May love guide our path forward May joy bring us together. Shubho noboborsho and long live resistance.

Though human beings speak in prose in everyday life, the astonishing truth is that poetry is humanity’s first artistic love.

Once in a full moon, Ophelia's flowers received full bloom, beside the daffodils, But they never saw eye to eye, as a narcissist only stares at her own reflection

This forest is a tideline–deep with stillness,  where, 

I read poems often, and recently I came across a book titled Fenaphul. The cover—painted with soft blue and white watercolour splotches—immediately caught my attention. I decided to read it when I learned that it had received the Oitijjhya-Shantanu Kaiser Literary Award 2025 and was written by a young poet.

Remember that you are human, even as the world tries its best to erase you.

Using a hashtag is activism In a world of biterature.

When her back bends, call it devotion; when his silence deepens, call it strength.

One morning, God asked His angels to make a heart. They did not know what a heart was.

To love is to hold the knife To love is to do the math To love is to carry a box full of fruits To love is to buy flowers, Either way you carry the burden of it, of love.

Spectral land—you are bleeding hollow; flesh and bone at the precipice of ruin,

In my wildest imagination, away from all rhyme or reason, I weave my realm, unbridled and free, craving for the unfelt and extreme, by all standards but my own.

The Little Boy.He sold magic .mostly for free, .wrapped in candy wrappers, .joy and spring-coloured rosettes, .and, at times, priced at .a few tufts of dandelion threads.

Amaya Rahman’s debut poetry collection Tears of a Flower explores mental health and major Bangladeshi events, including the July uprising and Milestone plane crash, blending personal grief with social commentary to inspire young readers and spark national dialogue.

The unnamed You can get lost trying to  get back to the exit at the Vatican Museum. 

If every leaf that falls is a memory you’ve forgotten, then let my ink become rain— so you might remember how it felt to grow with me.

Tea breaks, the perks of a bike ride.

"The ghosts still sing in Shantinagar" is one of the winning entries for our Halloween themed writing contest, 'Spooktober: Bhooter Adda'

Whose bell rings in the temple tonight? Whose hymn rises from the Gospel's heart? And in the call of Esha, does the muezzin still implore— "Come, come toward salvation"? Across the purified valley of night, from the world's scattered prayers,

I wake up to the smell of coral jasmine Those mushrooms in my garden of dreams.