Read the book: «Mosaic»
Compiler Nadya Barnes
© Nadya Barnes, compiler, 2026
ISBN 978-5-0071-3930-4
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Devotion
A Pattern Woven from Thousands of Voices
What lies before you is not simply a book, nor a random collection of poems. MOSAIC is a living organism that took shape piece by piece, right before our eyes.
When this contest was conceived, the main idea was to see how entirely different poets, each with their own tone, rhythm, life experience, and pain, could come into contact with one another in a shared space. Every poem submitted became a separate piece of tessera: vivid, sometimes sharp, rough, or perfectly polished. Bringing this project together was both a challenge and a tremendous source of inspiration. The places in the contest filled almost instantly, and behind every work, one could sense a deeply personal story. As the selection process went on, it became clear that this space was not a place for fierce competition, but a place for encounter. From different corners of the world, and from opposite ends of the emotional spectrum, from quiet sadness and fear to overcoming and pure joy, a single pattern emerged. MOSAIC brought us together, proving that poetry can create a whole even from the most fragile fragments. I want to sincerely thank every participant for your trust, for the courage to let your voice be heard, and for every fragment you brought with you. Without you, this pattern could never have taken shape.
— N.
The Institute
nadyabarnes
Beyond the white door, there is no dawn,
time flows completely differently there.
And every new day feels like
someone’s secret fear.
They teach us to obey,
they demand that we ask no questions.
There are lamps along the walls,
bars across the windows.
They tell me, “You’re special.”
But why does it feel so frightening?
Why do I hear someone crying?
Could it be my own suffering that I hear?
Here, children can see
what adults were never meant to see:
other people’s thoughts, future deaths,
things beyond the limits of understanding.
I hide my fear beneath my skull, deep inside my brain,
and whisper to myself, “Don’t give up.”
If they have taken away our freedom…
then it can still be reclaimed.
And one day, the lights will go out.
The heavy doors will open.
And we will walk outside…
not as monsters,
but simply as children.
But the Institute will remember
every one of us.
And perhaps, for the first time,
I will accept myself
for who
I am.
Death hangs over us all
Leaf van Amsterdam
Death hangs over us all
A critical accident, a fatal fall
It’s everywhere and ever present
There’s only so much we can prevent
From SIDS in babies through to the elderly
It strikes out of the blue, generally
We must make peace with this fact of life
It’s God’s way of the world and it is rife
Some view it as a peaceful transition
Some save others like it’s their life’s mission
Many of us believe in the infinite soul
Reborn again and again, taking it’s toll
There is an afterlife though, at least for some
Ghosts spying on us while we’re having fun
Spirits not yet ready for the next level
A kind of purgatory for sins of the devil.
The blue attire
Akshjindal
What’s so special about her blue dress?
Maybe the yellow,
Maybe the pink,
Maybe the whole attire,
Maybe just a blink.
But the blue.
The blue.
The blue.
And the blue.
She wore a galaxy,
a galaxy filled with several stars,
each one embedded within,
each one there to adore
the moon carrying them all,
wrapped quietly
in a shade of blue.
And then,
the brown eyes.
I write in every letter
like they’re black holes.
Because once you start to adore them,
there’s no way going back.
The still moment.
The most pulling one.
The most rushed one.
The most blushed-on.
A moment where everything moved —
except me.
And somehow,
in all that blue,
I only remember
those brown eyes.
Melody of Death
Scribblenaut
raindrops on the glass
copper rust dawdles, tongue
black rose petals wringed,
attar stinks like a cadaver
pomegranate grains,
smashed on the floor
like limbs of a perpetrator
slashed, bones spinning
in the Catherine wheel
a tremble on silky skin,
scratches like a wildcat’s paw,
paddy fields dangle
carnage of a scarecrow
a magpie quill on breast
cotton curtains fly,
like a loitering child
wicked breeze plays,
shudders up spine.
a knife on the kitchen,
brandishes as silhouette,
chisel my abdomen!
burn all the entrails!
a fork stains,
velvet dragon juice;
no blackish blood?
reckless flesh constricts.
a fading lamp,
laptop screen shatters;
a phantom comes out
to strangle neck
a venomous snake
raises hood
licks tongue
keeps me unbitten
clouds scream
frightens a grasshopper
plea for life
beneath mushroom shed
plethora of life
suffocates inside torso
a moment before massacre
the grasshopper flies
the snake coils up neck
ceiling fan pulls the corpse
the snake whispers to ears
melody of abundance.
