maybe Time is a serpent:

Insidious and slow;

Venom sliding through my veins,

While your ghost won’t let me go.

Indifferent, anonymous…

This life is a Shadow Show.

I turn my face from the darkness,

But your ghost won’t let me go.

This angel carved from marble,

Cold and silent as new snow,

Her sightless eyes entrance me

And, like your ghost, won’t let me go.


English emerging poet Mike Rollins worked at a British shipyard until leaving to train as an English teacher. He now works ar the British School of Al Khobar, in Saudi Arabia.

E: [email protected]


By Alonzo “zO” Gross (USA)

Hear My WordZ,

My Little Luv/

as Light as BirdZ,

or the Flight of a Dove/.

I Speak 2 U-

My Little Baby)

as sure as the Moon,

ItZ True-

Soon U’ll Be A Lady).

Many Will Seek U

4 Ur God-Given Beauty

But Never let them Lead U

2 A Place Unruly

Make it Ur Duty

2 Love God,

Whometh gave U,

The Breath of Life,


Feel My Heart,

Know My Love,

Whilst U Gracefully – Grow My Love…

Hear My WordZ,

with Gentle-Spirit,

Remain Attune_

4 Verily,

My Little Baby


U’ll Be A Lady.


A graduate of English Literature from Temple University, Alonzo, or ‘zO’, is a contemporary poet, songwriter, dancer, recording artist and writer.

E: @Zo10000angelz


By Cyrus Dali Vesuvala (INDIA)


Head on my shoulder,

And, though you’re turning colder,

Yet we still keep holding hands …


Kiddo, you scared of me?

Know you cannot love me,

But could we still keep holding hands?

I had you April,

And May was too long …

Another man’s girl,

Another man’s song …


Cyrus Dali Vesuvala is a musician, singer and songwriter. He has produced over 80 pieces of work, and has collaborated with musicians and lyricists around the world.

E: [email protected]


Wynn Wheldon (ENGLAND)

Laughter, mint and dragonflies

as we canoed the Boutonne.

Twelve clicks from Antezant to St Jean,

a trip memory amplifies into the Arcadian,

as we recall what gratifies

and not the cloud that dims the sun.


➡️ Xem thêm: Tờ 1 đô có may mắn không? 1$ có ý nghĩa gì? In hình ai?

Wynn has published three collections of poetry, biographies of Huw Wheldon and Daniel Mendoza, and reviews occasionally for the Spectator and Commentary magazine.

E: [email protected]


By Brian Cobb (USA)

Your plump, moist

cherry red lips

call to me singing,

with sweet nectar you bring.

Voice sending voice

breath to breath

call to me singing

your sweet nothings.

Lung to lung

lip to lip,

a taste like a kiss

calls out singing

ringing in everything and me.


Brian Cobb is an emerging poet experimenting in words, structure, imagery and composition.

E: [email protected]


By Alicja Maria Kuberska (POLAND)

Do not burn the candles

For me, my darling.

Do not call me.

I am the night butterfly.

I will fly to you,

Lured by warmth and flames.

My wings will burn

And I will stay forever

With you and your words


Alicja Maria Kubersk is an award winning Polish poet, novelist, journalist and editor, whose poems have been published in anthologies and magazines around the world.

E: [email protected]


By Chrys Salt MBE (SCOTLAND)

Striving against spring gusts

we watched the kites

pull on invisible strings,

swerving, redoubling against the light.

Some flown to specks

and others close and still

like technicoloured patches

on the sky,

and some whose will

seemed to defy

their landlocked handlers

as they danced

in dives and snatches

flirting with the air.

There is something magical and true

in grown men flying kites,

and on that afternoon it seemed

they all would stay

forever caught in hammocks of the wind

their bright tails streaming.

And marvelling with the children

(yours and mine)

I felt your nearness tug

as my thoughts went flying

free, but responsive to an unseen line.


Chrys Salt MBE is a seasoned performer and a widely published poet. Numerous awards include a National Media Award and a Fringe First from The Edinburgh Festival. Chrys was awarded MBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List 2014 for Services to The Arts.



By Gary Shulman, MS. Ed. (USA)

Dedicated to Matthew

In life sometimes an angel appears

As a child with adversity to endure

Yet absolute truth from his mouth would flow

So honest, refreshing and pure

And so in our lives such a child did appear

Diminutive, cherubic and sweet

A smile that would melt a glacier

Often in pain from his head to his feet

Brain and body constantly struggling

Struggling just to survive

Daily functions we’d take for granted

Each day a miracle that he remained alive

To live in this world he was driven

“Please and thank you!”

Would fill each day

Every moment replete with music and laughter

Warming your soul like the sun’s healing ray

He knew pure truth as truth should be

No judgments, nor bias nor hate

Once loudly foretelling my nuptial

which came true … and it wasn’t just fate

For this innocent child so wracked with pain

Saw beyond the societal norm

And recognized that love is love

Seeing the future in a much purer form

I would love to say the angel lives on

To bless this world today

But his frail and painful body and mind

On earth just could no longer stay

Forever blessed we will always be

His blessings we can never repay

We know his love lives on forever

For eternity and a day


Gary Shulman, MS. Ed, spent a lifetime supporting vulnerable families and children, and for over 24 years he passionately advocated for the needs of these parents as the Social Services and Training Director for Resources for Children with Special Needs, Inc. in NYC.

E: [email protected]


By Shabbirhusein K Jamnagerwalla (TANZANIA)

Yes, I am that modest poor youth

Uneducated and shelter less

Wearing worn out faded clothes

Without any footings to display and protect

Rummaging through the city’s garbage

Looking for a scrap of food

Searching for a leftover soda bottle

Life is such a horrible one for me

Surely a very highly explosive one.

From the days my parents quarrelled

From little improper matters

And they parted ways so selfishly

Resulting in my father resorting to hard drinks and women

And my mother turning literally into a flirt

And I was left out

In this bizarre World

Just loveless and an orphan

So to say

Without parents and an object for anyone to play with.

Yet I would search for torn away books and magazines

Dumped away into the city’s garbage bags

And clear them and to read them under the street lights

All the time unable to go to school

And unable to become any specialist

And I remain a poor youth

While my parents are still alive

And this unkempt child remains an outright poor pauper!

Ah what a lively scrapyard I do possess

From a highly classified society!


Shabbirhusein K Jamnagerwalla has been writing poetry for the past fifty years. He as been honoured during India’s 74th Independence, and awarded the Kairat Duissenov Medal For Poetic Excellence.

E: [email protected]


By Niels Hav (DENMARK)

Translated by P.K. Brask & Patrick Friesen

Poems are in many ways different from sausages.

For instance, poems have this advantage over sausages

you can consume them –

and they are still there.

You can consume them again and again,

still, there they are.

Just like that pig from Norse mythology.

The attaché for trade at the embassy

couldn’t understand that.

It simply took him by surprise.

Ingenious, he said rubbing his hands together

as though he already sat in Valhalla drinking mead.

It’s simply ingenious!


Niels Hav is a Danish poet and short story writer, with awards from The Danish Arts Council. He is the author of seven collections of poetry and three books of short fiction.

E: [email protected]


By Kathy Sherban (CANADA)

Poetic tears

pain laid bare

Metrical genius

brilliance shared

Raw emotion

sordid tales

Witty sonnets

lyrical scales

Romantic sagas

nostalgic vibes

Pursuit of peace



deep reflection

Social crusader


Pen to paper

literary balm

Angst purged

inner calm


Kathy Sherban’s book Accidental Poetess is expected out in the autumn of 2021. Her poetry is inspired by love, life and spirituality.

FB: Kat’s Poetry Korner


By David Watt (AUSTRALIA)

He told her that he loved her

As autumn loves the breeze.

He told her she was special

As pollen is to bees.

But what he didn’t mention

And what he never dared

Concerned one little secret

Much better left unshared –

A lover for occasions

When loyalty lay down;

A fancy to be savoured

When working out of town.


Based in Canberra, award-winning, multi-published poet David Watt enjoys creating emotionally challenging and thought-provoking poetry.

E: [email protected]

Trả lời

Email của bạn sẽ không được hiển thị công khai. Các trường bắt buộc được đánh dấu *