A young white officer asks her in heavily accented Bangla, “What’s the purpose of your visit?”

The hurt remained beneath my skin like an unwritten revelation—never acknowledged, never tended to;

It has been more than a few weeks since I arrived in London for my Master’s, and I still miss my friends, family, and acquaintances back home.

A daughter reflects on time and Bengali culture as she revels in the excitement of cooking her parents a meal.

Abdus Selim’s translation and compilation is a time machine for all of us living in the new age, where poems have become much neutered.

For its 5th session, SHOUTx DS Books’ Slam Poetry Nights performed at the Dhaka Lit Fest 2023.

I saw a leaf falling yesterday. 

And in the streets of Shonarga, Luna went about on foot, her nupur clinking against her ankles, notifying all passers-by of the good queen’s proximity.

I smoked and we stared. We stared and I smoked. One cigarette after another. To this day I’m not certain how the next two hours had passed, but I will never forget the blank look in its eyes and something that resembled a sneer that I never saw on Liton Mia’s face before.

Protiti’s poems are mostly ‘bare’ conversational musings exploring ‘selfhood, separation, exile, love and longing’.

SHOUT and Daily Star Books organised the first instalment of their monthly event Slam Poetry Night in the capital’s The Daily Star Centre yesterday.

Azhar was a forty-year-old bachelor and an expert locksmith. He also owned a hardware store. He was generally considered to be a good citizen even though fifteen years ago, he went to prison for stealing jewels. But since then, he has been very careful about not getting caught. The stolen money helped him travel around and enjoy the small luxuries of life.

Peach seas murmur with the colours of the setting sun. There are no peach trees here — only

After I go

In the chilly winter night as I walked past the forest, I heard a feeble crying of a baby. I shivered in my warm clothes.

She would be the first woman in the history of Persian literature to publish poems that spoke openly of women, sexuality, longings, and equality.

Twenty-eight years ago, on an overcast day, an astrologer, sitting at the porch of our ramshackle house, had predicted that my mother would never give birth to a male child.

Inscribe my name, beloved, With care and affection In the temple of your secluded heart.   Trace the beat of the music That plays in my soul In the anklets on your feet.

I channelled my hurt, anger and frustration into poetry and flash fiction that had nothing to do with my agitator and her cronies.

Etched a figurine, taking dots and lines and curves Xeroxed our desires weaving through the blurs