book reviews
Reviews of the best poetry books, collections and anthologies; discover poems and up-and-coming poets across all cultures, genres and themes.
A Room That Forgot How to Echo
The clock in the hallway hadn’t ticked in three years. But Mia still wound it every Sunday morning, like muscle memory that refused to forget. The same way she left the porch light on at night. The same way she kept his shoes by the door.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
"The Last Cup of Coffee"
The bell above the door chimed as Elena stepped into the tiny café on 7th Avenue, brushing snow from her coat and pulling the scarf tighter around her neck. The place was warm, humming with quiet conversations and the soft hiss of the espresso machine. She ordered her usual — one black coffee, one oat milk latte — and took a seat by the window.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
Whispers of the Library
In a town where the world moved too fast, there stood a library that time had almost forgotten. Most people passed it by—its creaky doors, the ivy climbing its stone walls, the faded sign reading “Margaret’s Memorial Library.” It smelled of old books, dust, and memory.
By Muhammad Hamza Safiabout a year ago in Poets
"Lullaby of the Stars"
The stars lean down with silver grace, To kiss the earth's soft dreaming face, And in the hush of twilight's sigh, The moon begins her lullaby. A breeze that knows the scent of rain, Dances through the silent plain, It hums a song the flowers know— Of seasons past and rivers' flow. The night wears velvet spun from dreams, Stitched with light in silver seams, And every shadow, soft and kind, Holds a memory left behind. So close your eyes and drift away, Let all the noise of thought decay. For in the quiet, stars still gleam— The world is held within a dream.
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Poets
The Light Between Two Windows
It was the kind of winter in New York City where even the streetlights looked tired. Snow clung to the sidewalks like forgotten promises, and the city pulsed quietly beneath its usual roar. Somewhere in the East Village, in an aging brownstone split into narrow apartments, two strangers lived across from one another, separated by little more than thirty feet of air and glass.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
The Unwritten Legacy
Part VI: The Aftermath of Ash Clara’s decision to burn The Labyrinth of Echoes was not an exorcism—it was a catalyst. For years, she told herself she’d escaped Eleanor Marlow’s curse. Her novel, The Unwritten, became a cult classic, praised for its “feral originality.” Critics called it a manifesto against algorithmic creativity. Clara didn’t correct them.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
