Postcard from Mostar

My second trip to Mostar - after ten years, God how the years zip - was just as enjoyable and thrilling as the first. It remains a great and buzzing and vibrant city. 

I spoke with the students at the International College (about twenty nationalities represented) and they were inquisitive and responsive and animated (as always happens, in whatever country I might be in, talking to young people gives me hope for the future of humanity, although I do fear that the burden we're placing on them may be too heavy). I gave a public reading in the upstairs room of the bookshop (just before the Balkans' answer to Bob Dylan took the stage), and loved every second, although the audience was a wee bit subdued, understandably so, after watching Croatia lose 7-0 to England. 

The wine tasting tour was informative, perhaps surprisingly so; I'm no vinologist, but I was intrigued by the stories of grape varieties etc and how they slot into the culture. The people were warm and welcoming and a delight to spend time with. Mirko Božić made sure that I was attended to and catered for in every way. 

The accommodation, too, was wonderful, smack in the Old Town and close to the Craft Beer Garden, a brilliant bar outside of which, one night, I had the quintessential Mostar experience, drinking beer at a still-sultry evening hour, the smell of cevap hovering, Killing Joke's 'Follow the Leader' in one ear and the muezzin call to prayer in the other. A unique experience in a unique city.
My gratitude, once again, to Literature Across Frontiers for supporting my trip.

Niall Griffiths, October 2026 

Postcard from Kerala

I slept that night with the blinds up – with the idea that in the morning it would be beautiful to see the glow of dawn undo the night and spread out over the rooftops and the jade canopy of palm trees. After breakfast (flaky paratha with egg, fragrant fish curries, delicious, abundant fruit, chai) we were taking a boat trip on the backwaters. The car journey was about forty minutes. Eventually we came off the main road and onto a track fringed with dense, luridly green trees and dotted with the odd house (gorgeous verandas, abundant gardens, paradise). Sudden, blanket peace. On foot, we crossed a bridge over still blue water to a jetty staffed by a couple of men and with a string of hand-painted boats docked. What followed was utter tranquillity. The morning was pearl-grained; dusty, iridescent light, the silver-cast water perfectly calm. We floated along and the silence was broken only by our voices, by the plunge of the bamboo oar, the occasional rumble of a train over the distant railway bridge, and by the birds – a kingfisher, hooded crows, more of the raptors ubiquitous at dusk in Kozhikode... It was a landscape familiar only from celluloid and yet here I was, living it. All the colours and the light – the pleasant breeze cutting through the hot, heavy air... Later, I looked at some of the photographs we’d taken and it was bizarre to see our sun-deprived, wintry flesh in all of that radiant sun. At the end of the trip, we went into the mangroves – cool, tenebrous – high walls of mangled roots, squatted by spindly, oil-black crabs. Then out again, into the flat, shimmering light, almost lilac above the water. Buzzards overhead, wings beating. 

Francesca Reece, 2026

Postcard from Prague

In November, the poet Rhian Elizabeth and I had the opportunity to attend the Den Poezie poetry festival in Prague. Five days spent with incredible poets, making new friends and soaking up the wonderful atmosphere of this extraordinary city. I'd intended to write a poem of thanks for the experience, but while looking through my notebook, I decided instead to share the piece below with you. It's a stream of consciousness written in a small café on Lázeňská Street after attending one of the city's famous organ concerts. I don't usually write about religion, but this is what came after the concert in a church near Strahov Monastery. Thank you to Alexandra Büchler of Literature Across Frontiers for this special opportunity, for the time and the space to write about religion and art in dimly lit cafés down Prague's narrow back streets; for introducing me to the performance poetry of Montenegro Fisher; for giving us the chance to share a stage with Inga Gaile, Petr Borkovec, and many others; and thank you to Tomas Míka for bringing my poetry to life in Czech, and to all the organisers of the Den Poezie festival for such a warm welcome. And a special thank you to the incredible poet Rhian Elizabeth—for reading all the maps and sharing this journey with me. 

Atheist at an organ recital 

The pipe organ breathes its music through my body, ascending towards the blade of light holding the dust aloft. A golden cascade of sunlight caresses Christ’s bleeding flesh above me. Vibrations flow between parted lips as I let this eighteenth century church version of our strobe-lit quarry raves kick in. Music levitating body and soul into another layer of existence. To a realm high above the confines of earthly life held heavy at the pit of your stomach. Is this divinity? To be held by music at the highest arch of the church where the light of countless angels pours its blessing over you? 

When I close my eyes, the organ flows through me like the river Vltava after rain, thick with debris, earth and coypusmoving faster and faster, pulling everything into its powerful current. And I think of all the souls who have felt this pull before me. Those who have surrendered their bodies to these uncompromising notes, to the merciful light, and to the eternal purity of music.

I now sit at a café at the foot of the path leading to Prague Castle, far from the church but close to countless others, getting ready for a poetry reading. I'm eating thick hot chocolate with a spoon. Sweetness in one hand, my phone in the other. Photo App is open and I press ‘play’ to re-live what I thought I’d experienced at the church. The man at the next table jumps and I lower the volume to soften the intensity of the pipe organ’s notes. He turns back to his apple strudeland black coffee and I revert my eyes to my phone. 

Of course, the camera hasn't captured the light that streamed so beautifully into the church, and tourists wander in and out of the frame. I watch their heads bow beneath a ceiling of cracked angels—not out of reverence, but to avoid appearing in someone else's photograph. Confession candles quivering with the movement of their raincoats.

The phone falls silent as I swipe from video to photos. Altar. Carved stone. Gold paint peeling away. Candles melting. Someone else's flame held in eternal stillness on my phone's screen. And somehow, I know I'll never print these photographs and the beauty I heard and saw will remain trapped inside my phone forever. But what about feeling? 

I pay for my hot chocolate and step out into the cold of the square beneath the beautiful castle of the Czech capital. My so-called religion held close in the palm of my hand as I walk to meet Rhian. The words of a new poem circling in my head, as the last notes of the pipe organ’s symphony trembles through my body.

Meleri Davies
Prague, November 2025