Poetry has always lived in the tension between what is declared and what is suggested, between the unveiled word and the veiled image. Some poets speak plainly—their voices are direct and unmistakable—while other poets prefer subtlety of metaphor and symbol, giving the reader the role of unraveling hidden meanings. This interplay between allusion and explicitness is not a minor stylistic choice; it is the very throb of poetic expression across centuries. The Meaning of Allusion and Explicitness Explicitness speaks with a naked voice, unadorned and unmistakable. It’s used in various contexts—conversation, writing, art, or instruction—to describe content that’s straightforward and leaves nothing to interpretation.Explicitness: When a poet expresses his idea or feeling directly, without symbols or obfuscation. For example, he might say, “I love you deeply.” The meaning here is clear and direct.Allusions are quick references to well-known things—books, movies, people, or events—that add meaning without including extensive detail. Allusions make writing or speech more powerful, relatable, and emotional by connecting to shared knowledge.Allusion: Indirect expression through symbols, images, metaphors, and suggestions. Instead of saying, “I love you deeply,” he might say, “The moon melts in my veins when you appear.” A Journey through Western Poetry The balance between allusion and explicitness has shifted with time, leaving its trace on every literary movement.1. Classical Poetry (Shakespeare, Milton)Explicitness prevails—love, grief, or praise appear in unclouded form. Yet even here, poets wove metaphors and similes, sprinkling allusion upon direct speech.2. Romanticism (Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley)It alludes to nature; love or sadness is symbolized by a natural scene—a withered flower, an autumn forest, or a migratory bird.3. Modernism and After (T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Sylvia Plath)Allusion and symbolism predominate, sometimes reaching extreme ambiguity. The meaning may not be direct but requires interpretation—a small word or a fleeting image that references cultures and myths.The difference between allusion and explicitness in their effect:- Explicitness creates a direct connection with the reader (ease of understanding—immediate impact).- Allusion creates depth and ambiguity, leaving the text open to multiple interpretations (the pleasure of discovery—rereading).A small comparative example:Statement (direct/romantic): “Without you, my heart is broken.”Allusion (symbolic/modern): “A shattered mirror holds the face of absence.” Illustrative Examples Straightforward ExpressionFrom a poem by Lord Byron (Romantic poet):“She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;”Explanation:Here, Byron expresses the beauty of a woman by comparing her to the beautiful night. Clear, direct, and understandable, requiring no interpretation.Symbolic ExpressionFrom a poem by Emily Dickinson (American poet):“The soul selects her own society—Then—shuts the door—”Explanation:The poet does not directly state loneliness or isolation, but alludes to it by speaking of a “soul” that chooses and thus shuts the door. The reader takes part in the process of discovery.Dense SymbolismFrom T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land:“April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land…” The Effect of Both Methods Explicitness creates immediacy. It gives the reader quick access to meaning—a sense of intimacy, of being spoken to without disguise.Allusion, at the other end, generates depth and mystery. It opens the door to rereading, to multiple interpretations, to the pleasure of progressive discovery.Together, they form the two poles of poetic expression: one offering clarity, the other resonance. Critical Perspectives This interplay between the direct and the indirect has long occupied critics. Cleanth Brooks, in The Well-Wrought Urn, reminds us that “poetic language is the language of paradox,” where connection often matters as much as denotation. Kenneth Burke, in Language as Symbolic Action, explores how words do not merely state but act, embodying symbols in every utterance. Arthur Symons, in The Symbolist Movement in Literature, traces how Western poets gradually embraced suggestion over declaration, paving the way for modernist density. Erich Auerbach, in Mimesis, shows how literature reflects reality in ways that oscillate between the straightforward and the symbolic. Even C. S. Lewis and E. M. W. Tillyard, in The Personal Heresy, debate whether poetry is the direct voice of the poet or something larger, veiled in universality.Each of these perspectives confirms that the tension between allusion and explicitness is not peripheral—it is central to how meaning is created in poetry. Conclusion Poetry, then, is never purely one or the other. Even the clearest statement may carry echoes, and even the most obscure symbol may conceal a direct emotion. The history of verse is the history of this dialogue—between clarity that binds us instantly to a poet’s heart, and the mystery that draws us deeper into the labyrinth of interpretations. To read poetry is to walk this path, sometimes guided by the light of explicitness, sometimes wandering through the twilight of allusion—always discovering anew. © NASSER ALSHAIKH AHMED, KSA

Greta is at it again This time with 12 boots Not just a media stunt Bring people food Hopefully the world takes notice So people don't starve Trump goes to "Russia" Alaska actually Does he remember? Ukraine gave up its Nukes With the promise o Of a safer world Europe is burning The American south west is too Smoke fills the sky Others drown While facing the flood Trying to survive DC take over Troops in the streets Taking people's freedom Migrants stolen Shipped to the swamp More lives destroyed All just a day In this world We live in Somehow I find hope In the little things Growing from the earth For that is what sustains us Filling our bodies And our souls. © STEVE UTECH Colorado, U.S.

A shadow intruding her mind begging for a moment Haunting melodies of those years gone by Lyrics of songs searching for a voice Hands eagerly pleading for comfort and warmth A heart searching for that beat to syncopate the almost forgotten rhythm The rhythm of those memorable lines now whispers in the chambers of her mind Years have robbed her of strength For you've become a black carbon a shadow in her memory She may walk alone but is never alone You reign for that's her aim to remain in her heart. © JAYNOBO JAYMES Papua New Guinea

For those who love, wherever on earth the heart is gay, is shared domain... Where robins sing, wildflowers bloom, snow caps the peaks, free is the rain... Where lovers lie beneath the stars at night, and drive the hearts insane... With joy and laughter everywhere, fun travelers on an endless train... What love can give or take away, are gifts that will not go in vain... © NASSER GOUDARZI

©Courtesy of Maria Dulce Leitao Reis Oh, if I could freeze time, but extraordinary amazing works are only within the reach of the Creator, despite humanity's vast advances in science and technology. If I could freeze time, I wouldn't do it now, with the world plunged into turmoil, with devastating wars with no end in sight, with unresolved discord and disputes. If I could freeze time, I would choose a calm time, when people were free from evil and helped each other without ulterior motives. If I had the power to freeze time, I would go back in time and try to find a patch of unscathed time, with people guided by kindness, compassion, cooperation and understanding, where empathy reigned clearly and strengthened the bonds of humanity. With a sparkle of happiness in my eyes, I would see human beings living in peace and harmony, and I would be in no hurry to unfreeze it. In this idyllic setting, free from evil and conflict, people would live in peace and love, sharing life's joys and burdens. What is shared becomes lighter. If this were to happen, it would be a historic milestone, a beautiful sight to behold; joy and laughter filling every space, leaving no gaps, families reunited and united in a collective spirit of goodwill. This is the timeless portrait I would cherish, encapsulating a moment when love and unity prevailed over discord. For now, it's just an imaginary sanctuary! © MARIA D. REIS Portugal

SOME POEMS The paper lay flat before me Ink moved, but not with fire My hand obeyed a quiet rhythm Words fell, heavy and uninspired No soul leaped from the lines No hush from the sky leaned in The poem walked without a limp But its feet left no trace I paused, not for wonder: only silence No echoes from the reader's face No thrill in the turning of a page No gaze trapped in metaphor I did not mourn the lifeless stanzas Nor questioned the absent applause What need have I To raise my heart even an inch For a song that cannot stir the sleeping? A whisper, lost before it finds the ear. Those verses -tight but hollow - Slide into shadows of forgetfulness I don't chase them I won't grieve them They came without a spark And left without a glow Now I fold them Not in shame, but in knowing Some poems breathe Some merely exist And I - I will raise my pen Only for the former © CLERICK OMO ALFA ***** IF THE WORLD GATHERS A hush Falls over a crowded room Where verses sleep beneath lips And meaning flickers In the shadows of stares As if a name - unspoken - Waits to rise with the breath Of memory unloosed I do not shout Yet I echo In ink-stained silence Where pens remember pain And joy wears metaphors Like a second skin There - amid lines Folded like secrets I wait The wind carries No banners of mine Only the weight of syllables That once broke gently On someone's mind Like waves That never meant to drown Only touch If the world gathers To chant names Of those who bent light Into language Let my name Be the sudden hush Before applause Let it linger Like the scent Of burnt paper Still warm With truth And remember me Not because I asked - But because The poem Did not let you Forget. © CLERICK OMO ALFA Bio: Nigerian prolific poet, a poetry coach, a certified book project consultant and an indefatigable poetry reviewer. As a poetry coach, he teaches people how to become good poets.

could I simply be a sun melted jellybean? minuscule molecule swimming infinite swamps foraging flotsam resembling raw origins of life my dense concentration of absorbent amoeba only primordial burgoo from a planetary womb a dream soul confined to microbial elements short seasoning to a universe savory for later cast away of candy colors caught up in comets lit up like a menial melon slice of manic moon eclipsing yet another big explosion expansion when all cosmos pieces come together again to form more human minds alien to the future limited only by local telescopes of imagination © MATT ELMORE U.S.

I don't Pull any punches And will Write what I feel In my Rhyming tales. For people and Relationships Get stressed And stale From time to time And may Inevitably fail Without affection A touch A smile or hug. So is it Asking too much For some simple Human warmth? Or will Every mistake I made In the past Remind you to be Cold blooded Sending me To Coventry? God knows above How love Turns to hate And hate Turns to love. So go away For a break Take a new road See fields, rivers, Lakes and seas Then maybe You will return and be A nicer person to me. © TARIQ SHABBEER U.K.

Like day and night Poetry has its bright and dim moments The oscillating pendulum of consciousness Carries humanity's tears and joy When we see the bright faces of laughter We are filled with joy Our life is temporarily replenished with hope Our spirit takes a break to celebrate This is a moment of reconciliation Our heart and mind speak the same language And the vessel of life flows with the sacred energy Poetry is the beautiful flower that emerges from the bubbling pot of the spirit This is the open canvas of our artistic expression The words we speak are turned into jewels Pregnant with the mist of mystery Poems are the Poet's bliss and ecstasy Bringing a sense of divinity to our path of life. But Like the inevitable sunset, Poetry has its moments of darkness When the poetic spirit is lifted from the skies of our lives The open firmament of the unknown swallows the remaining seeds of light And nothing hovers inside our hearts Except the depth of darkness Here, we are submerged in our human nature Absorbed to our fears and pains We feel neither the pulse of the poetic spirit Nor the divine breath Like abandoned children We are left to fend for ourselves Foraging inside the wilderness of logic We find ourselves face to face with the solidified reality The harsh voice of uncertainty and the loud sound of hopelessness These are the garments in the wardrobe of human nature We put on them without flinching, Their pungent smell does not bother us It's the rhythmic nature of our physical reality We are once again buried inside the casket of time and space With no sense of our divinity We fall asleep inside our new found home Until the bright rays of hope emerge from the brink of death That's when we gather the silence And embrace the return of our poetic nature The Poet in us rises again To spread the message of joy and sorrow To fill the void in our hearts And to take us beyond our material needs, wants and desires Into the dimensionless realm of possibilities. © KENNETH MASWABI Botswana

Lost in a still life the ashes I have lived, with no admission to my surrealism gardens of stone and icons play. With these eyes I pretend not to see the fullness of a flower, believing in the embers of unease thy protagonists play. Out of parallel my sense of limits, decorating time a course to be set. In an array of quiet I experience why, meet me in where I burrow speak to me in the sounds of uncertain days. What is it to pray? A misunderstood mask, the cosmic road to the gods. Lonely stories as told by yesterday no truths no lies, if an echo dies does the earth listen? With asking eyes the dominance of sight to yield between the lines I write, still I miss a soft word. A concourse of dark and beauty a utopia in the unexpressed, what truth of faith shall I write? Mysterious vistas without a core, this obsession with the unconscious. To trust in what's not real from nearby stars the truth of my sinking. Never on my own keeping pace with what's behind me, in thy ghostly greetings I remain content. What is to be born of my captivity? The soil beneath my feet to thee I listen... © GREGG WALLING

O that somewhere should rise Moon of thy comeliness And change the darkling hue Of gloomy loneliness. O queen of sweet discourse Let there be a soothingly slip Some word of salving force From mellifluous lip. A vow of lasting endearment A promise of unchanging love Let musical strings do press Of thy chiming heart, my dove. Let bloom the bud of heart Fading for the sheer want Of nutrient and smart Never let love be scant. A Humble Tribute to Pakistan Long live Pakistan, dearest soil, Sitting under bowery bliss Listening to the melodic chirp Of manifold joyous fowls A patriot pays his homage Long live Pakistan, sacred soil. But love can't be explained It needs a sacred quill and Purest of the inks, with words Fetched from the fount of love Filled with dauntless emotions To scare away the foes Hidden and apparent. Hark, the patriot roars And the sound scourges, Like aerial thunder breaks The timid, conspiring hearts Of malicious enemies abroad And the traitors within alike. O land of valour and belief The reverie of a poet The goal of a thin demigod I salute you swollen with pride I'm bound to You like a lover. My sweet darling I love you My heart is an altar of thee My mind, the quill of thy honor And my love like the embers glow To see you crowned with victory. To see you triumph over all Making matchless progress, We, your avowed devotees, Would lay our lives for you Gladly, dear motherland. Bio: Safdar Bhatti is a published poet who has been writing whole poetry since 1994. 'Philogyny' is the tile of his book, was published from the UK. His verses have been commended by various dignitories including the late Queen Elizabeth, University of Manchester, Chief of the Air Staff, Pakistan Air Force, National University of Modern Languages Pakistan and many more individuals. He is also a member of The Poetry Society London. Safdar has an M.A. in English Literature. A widely read scholar in almost all the major English poets from Lagland and Chaucer to Thomas Hardy along with poets and tragedians of ancient Greek and Rome. Safdar is a contributing editor of ILA Magazine. He lives in a small village called Marri in district Sargodha of Pakistan. Besides poetry, he writes short stories and verse plays.

Unknown thought that occupies the senses and its back. Now I stand at the doorway of a room I haven't entered for several years. Dust pools in the corners. The curtains still hang as I saw them the last time I was in this room; they were blue; today the color has faded quite a bit. I feel it is not the room, but the thing inside it, the part that is not seen, only sensed. It disturbs the heart like a low, constant wind under the skin. All I know is that is consequences are never favorable. It makes you live in endless anticipation, not knowing when it will happen, or how. And today, it greets me. I stepped in. The floorboards answer with a brittle sigh. This used to be my room - or his. Or ours. The boundary between memories is blurred here. This area has kept us both like pressed flowers of colors bled but form intact. The shadow follows my steps. Not visible, but I feel it pacing behind me, two beats behind, and my back started to tingle. My pulse quickens for no reason. There's nobody to run from, nothing to fight - only the stillness. The murmur names itself again: I am the master of silence. I am the guardian of postponed dreams. There was a window seat here. We used to race to it in the mornings - first one there made the other listen to his dream. He repeatedly won. I always listened. I sit now in the hollowed window frame. The sun refuses to touch me. I don't know why I came back. Maybe I thought I could reclaim something - the sound of his laughter, perhaps. Or the lightness of being before the silence. But I don't find laughter. Only murmurs. The murmur is the ability that is hindered before the decision. The step that melts before the boundary. The trembling hand before the truth. The stuttering tongue at the crossroads. That's what I was. That's what I am still, maybe - someone who never said what needed saying. Character who let silence carry the weight of what should have been words. I reach for the drawer we once carved our names into. The handle resists me. I pull gently - and there it is. A folded paper. The ink has faded, but I recognize my brother's handwriting. My name is on the top. I hesitate. I read it. It's not long. Just a note. A few lines. "Don't be afraid to say it. Not to them. Not to me. Say it out loud before it dies inside you." He always says it whenever we drove on the coastal road and writes on seashore sands when we went to the beach. My breath stumbles. I press the paper to my chest. And for a moment, the room is no longer empty. The walls are bright again. His laughter rings against the bookshelves. His voice chases mine across the carpet. And then it fades - slowly - into the murmur again. But this time, I don't retreat. I don't run. I speak. Not much. Just a whisper. "I'm sorry I never said it. I'm sorry I did not listen to your last dream." The hum stirs. It doesn't vanish. But it shifts. Now it is the breath in the curtains. The warmth in the chair. The golden hush in my ribs. Murmur is the silence of those who were here. Whose laughter, voices, and faces still occupy the walls of my room. I stand. I open the window. The air enters like forgiveness. The murmur remains. But now, I know it by name. It is mine. It is my soul that longs to its memory. ©NASSER ALSHAIKHAHMED Bio: Nasser Alshaikhahmed is a Saudi Arabian bilingual poet and writer. He writes poetry and short stories in both Arabic and English. He attended school at Sonoma State University in California, USA. Although his field of study is far from literature, his soul is immersed in poetry and writing. He is a member of: All Poetry, Soul Asylum Poetry Radio, New York - USA. Poetry Anthologies: Voracious Polygots, U.S., The Quilled Ink, South Africa, Wheel Song Poetry, U.K. He has been published in online magazines, just to name a few, Polis Magazino, Greece, ILA Magazine, U.S., Grupo de trabajo de escritores, Argentina and Uddan Television on YouTube. He has translated from English to Arabic, several poetic works for poets from USA, Japan and Australia, having been published as well, his translations in local journals. He published a poetry book in Arabic ( العرافةara’fa) in 2013 by ( Arabian house for science). He published an English poetry book (Whispered Vows) August 2023 by worldwide publisher, Jeanette Tiburcid Marquez. He won second prize in the Zheng Nian Cup China Literary Award, 2023. He received awards on October 2023 by the L.A. Seneca International Academic Literary award and the Italian Academy of Philosophical Arts and Sciences, Bari-Italy. He has participated in the International children's literature forum in Dhaka, Bangladesh, December 2023. He participated in the Oman International Poetry and Cultural Festival, April 2024 and participated in the Indian International Literary forum in November 2024, Kolkata, West Bengal, India.