Jack Foley

bona dea!
in the spring
in my age

do you remember
when women wore
in their hair?

bona dea
in the spring
in my age

will spring
this age of mine?
fifth month flowering

it may

“Writers of the world unite”

Shajil Anthru

Writers of the world unite
Discrimination over Language, Creed, Race, religion, color and gender
Let it fade.
Who is the proletariat?
Where is the Middle class?
The divide weakened
Through the years
The divide cross bred in disguise.
It is poverty that fights against the splurge
It is dictatorship that masters the freedom,
It is anarchy that upsets the nature.
With fear, all follow the masses
Withheld the apprehensions
To not get beheaded by “ideology”.
Without fear
Without prejudice
Let us lead the realm.
Show how the weaker can unite
See dreams of future
Live with their heads up.
Let not the power rule the land
But let the rule of humanity power the land.
For both man and nature.
Writers of the world unite
Discrimination over Language, Creed, Race, religion, color and gender
Let it fade.

May Poem

Małgorzata Borzeszkowska

Let the poets of the world be like trees,
and each poem like a seed of a strong oak or honey-bearing linden,
tall spruce with dark branches.

Let these seeds sprout and grow and let there be a forest.

There will be silence and understanding in it and
in the shade of trees-poems will hide people
who reject hatred and contempt.

When the poets of the world unite,
maybe poetry will be like a colorful scarf that will wrap around the world,
or like a forest that is only good and compassion.

Yes, remember

Tapas Dey

Yes, the truth is this,
A summon for a welcome starvation wage
Sometimes, no square meal,
Not even a triangle haven,
A direct relationship with starry sky,
Full moon or new moon, such is life,
A focus experience, connived by the heads.

But on the way to life,
A wreath of questions of power,
Dog cheap blood, bruished back,
Blistered feet,
Acknowledged are all as dues, slavery rewards.

Remember !
They have East for the sun to rise,
They must bloom to be worth while
With heads erect to face the country.

Yes, remember !



May blooms in the platonic
loves of blooming souls.
The foliage of the flowers
sways in the intoxicating
rhythms of passion, from
the flute of a young shepherd.
Hearts beat and souls
musk of kindness in
the erotic call of May.
Love is baptized
in the blue mirrors
of the seductive
magical sea
of her eyes…
The young narcissus
the beautiful daughters
of May chases to steal
and drink one of their
kisses, squeezed red wine
from the brusco of pleasure…
Every blooming flower
in poet’s hand becomes
a golden crown in the hair
of a blonde goddess
of May or beautiful
We were again
enchanted by the musk
of the meadow
Erotic watch
that awakers
instincts of passion.
Lust and thunderbold
love the fiery lover
with the name...MAY!


Kapardeli Eftichia (Greece)

Small joys of May
butterflies inside
blossom leaves
boats with sails open like
Mind and heart
touch the stars
like free birds

Small joys of May
carefree small brides
under the same sky
flushed cheeks
flowers expensive
in lips
painted, defenseless
in love

Small joys of May
Sweet drops beauty
lily blossoms and
the thoughts spread like
gold ivy
glide to light

Homage to May

Angel Edwards

May day
SOS cry
Mothers day
Mother Earth


emerald green gem
 spring fevered
 spring blue sky

lily of the valley
common hawthorn

seeds sprigs spring
nature reborn

For Easter

Jack Foley

Sorrows increase,
Bad luck is everywhere
but not on Resurrection Day
Horrors in the world,
Horrors in one’s personal life
but not on Resurrection Day
Releasing rains come to the desert
Honor comes to those who deserve it
Riches are given to the poor, who use
them wisely
Marvels are seen in the heavens
Rainbows everywhere—
The vision
of Resurrection Day.
Death conquers all
but not on Resurrection Day.
The Irish chose
Easter to declare
The birth of the new Irish state.
Their heroes failed and yet were
Death, death, and then rebirth.
That is the promise
of Resurrection Day.
Why is suffering
The condition of holiness?
Why does the holy depend
Upon the nails driven into the body
And the horror of the cross?
but not on Resurrection Day

Easter basket on sunday

Malgorzata Borzeszkowska

blessed be the wicker basket - a nest
in the furrow of the plowed field,
full of gray eggs and blessed be
tracks of deer on soft soil
be blessed the dry leaves under the
feet like slices of bread for hungry
and also living water of the river
tangled up in beaver lodges and
modest hazel flowers on the canvas
of the sky
may the Lord bless all this good with
a warm wind and the golden gold of
the sunset,
and Mary in her little forest chapel
should not be surprised by the
silence in the meadows
even the grasses are waiting to be

New Lit torch

Shajil Anthru

You will resurrect today
From the den of darkness
I lived the way you torched
And yet the day has not come
To take me to the
“Fifth day of fifth month”
Command to the folks
To bring me the day
You promised
Command to the world
To take me to the sphere
You promised
With new lit torch
You will have
With you
Invigorated with the
Immediacy of GOD.
I surrender me to you
For seeing the world
You vowed.

The Bridge

Malgorzata Borzeszkowska

someday I will cross this bridge
over the river not too wide,
not too swift,
I will walk slowly or with a dance step,
or on my hands

like a slim African woman
carrying on her head bundles with all her life

like an old woman from Ryazan,
hunched over, with a gnarled dry bunch of memories on her back,
wearing a white headscarf

I will cross this bridge
and I will scoop the clouds into my mouth like wild strawberries
and then I'll make a fire
and count the sparks
under my feet

Landscape with a yellow cap

Malgorzata Borzeszkowska

you open the window and you get what you’ve not deserved;
a tree with burning hair
and a soothing, misty wrap on aching branches,
the sun, painted on the background of the sky with autumn watercolors.
everything is as it should be,
even a neighbor's dog lifts its leg by someone else's car.
a kid in a yellow hat and another in a green one,
a tricolor cat in the rusty grass,
they belong to you for this brief moment.
then ... then the light changes, the earth rolls over,
the fog falls on the terrier, caps, the cat is limping.
trees die off as if very upset.
you close the window-
nothing is due, no autumn, the seventh day
nor a roll and butter.

The year in boots

Malgorzata Borzeszkowska

the new year stepped in our lives with its heavy boots on

that's ok, after all, it could have turned back on the porch

or left the shoes on the doormat and tiptoed silently past you,
then no regrets would make sense, there would be no one to put all the blame on

neither fortune-tellers nor the editors of horoscope columns would earn a living

if the year took off his boots
the cat would come out of the bag and the heel would appear in a sock hole,
it might even turn out that, suprisingly, we are deprived of shoes, even slippers,
not to mention spurs,
robes, faces, conscience

and that we are not kings of life,
or even the masters of their own doormats,
on which the year would leave its heavy boots

it would kick us with its bare heel in a robe-less butt

the new year entered the house,
let's get ready
for every circumstance and just in case

well, we should keep our shoes close by

A leaf

Malgorzata Borzeszkowska

I look at the sky through a sawn leaf,
it's good that I only see small fragments,
extracts from the blue cocoon of the day
I can move the leaf to the right or further north or south-
whatever comes to mind
I can cover the ugliness, cover what I don't want to see;
I wish fear and stupidity were objects
- I could bring the worn leaf closer to my eye and they would be gone forever
I look into this chafing and see the Scottish tartan of clouds, beech trees and pines
dried grass, all of them like puzzle.
puddles in the middle of the forest road made of pieces,
I can arrange everything again,
erase from space and time what should have long since disappeared

just looking at you I take the leaf away from my eye
and so you are like a sand grandpa cut out of colored paper,
you bring good dreams
and you stick me together when I am frozen with fear,
when God looks at me through the sawn leaves

A poem not about you

Malgorzata Borzeszkowska

I dreamed a poem today,
a poem about God,
about oily, greasy soil and Bruegel

the poem was beautiful for sure
since I cried while reading it to my students,
and they cried while they heard me cry
when I was reading a poem
It has already made me realize that I am dreaming
apart from high school graduates, no one sobs listening to poems anymore,
and they do that because of feeling hopless

so I dreamed a poem,
which I can't remember clearly
but I remember that when I turned gray with the dawn
and it flew away, scared by the sound of the alarm clock,
your hand on my pillow and those rays around your eyes
and mouth, messy hair and your slightly unconscious look
held me by my heel in our own morning poem
probably better than the one in which God was,
but whose lines lacked you

A Picture with shortages

Malgorzata Borzeszkowska

there is nothing here, Master Breugel would probably have painted some twenty characters -
in the foreground three fishermen in a boat, not counting a dog

under a tree a woman in a gray bonnet cleaning fish
and a little boy rummaging in fish guts

I don't know where he'd put all those plowing, hay-picking, nose-picking peasants
I’m sure they would fit somewhere, even as a speck of sunshine on the opposite shore

and a leg would stick out of the water, or a head would be smashed against stones in the shallows
and everyone would know it was Icarus again falling from the sky with the summer rain

there is nothing here, but everything is at this point:
peace and quiet and enough red,
and instead of Icarus, a little peacock butterfly on the bow of the boat

so small you have to imagine it
or just paint it over

Twilight in the forest cathedral

Malgorzata Borzeszkowska

the forest just before dusk is like a cathedral
full of shine and God
the nave up to the horizon
tall columns of hardy pines
a vault from the hazy sky slowly sloping

light glows obliquely between the trunks
red as through the pieces of cathedral stained glass,
just before dusk the forest becomes quiet

The Holy Spirit in thousands of chirping particles falls asleep
in hollows and nests,
he leaves us with the gift of tongues
at last
we are able to talk to each other
the forest just before dusk is like a cathedral
full of shine and God
the nave up to the horizon
tall columns of hardy pines
a vault from the hazy sky slowly sloping

light glows obliquely between the trunks
red as through the pieces of cathedral stained glass,

just before dusk the forest becomes quiet

The Holy Spirit in thousands of chirping particles falls asleep
in hollows and nests,
he leaves us with the gift of tongues
at last
we are able to talk to each other

Waking up the time

Malgorzata Borzeszkowska

time is slowly waking up just
opening itself
to coolness and silence
dragging on,
carefully heading for the lake shore

the air smells new
but I can feel leaves rot away

we welcome time
in an empty window with no shutters
I put a white lamp,
we walk along the shore, with wooden
sticks smashing
ice sheets in puddles
on the shoulders of time we put on
a coat
made of promises and hopes

Autumn Greek

Anna Maria Mickiewicz

Vine Autumn leaves
Mathematical Greek textbooks
A long time ago
In Cyprus
Stood a small white house
There were books,
A ripe jug
It shone with the red of war

In London
The Greek prunes the bushes
And regrets
He would like to look again
At the algebraic formulae



John Grey

You know the birds
by sight,
can even tell the female
from the male.
And when
they’re singing,
you’re a music expert:
that’s a tanager etude,
there’s a pine warbler concerto.
Not just the trills
but the meanings –
the titmouse is
desperate for a mate,
the field sparrow
dangles the words in front of you:
all’s right with the world.
You are commonly called
a birder.
But I have you figured for a bird.
You practice you calls
and the woods respond.
The birds seem to agree with me.


Eduard Harents

Trough the 30 dawns of my life,
from flower to flower,
leaving all my sins aside,
by the time I arrived,
she had already left,
leaving the Supper table behind…
And I
laughed the words
inwards until yesterday
psychotropic fish…
It turned out 33 was too many…

The one who loves a little

Rezauddin Stalin

Nothing is trivial
Each object is a diamond in its properties
We even find infinite potential for savings in termites
In the eyebrows of grass we see birds of dew
Even ash is like a bowl of the bright moon
Limits of our power remains unused
I do not understand
How the south’s gentle breeze brings change
The course of millions of hilshas
Torn sail starts singing – boatman, pull by rope.
The insignificant dusts of wait is a feast of golden rice
The grain of mother's little kiss is now a huge tree
Don’t say anything about frog, snakes and predators today
The parting of the earth from gravity was not a little thing
So great civilizations have become insignificant
In the history - in the grass
How the mountains suddenly become ants
The desert melts in the neck of camels
I Do not understand
How great is the childhood memories
Bitter Ulysses repeatedly commits silly mistakes
He indeed is a social being who loves trivial things


Tali Cohen Shabtai

I'm my poetry’s number one fan
I don't underestimate that sometimes I
am my own audience
more than that I sin by loving myself
if I dig deep into the meaning of the term
I’ll reveal more elements
that are woven into my personality
such as pride, the sense of value I feel for myself
for example when my eyebrows thicken in its reflection –
I read a well-researched, yet baseless study that the eyebrows indicate much more than
aesthetic sense.1.
The study's head researcher, Dr. Miranda Giacomin, sided with my claim without
knowing anything by saying,
“Narcissists love attention and admiration and may keep their eyebrows thick so that
they are noticed, recognized and remembered. The thicker the eyebrows, the more self-
centered the person bearing them."
Lest I mislead you
Narcissists regularly suffer from repeated fluctuations of self-esteem that vary
dramatically from the height
of grandiosity to depression.
My grandiose thoughts
can move within an unbearable gap between
two poles
between how I experience myself and
how I look from the outside.

Between glorification and lowering my value, moving between these two extremes with
acute mood swings
similar to wave fluctuations, to guitar cord oscillations and occasionally to breakdown –
that Dr. Cooper treats
and also curses my arrogance and pride
by saying that I
am applying
Groucho Marx's saying by saying:
“I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.”
So I looked in the mirror and hugged her
I fall in love slowly
There are religions and perceptions
preaching that self-love is egotistical and illegitimate, although
there are studies that indicate that we are born in love with ourselves, very much so.

And that this love is self-nourishment and a necessary condition in order
to survive
That is what your babies
will testify to
most of all.

Internal Bleeding

Ghazal Khanna

My chest feels full
so, it bleeds
into tiny droplets
of metaphors

My heart oozes pain
like blood
but nobody can see it

My limbs splash inside
the pool of memories

My breath feels faint
while I try to keep afloat

My hands try to catch
something to hold onto
but find nothing
It's all fluid in there
My eyes watch me
fall deeper inside
in my own crazy mind

My body trembles
like at a lover's touch

My skin grows thicker
with every passing second

My mind tells me to
let it swallow me whole
like a black hole
so I stop paddling

and I try to reach
the rock bottom sooner
smash my head open
to let you know
that I am bleeding


Santhosh Sreedhar

Hey, The God and Godess

Prophets and Spirits

Priests and Pursuits

Come to the Earth.........

And Look at the Moment On the World.

Would see the Truth Around Us

Now, All of Your Eyes are

Isolated and covered with full of Darkness.
So can't See the Reality. The Past Events Touch and Tide

And Overwhelming my Heart,

Leads Memories........

That make a Black illusions

Around me ever and ever.

It pickling to "THE WALL" on the Way.

It likes it as a flooding water,

Stream from the Mountain Hills.

So many colours raising There

Its Beautiful Shining and Charming.



As a child I used to tell time
by the bells ringing from the church
three blocks away
“Hurry get to school they rang” in the early morning
But in the tumult of everyone in the apartment
getting ready for work and school
I didn't usually hear them
I really only really listened for them
when I stayed home from school
by falsely insisting that I didn't feel well
My parents were at work
The house was quiet and lonely
at 3 o'clock when school let out
I heard the vibrating song
and again with a variation at 3:15
Now I was totally free
to stop pretending to be sick
I could prepare for wellness
and my parents' return with the hope of hugs and dinner
and to listen for the chiming chiming chiming
of the evening bells

White Heat


This dry moment,
we lay in sweat beds.
Limp flowers turned
into themselves.
A bottle bursts
filling the sidewalk
with curdled milk.
Throat of bird...
swollen, screaming



I looked for you
In sky,
I did not see
At last
I found you
Inside my heart.

Lost in Aleppo


Alone in the crowd I stand
Eyes searching forth at familiar face,
Wish I had not let go your hand,
Now you are gone without a trace.
Why did they have to choose our place,
To destroy and turn to dust?
Our home town reduced to amaze
And the land is left to rust.
The world has lost its glory,
humane values, if there were any.
With all these acts so gory,
Took lives of so many.
And shamelessly, put the burden
Of this savage war
On the shoulders of little children
And to leave a barren path, long and far.
No matter how much ever I try
I cannot hold back my tears.
I need a shoulder to cry
And share al l my fears.
You were my only friend,
But now I'm left alone.
Where am I to find an end
Or a place I can call home?

Moon Through Glass Window


I was lying in the room
Waiting to sleep
I gazed at beautiful half moon
Shining through the glass window
Milky rays of moon
Was coming into my room.
My mind drowned in sadness
And memories of past
Tormented to my thoughts
Suddenly i started dialogue
With moon
And his milky rays
Console my unbalancing heart.
Slowly he was being
Disappears from my window
And getting away dismayed
Feelings of my lonely mind.
He blessed me with abundance
Of comfort.

"Words from the last page"


Day's passed without knowing the sun rise.
Night crafted ephialtes to accompany me and fright away the sleep.
Feel of life is lost somewhere deep inside, now I merely exist.
used to talk with birds, kittens and friends, most importantly to my spirit.
But the spirit is long dead and this body is just a grave.
Can only sit in a chair to look the leaves through my Windows,
Sometimes they talk to me when pushed by their lover wind.
Have you seen a bloomed flower where poets used to describe and lovers see to admire.
Neither of them will notice the same flower when it falls and decay.
For whom I have to blame! Nature?
for taking away my teeth, strength and sight to give me wringle skin and silver hair.
or shall I scold myself for becoming old.
Before I am free from this prison called body, want to meet the person who writes this
words the being only I beleive. My conscience!
Every day I rise with a hope that kind death may embrace me this day.
The only reward I can get.

Reflectoem Issue 05
K M Anthru special edition



Małgorzata Borzeszkowska, a history and English teacher, lives in Poland. She has been writing poems for nearly 20 years, being rewarded in many smaller and larger poetry contests. Her poems were published in two poetic books and in many anthologies of poetry. Poems were printed in several literary periodicals, as well as in the online Helicopter and Fabrica Librorum

I look at the sky through a sawn leaf,
it is good that I only see small fragments,
extracts from the blue cocoon of the day
I can move the leaf to the right or further north or south-
whatever comes to mind
I can cover the ugliness, cover what I don't want to see;
I wish fear and stupidity were objects
- I could bring the worn leaf closer to my eye and they would be gone forever
I look into this chafing and see the Scottish tartan of clouds, beech trees and pines
dried grass, all of them like puzzle
puddles in the middle of the forest road made of pieces,
I can arrange everything again,
erase from space and time what should have long since disappeared
just looking at you I take the leaf away from my eye
and so you are like a sand grandpa cut out of colored paper,
you bring good dreams
and you stick me together when I am frozen with fear,
when God looks at me through the sawn leaves





Photograph by MAŁGORZATA BORZESZKOWSKA (click to zoom)



Jacques Fleury is a Haitian-American Poet, Author, Educator and a graduate studies student at Harvard University online. His new book, Chain Letter to America: The One Thing You Can Do to End Racism, A Collection of Essays, Fiction and Poetry Celebrating Multiculturalism is available at The Harvard Book Store and Amazon. He lives in the revolutionary state of Massachusetts in the United States of America.

"Life doesn’t happen TO you, life happens FOR you!"
Says the butterfly to the flower.
A visceral light descends from nowhere land,
Like happenstance squatting on a cloud dance.
Let there be LIFE!
I am nothing if not the product of country and continuity.
Country lives within me, I live within continuity.
What is life if not a series of continuous shenanigans from
Way back when, when life first began.
Be cautious but let them happen.
Hurt and hate,
Lust and love,
Money and Power,
Are portals to growth and understanding.
Don't waste time wishing for what isn't,
Bask in the glory of what is and
Let the moment delve into development.
Yank the shades,
Tout the horns,
Ring the bells,
Let life in, and find meaning!



Taking into consideration of what is going on around the world and in America, with the rampant Covid 19 epidemic, contentious elections and presidencies, combative race relations and International conflicts, I was inspired to take this photograph while on a contemplative walk around the historic Hatch Shell on the Charles River (where the 4th of July U.S. independence day celebrations happen) in Boston, Massachusetts, USA..


Photograph by JACQUES FLEURY (click to zoom)

The Living...


Born in Asansol, West Bengal, India, Moulinath Goswami writes poetry in Bengali, his mother tongue and in English. Writing is his escape, his meditation. He writes prose and does translations in Bengali and English. He writes regularly for the prominent magazines and periodicals of West Bengal. His first collection of poems ‘Dayal’ has been published from Prativas in the International Kolkata Book Fair, 2020.

What does a graveyard do?
Cradle rotten skeletons
maybe some mistletoes too
What does a graveyard do?
Cradle dead bodies
maybe some memories too
The grave has kept them all-
Scented sentiments
of summers and of fall...
Mummified corpses of another day
Stirred from their sleep
Took flight and found their way
That memories die
the open window only knows
is a blatant lie
The window has seen it all-
How the dead came alive
and shattered the wall
How it took a fragrant while
to moisten the eyes
and bring out a smile...
What could the graveyard possibly do?
Collect the tears
and water the mistletoe...



Sudipta Chowdhury from India, holds a Postgraduate degree in Economics. Currently pursuing Bachelor of laws. She is an avid reader and loves writing poems and articles on human behaviour and core issues. Her poems have been published in various web magazines, media portal and literary journal of national and international recognition.

You, the surreptitious verse of moon,
Flare up my passion when the clock struck twelve,
Facilely incarcerated my petals in your crevasses
With the alchemy of your warm blood.
Where the prismatic hues of your curvature
Blazing on the skin of winter leaves,
I yen for toasting myself in the wee hours,
Ruminating on the ebb and flow of the Neptune.
The cascade of chords weaves in my rib
Snuggling me under the elfin quilt,
You kindle my navel to burn up in your dreamboat
With your plushy passionate flamboyant wick.
But somewhere in my aching core,
I couldn’t allow myself to see you
Precipitating on my plebeian trajectory,
Festooning your satin contour with my oafish floss
For, I, the deadbeat, the joe of rayless world
Where my third eye is the only boon
To have your purple peep in my dark window.



Amita Sanghvi teaches at Sultan Qaboos University in Muscat. She holds an MA, B.ed, MPHIL, English Literature, and MA TESOL( Lancaster University, UK).Her first book of poetry is Lavender Memories( 2018). She is honoured as the Ambassador of Poetry to Oman by World Poetry International Canada:
Amita Sanghavi has recently been honoured by ITALY with the title Representative of IMMAGINE & POESIA ART AND LITERARY MOVEMENT, Italy.Her poetry has been translated in Arabic, Japanese and Italian

A red rusty memory
Of yours
Emerged while I did
My chores…
Scalding me
One more time,
Reminding me
Broken promises without
Rhythm and rhyme.

Fish bone literature

Fish bone literature is a Reflection of one's natural expression of feelings and ideas, with the intense application of the heart by use of a distinctive style characterized by Fish bone structure and by use of poetic writing in either verse or prose.
The central emotion the author try to communicate will be at the mouth of the fish . The verses or sentences which create this emotion can be read in two different ways.

Fish Bone Litterateur Reviews

Nafisa Parvin Irani Commented on Dec 02 , 2020

Today, I read the ever new genre in English literature, discovered by the word magician, Shajil Anthru. When I first heard about the word, I assumed it to be the skeleton like literature, which will focus only on the ribs of a poetry or prose form, no flesh means no exaggeration, only the true and strong emotions. Then Google it, and found “a cause and effect diagram...the problem or effect is displayed at the head or mouth of the fish." Then I thought, it would be like the shape of the fish too. I mean, like the body structure of the fish's bone. Our emotions, thoughts and feelings get flattened in the stomach but only the strong ones will come out through the mouth. Having so many thoughts in my mind, today I read the special edition of "Reflectoem", called “The Fish Bone Literature" with Shajil Anthru's two poems. At first, the structure of the poem attract me, like the skeleton of a fish...but don't get proper meaning of the poem. Then I play the 'play" option...and yeh. It is an amazing concept indeed. You have to read the first line with the rib line then the last line, and the rest poem is a sequence of the same process and finally you will have the finishing line in the mouth of the fish. It's totally amazing, but you have to know the proper way of reading the poem. I think, it's not a just literary work, here we mix literature with art...the art in the way of expression. I loved it very much. People will love it, especially the little ones with the technic to read it out. ... ...

Moulinath Goswami Commented on Dec 02 , 2020

The first time I came across the poster for Fish Bone literature, I was intrigued. I had no idea, to be very candid. Now that the same has seen the light of the day, I turned the pages and heard the short poems as spoken by Shajil Anthru. I find the form interesting. It has immense scope for further exploration, both in rhyme and in blank-verse. Thanks to Shajil for incorporating Fish Bone. Looking forward for more experimentation on this form...

Pina Piccolo Commented on Dec 03 , 2020

With poetry, you know, that taste is really a subjective thing and there have been many experiments here in Europe with writing verse in the shape of something. For me it is a little bit too cerebral of an enterprise as far as form, on one hand and on the other the content is based on feelings, which again is not something that I favor in writing. But I know that a lot of people are into poetry as an expression of sentiment , so I think that it will suit many who are in that vein.

Giacomo Cuttone Commented on Dec 03 , 2020

Brindha Commented on Dec 04 , 2020

Fish bone poems make the best use of visual and textual aspects of communication. It expounds more meaning through different arrangement of words. It is a very interesting form of poetry and has more scope for creative expression for both the writer as well as the reader

Carolyne Afroetry MA Commented on Dec 05 , 2020

I love Shajil Anthru's new poetic addition. The form and structure of Fish bone Literature is immense and amazing. The artistic flow and structure is felt with each line. Like the bones of a fish, outlining the shape of thoughts and opening portals to emotions. I appreciate poetry that I can feel. And I am excited to experiment on this new form. This is beautiful!

Małgorzata Borzeszkowska Commented on Dec 05 , 2020

The new issue of Fish one magazine speaks to us on three levels- enchants us with picture, sound and words. Poems "organized" like puzzles make us create our own vision of how to solve it. Then, when we have already entered the world of an author we are confronted with the original version of the poem. Do the inevitable differences in poem's structure tell us anything about ourselves? Are we able to face the fact that on the canvas of given words we paint our own portrait of feeling and emotions? I really admire the poet's effort to entangle us and make us engaged in his subtle way of presenting poetry.

Amita Jayant Sanghavi Commented on Dec 04 , 2020

The reflectoem came as a sheer surprise to me. The very concept is highly innovative and truly intriguing.
The two sample poems were unique.
What an experimental poet is Shajil Anthru!
The core of a poem lies in its essence. While this form will be tried by many, only a master poet will do justice to the form and the essence and not merely play with it. With the uniqueness and the brevity of the poem, the significance and the appeal of the central message of the poem itself will have to be preserved. Just as Haiku has two ground rules, reflectoems will have to have ground rules to discourage 'rubbish' from diluting the absolutely fantastic innovative style. Therefore while I applaud this beautiful endeavor and am super in love with it, the word of caution to Shajil Anthru is he will have to review each reflectoem very carefully and test them for their poetic quality and zeal ALONGWITH their befitting use of the form.

In fact, he is now going to have to be rigorously selective as well as patient not to jeopardize his new form by accepting mediocre poetry dressed up in fish bone form.

If Haiku cannot be Haiku without imagery from Nature and its creatures, and 17 syllables, Shajil Anthru has to work on making this form a classic for posterity by putting down rules that ensure its content matches up with its form.

Jack Foley Commented on Dec 06 , 2020

Fish bones: something dead issuing in something alive. The various comments all center on the newness of the form and its considerable effectiveness. Shajil has created a new form for lyricism—a form that combines various modes of the visual and the auditory intersecting in a way that honors multiplicity, possibility, but which issues in a single emotion: happy, sad, love. It’s great to hear the poet’s voice speak these pieces even as we see the various different elements that he chooses. We have a sense that other arrangements might be possible even as we hear the poet choosing this arrangement. In a short space, many potentially contradictory elements emerge and speak to each other. It’s a hymn to the radical openness of the mind



Shruti Goel is a Creative Artist who is a bilingual poet, a writer, an essayist, and an accidental photographer. Her poetry is published in the special edition of “Hyphenated Identities" in the Pittsburgh based bilingual global journal, Setu. She has been featured on Ekphrastic-Where Art Meets Poetry By a well-known Author Don Beukes.

Not black,
Not brown,
Neither am I white,
Etched as a human in this universe,
I don't acquire,
Nor do I confine me,
With tags bestowed upon me,
By fellow humans.
Whatever knowledge you've accomplished,
Stands no ground
For identifying me.
Your perception perceives,
That which you have acquired.
Over a period of learning the evident.
So, come stripped off of stereotypes.
Live my experiences.
Shatter the glass of dogmas.
Care to learn who I truly am.
No soil,
No Country,
No attire,
No language,
Can hold the essence of my Being.
They are just man-made ceiling.
These are just learned studies.
Serving mere faculties.



Maria do Sameiro Barroso (Portugal) is a medical doctor and a multilingual poet, translator, essayist and researcher in Portuguese and German Literature, translations studies and History of Medicine. She has authored over 40 books of poetry, published in Portugal, Brazil, Spain, France, Serbia, Belgium, Albany, USA, and translations and essays. Her poems are translated into over twenty languages. She is the recipient of numerous literary distinctions.

I lie down over windows of music,
I lie down over windows of music,
I drink from the trough of the angels.
A feverish star glows in a faraway
I lie down over crazy windows,
forgetting everything,
just listening to the harps
and tambourines of the moon.
Somewhere debris from fog,
grey from winters galaxies
is hanging around;
- and crows dying in purple
floating gangrene.
Mysterious herbs are burning
in the wind.
Listening to the sound of shamanic
drums, the blue of many centuries
comes over me.
I lie down on white windows,
over the ash, the tears
and a glow of fear.
In the trepanned sphere of the night,
tubes of memory are opening
in breaths of ancient music.
Greedy carnivorous flowers
are hiding in the dark,
and my face shines like a green collage.
I look at the bed of the trees, bushes,
and the words come out like milky agates:
- their magic bands hiding
your hands,
illegible manuscripts
in the oxymorons of the light.



Moumita Alam from Bengal, India a known poet whose book of poems "The Musings of the Dark" has been published recently.

I sniff my mother
to feel the warmth of home
a home that I am searching for long
icicles enter my nose
and run through my vein
I become cold like dead body
I frantically run my hands
through my ice cold body
and again through my mother's body
I shudder at the same coldness
of my mother's armpit
I ask my mother
where her home is
she looks at me with her
snowballed eyes
she looks clueless
as I am
when being asked
the same question
she runs towards the gas oven
to bring hot cup of tea
for my father
the question melts and vanishes in the cup
my father sups the warmth.



Nafisa Parvin from Malda, West Bengal, India is a School teacher, short story writer, and poet..

After so long
We met
One soul with another
To cheerish the
unfruitful dreams.
We touched
Our hearts
That always
For the same unsaid
We sung
A romantic saga
That we, together
Once wrote with our
Before death...
One more time...
This time, the Leathe
Will be served .



Hu Jinquan is a well-known poet, calligrapher, painter and a famous management consultant in China.

I stretched out a hand touched Clouds of smoke.
It was so painful to see how polluted.
Geese fly in the dirty air.

I felt eyes blurred.
An acrid smell filled the air.
The leaves were turning yellow.

I hope, too much!
Vast expanses of grassland lay before us.
I hope, too much!
White clouds swam in the blue sky.
I hope, too much!
Always feel the sunshine.
I hope, too much!
Enjoy the sparkling beauty of rain.
I hope, too much!
I am also vibrant green.
I hope, too much!
Everyone can breathe fresh air to enjoy themselves.



Kenneth Pobo, from the US, is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City (Circling Rivers), Dindi Expecting Snow (Duck Lake Books), Wingbuds (, and Uneven Steven (Assure Press).Opening is forthcoming from Rectos Y Versos Editions. Human rights issues, especially as they relate to the LGBTQIA+ community, are also a constant presence in his work. In addition to poetry, he also writes fiction and essays. For the past thirty-plus years he taught at Widener University and retired in 2020

I collapse
and doctors bring me back
in a hospital. Mom asks
what did I see?
Nothing, I saw nothing—
the roof turns
weathered shingles to the sun
and exhales.
I collapse
and doctors bring me back
in a hospital. Mom asks
what did I see?
Nothing, I saw nothing—
the roof turns
weathered shingles to the sun
and exhales.



Dr.Alok Kumar Ray from Kendrapara district of Odisha, India is a Senior Lecturer in Political Science in a Degree College affiliated to Utkal University. He is a Textbook writer, editor of books containing scholastic articles in social sciences. He is a bi-lingual poet and write in both Odia and English.

With shades of rainbow in my heart, tender and juicy like orange;
My violet eyes once again earmarked a whole new exotic march.
The cascading silvery rain drops from the indigo sky above,
Provided my bluish emotions wings to scale high.
The cool breeze altered my long lasting blues into stuffs of green serendipity;
Alluring pink dreams rescued my life's shrinking vessels of nightmares.
I found myself in a yellowish mustard field gorgeous,
Where hopes tingling in hues of red enticed me for a new dawn glorious.

Father to son

Jack Foley

Jack Foley has published 17 books of poetry, 5 books of criticism, a book of stories, and a 1300-page “chronoencyclopedia,” Visions & Affiliations: California Poetry 1940-2005. He became well known through his multi-voiced performances with his late wife, Adelle and now performs with Sangye Land; he has presented poetry on Northern California radio station KPFA since 1988

I spoke to my son of the rebirth
of progressive political thought. I spoke to my son
of possibility. I spoke to him
of the hope for a more just, more loving
world, of a new birth of the best aspects
of the 1960s—so easily parodied or denied.
I spoke to my son of a world
my generation failed to give him
and which I would have wished for him
and his loving wife. I do not know
what today will bring, perhaps a failure
of our hopes, but hope is
the sweet air in our lungs.
I spoke to my son of the need for love

To The World With Love.

Shruti Goel

The Sun,
The Moon,
And some sprinkled stars,
Distantly The Czar directing a symphony of guitars,
The glowing golden ball,
With burning flames that sprawl,
Assorted rainbows and downpours,
Fall leaves and red hues in a concourse,
Dried corn husks,
And pumpkin mousse,
Snowflakes and snow angels,
A spread of white pearl-like jewels.
We made it to this month’s assurances,
Between syllables and silences,
Unspoken spells,
Elaborate monologues,
Filling my personal catalogs,
Between silent moments,
And screeching sounds
There's just an emotion that surrounds,
Hope never fails us.
There's so much to discuss
To new beginnings,
And happier endings,
To unbecoming,
So that we become,
To unveil the truth within,
To shine our gleam and raise our chin,
Out in this world that seems like a dream.
I welcome you to my world of love, hope, and happiness,
To see that which is concealed and it’s bittersweetness,
To hear the unspoken,
To feel every breath,
To let you be you with me
And to let me be me with you!

In search of stillness


Brindha Venkataramani is a Software professional who lives in Singapore. She takes great pride in being a mother of two loving teenage daughters. She is an ardent practitioner of yoga and meditation, a veena player, and loves nature. She has recently been writing on subjects related to happiness, knowing the Self, and well-being in general

senses dancing to the
tunes of wild thoughts
floods of desire drain
into the ocean of existence
forever getting filled,
can I remain still ?

The Milkman

Francisc Edmund Balogh

Francisc Edmund Balogh from Romania have been published in couple anthologies, won recently an international prize at the L' Olimpiade Mondiaux de Poesie.

The milkman comes always
on his bike, at four a clock,
not even the dawn is
woken up yet.
Some people say
they saw him
between delivery,
chasing the stars as they
were butterflies.
The very few bystanders
were worried,
some for the stars,
some for the milkman on the bike,
some for the milk.

Only the milkman was
hoping that the dawn will not come.

Seamless Breath Of Love

Kamrul Islam

Kamrul Islam, a Professor of English, was born in Bangladesh. He is a published bilingual poet, essayist, translator and short story writer. Eleven books of poems, four of essays and one of short stories have got published till date.

The bounties of nature dripped with amorous bliss
Your shade in autumn makes me quiet and meek.
The gone by days pluck the musings of essence,
Haunt me the leaves falling in bashful faces.

You are the moon that gleans my sorrows and tears,
Nocturnal faith melts into mire the artful blink of you.

My heart trembles, squeezes the age, binds my veins,
Love floats on the flow of bloods, the azure sky
Sprinkles blessings on your nervous shade that hides
Its veils in sylvan dramas and plumage of lonely clouds.

Standing on the shaken dreams of optic motions
Come and dive into the seamless breath of love,
Stay at my hut I built with passionate wings of dove.

Confucius For King

Gavin Bourke

Gavin Bourke grew up, in the suburb of Tallaght, in West Dublin. Married to Annemarie, living in County Meath, he holds a B.A. in Humanities, from Dublin City University, an M.A. Degree, in Modern Drama Studies and a Higher Diploma in Information Studies, from University College Dublin. His work broadly covers, nature, time, memory, addiction, mental health, human relationships, the inner and outer life, creating meaning and purpose, politics, contemporary and historical social issues, injustice, the human situation, power and its abuse, absurdism, existentialisms, human psychology and behaviour, truth and deception, the sociological imagination, illness, socio-economics, disability, inclusivity, human life, selfishness and its consequences, as well as urban and rural life, personal autonomy, ethics, grand schemes and the technological life, in English and to a lesser extent, the Irish Language.

Confucius For King, again, of the whole world, five fifty
one to four seventy nine, to twenty twenty one and on,
moral alignment, from the stars, to the earth’s core,
through all systems and structures and humans, a way
of life, that has worked and will work again, with just a
modicum of imagination and the aid and assistance of
the third eye, to open the fourth slowly, to embrace all
humanity and insofar, as is possible, rather than
reasonably practicable, morality, in all its conceptual
frameworks and forms, for the good of all, then we have,
all good, good for all, golden flowing rivers, artistic
founts, leading to reservoirs, of all possible eternities.

Red Stones, Blue Stones

Arnab Roy

Arnab Roy was born on 9th December. 1982 at a provincial town names Malda on the northern part of West Bengal, India. He was then raised at various places of Bengal at various stages. He has done his graduation from Kolkata and his masters from Varanasi. He now teaches in a school at another provincial town of West Bengal, Raghunathganj. He has two collections of poems, namely, Rwiju Chilon Bismito Sorol (can be crudely translated Upright Smooth Surprised Simple) and Korunasomogro (The Pity Omnibus may be>) to his credit. He has also published a collection of short stories so far.

Everywhere there are songs of falling in love
Everywhere there are songs of drowning in love

But, whose love is destroyed,
whose tender heart, like a raw mango
is squished,

who, with his body, mind, falling asleep
waking up with a startle, hiccups,
wild chases and wilder attacks,
moments of smashing tea cups,
scattered pieces of crystals — everything,
with all these, has become one singular pain —

O the red stone on the fingers
O the blue stone on the fingers
bring a little luck from those black silent stony planets
of the vast nothingness,
shine unexpectedly.
Let there be some magic.


Jhelum Tribedi

Hailing from Ichapore,West Bengal, India Jhelum Tribedi is a regular poet for the leading Magazines published in West Bengal and Bangladesh.She writes mostly on the trials and tribulations of Indian women, the conflicts that plague their daily existence

Translated into English by Moulinath Goswami, from the original Bengali poem "Jonmo" by Jhelum Tribedi.

Here we stand in the moonlight
The pregnant winter night
leaves a silent trail of eternal melancholy...
The words come to an end.
Their strains resonate forever...
forever inside the heart.
In vain belief do I hold your hand.
Pray tell
The day you learnt to fall in love -
Did you then know,
I'll turn into a song once I met my death!

Issue 12
May 01 2021 - May 08 2021

  1. MAY 1
    • Jack Foley | Read
  2. Writers of the world unite
    • Shajil Anthru | Read
  3. May poem
    • Małgorzata Borzeszkowska | Read
  4. Yes, remember
  6. MAY
    • Kapardeli Eftichia (Greece) | Read
  7. Homage to may
    • Angel Edwards | Read

Issue 11
April 05 2021 - April 11 2021

  1. For Easter
    • Jack Foley | Read
  2. Easter basket on Saturday
    • Małgorzata Borzeszkowska | Read
  3. New lit Torch
    • Shajil Anthru | Read

Issue 10
March 29 2021 - April 04 2021

  1. The Bridge | Read
  2. Landscape with a yellow cap | Read
  3. The year in boots | Read
  4. A leaf | Read
  5. A poem not about you | Read
  6. A picture with shortages | Read
  7. Twilight in the forest cathedral | Read
  8. Waking up the time | Read

Issue 09
February 08 2021 - February 14 2021

Click on the magazine

Reflectoem 08 issue
on page 8 you will see video embedded
Play the video and view the performance

Issue 08
February 01 2021 - February 07 2021

Click on the magazine

Reflectoem 08 issue
on each page you will see a PLAY button
Click on this button and hear the poem

Issue 07
January 25 2021 - January 31 2021

  1. Autumn Greek
    • Anna Maria Mickiewicz | Read
  3. Love
    • Eduard Harents | Read
  4. The one who loves a little
    • Rezauddin Stalin | Read
  5. Narcissism
    • Tali Cohen Shabtai | Read
  6. Internal Bleeding
    • Ghazal Khanna | Read
    • Santhosh Sreedhar | Read

Issue 06
January 11 2021 - January 17 2021

  1. Bells
    • NINA SERRANO | Read
  2. White Heat
    • JOAN MCNERNEY | Read
  3. GOD
    • ROSHNI SHAJIL | Read
  4. Lost in Aleppo
    • Ammu Rajeev | Read
  5. Moon Through Glass Window
  6. "Words from the last page"

Issue 04
December 07 - December 13, 2020

  1. A leaf
    • Małgorzata Borzeszkowska | Read
  2. An autumn park in my home town
    • Małgorzata Borzeszkowska | Read
  3. Let Life In
    • Jacques Fleury | Read
  4. Overcast and Slits of Light
    • Jacques Fleury | Read
  5. THE LIVING...
    • Moulinath Goswami | Read
  6. The Grey Infinity
    • Sudipta Chowdhury | Read
  7. Red rusty memory
    • Amita Sanghavi | Read

Special Edition Issue 03
December 03, 2020

Issue 02
November 26 - December 02, 2020

    • Shruti Goel
    • Maria Do Sameiro Barroso
    • Moumita Alam
    • Nafisa Parvin Irani
    • Hu Jinquan
    • Kenneth Pobo
    • Dr.Alok Kumar Ray

Issue 01
November 19-25, 2020

  1. Father to son
    • Jack Foley
  2. To The World With Love.
    • Shruti Goel
  3. In search of stillness
    • Brindha
  4. The Milkman
    • Francisc Edmund Balogh
  5. Seamless Breath Of Love
    • Kamrul Islam
  6. Confucius For King
    • Gavin Bourke
  7. Red Stones, Blue Stones
    • Arnab Roy
  8. Birth
    • Jhelum Tribedi


Reflectoem Issue 12


Reflectoem Issue 11

Reflectoem Issue 10

Reflectoem Issue 09

Reflectoem Issue 08

Reflectoem Issue 07

Reflectoem Issue 06

Reflectoem Issue 05

K. M Anthru Special edition

Reflectoem Issue 04

Reflectoem Issue 03

Special edition. Fish-bone literature

Reflectoem Issue 02

Reflectoem Issue 01