Atunis Galaxy Anthology – 2019

ATUNIS GALAXY ANTHOLOGY – 2019

LEADERSHIP STAFF:

Editor in Chief: Agron Shele https://atunispoetry.com Deputy Editor in Chief: Dr Muhammad Shanazar Deputy Editor in Chief : Hannie Rouweler Editor: Dr. Maria Miraglia Editor: Alicja Kuberska Editor: Lek Pervizi (Editor in Chief; REVISTA EURO-SHQIPTARE KUQ E ZI. Responsible for Literary Information: Hasije Selishta Kryeziu Responsible for Literary Information: Dr. Claudia Piccinno Responsible for Literary Information: Milica Jeftimijević Lilić Consultant: Peter Tase https://petertase.com/ Consultant: Sunita Paul Literary Editor: Enertin Dheskali Graphics: Irina Hysi

Advisory Board

Raimonda Moisiu, NilavroNill Shoovro, Caroline Nazareno-Gabis, Günsel Djemal, Luan Maloku, Roula Pollard, Sinan Vaka, Dr. Eftichia Kapardeli, Shefqete Gosalci, Lumo Kolleshi, Luz María López, Rami Kamberi, Leyla Işık, Susana Roberts, Kairat Duissenov Parman, Dr. Ernestina Gjergji Halili.

EVERY COLLABORATION Anton Gojcaj, Dr.Aprilia Zank, Alicia Minjarez Ramírez, Bilall M. Maliqi, Kujtim Morina, Juljana Mehmeti, Dr. Tarana Turan Rahimli, Dr. Olfa Philo (Drid). WITH ‘ATUNIS’ IS WELCOMED

A PUBLICATION OF POETICAL GALAXY ATUNIS

Table of Contents

Athanase Vantchev de Thracy (France) Ann Christine Tabaka (USA) Alfred Asis (Chile) Antonia Alexandra Klimenko (USA) Dr. Ashok T Chakravarthy (India) Alisa Velaj (Albania) Annie Johnson (USA) Alicia Minjarez Ramírez (Mexico) Armenuhi Sisyan (Armenia) Araz Ahmadoghlu (Azerbaijan) Amy Barry (Irland) Ahmed Zaabar (Tunisia) Aditi Raj Jamwal (India) Adem Zaplluzha (Kosova) Ayten Multu (Turkey) Ayo Ayoola-Amale (Nigeria) Areeba Tayyab (Pakistan) Alma Braja (Albania)

Barbara Pogačnik (Slovenia) Bilall Maliqi (Presheva) Biljana Biljanovska (Macedonia) Bukarić Ensar (Bosnia and Herzegovina) Beatriçe Balliçi (Albania)

Dr. Claudia Piccinno (Italy) Caroiline Nazareno- Gabis (Philippine) Carmen Moscariello (Italy) Corina Junghiatu ( Romania)

Duska Vrhovac (Serbia) Domenico Pisana (Italy) Despina Kontaxis (Greece) Dashamir Malo (Albania) Danijela Trajković (Serbia)

Dr. Ernestina Gjergji Halili (Albania) Dr. Ezhil Vendhan (India) Еlka Nyagolova (Bulgaria) Elida Rusta (Albania) Edmond Shallvari ( Albania) Eva Kacanja MA (Albania) Eden Soriano Trinidad (Philippine) Eltona Lakuriqi (Albania) Eliza Segiet (Poland)

Frederik Rreshpja (Albania) Prof. & Dr. Fang Yaw (Taiwan) Fatima Nazzal (Palestina)

Gino Leineweber (Germany) Gerry van der Linden (Netherland) Günsel Djemal-Elüstün (Cyprus – Turkey)

Hannie Rouweler (Netherlands) Hélène Cardona (France, Spain, USA) Hilal KARAHAN (Turkey) Houda Elfchtali (Morocco) Hana Shishiny (Libanon – Egypt)

Ibrahim Honjo (Canada) Ikuyo Yoshimura, Ph.D. (Japan) Irene Mercedes Aguirre (Argentina) Ilija Šaula (USA) Iliriana Sulkuqi (Fejzullai) (Albania- USA) Ion P. Iacob (Romania)

José Sarria (Spain) Juljana Mehmeti ( Albania- Italy) Dr. Jernail Singh Anand (India) Jovanka Stojčinović Nikolić (Bosnia & Herzegovina) Jean C Bertrand (Haiti) Jagdsih Prakash Juan Antonio Vazquez Delgadillo (México-USA)

Kinga Fabó (Hungaria) Msc. Klejda Plangarica (Albania)

Lek Pervizi (Albania) Luz María López (Puerto Rico) Lief Vleugels (Belgium) Ljubinko Jelić (Serbia Lediona Braho (Albania) Luan Maloku (Presheva) Lily Swarn (India) Lee Emmett (Australia)

Maram al-Masri (Syria – France)

Prof. Muhammad Shanazar (Pakistan) Margreet Schouwenaar (Netherland) Dr. Maria Miraglia (Italy) Milica Jeftimijević Lilić (Serbia) Michela Zanarella (Italy) Michael Lee Johnson (USA) Maki Starfield (Japan) Mirjana Stakić (Serbia) Mesut Şenol (Turkey) Maja Herman-Sekulić (Serbia – USA) Maria Kobets (Republic of Belarus) Mattie Goedegebuur (Netherland) Mbizo Chirasha (Zimbabwe) Milena Vukoje Stamenkovic (Serbia) Mountassir Aziz (Morocco) Mariko Sumikura (Japan) Mandour Saleh Hikel (Egypt) Margaret Kowalewska (Poland) Miodrag Jakšić Mića (Serbia) Mariela Cordero (Venezuela) Monsif Beroual (Morocco) Miroslava Ramírez (Mexico) Muhammad Azram ( Pakistan) Miranda Shehu-Xhilaga (Albania) Margaret O'Driscoll (Irland)

Ndue Ukaj (Kosova) Neşe Yaşın (Cyprus – Turkey) Nikollë Loka (Albania) Nassira Nezzar (Algeria) Nasim Basiri (Iran)

Osman Öztürk (Turkey) Olta Totoni (Albania)

Pushmaotee Fowdur Subrun (Mauritius)

Roger Nupie (Belgium) Rose Terranova Cirigliano (USA) Rakhim Karim (Kyrgyzstan) Dr. Ranjana Sharan Sinha (India) Rochelle Potkar (India) Raed Anis Al-Jishi (Saudi Arabia)

Sasja Janssen ( Netherland) Sunita Paul (India) Susana Roberts (Argentina) Siti Ruqaiyah Hashim (Malaysia) Serpil Devrim (Turkey) Sviatlana Bykava (Belarus) Sabrina Young (USA) Sophy Chen (China)

Tarana Turan Rahimli (Azerbaijan) Trandafir Sîmpetru (Romania) Tatiana Terebinova (Russia) Tyran Prizren Spahiu ( Kosova) Türkan Ergör (Turkey) Tareq Samin (Bangladesh)

Yvon Né (Netherland) Yuleisy Cruz Lezcano ( Cuba – Italy)

Violeta Allmuça (Albania) Vjollca Ajasllari – Koni (Albania – Austria)

Zorin Diaconescu (Romania) Dr. Zejnepe Alili – Rexhepi (Macedonia)

Zhaneta Barxhaj (Albania)

Williamsji Mavlei (India)

Painters

Mar Thieriot (Canada) Immacolata Zabatti (Italy) Irina Hysi (Albania) Luljeta Elezi ( Albania- France) Giorgio Fileni (Italy)

Introduction – Editorial Staff of “ATUNIS”

ATUNIS GALAXY ANTHOLOGY – 2019 comes as a prelude to sensations of contemporary art and embodies the values and individual literary work of poets. Such a magic universe of word styles attracts all of us towards the ridges and valleys of muses and fantasies, it leads you towards western horizons, it succumbs you in the deepest quarters of pleasure, it gives, brings a renaissance towards the sunrise with morning dew, takes you towards skies of flying birds, the skies which are radiant in the shining lights of fiery stars and always embraces and impresses all of us without even noticing it within the gravity of sentiments, eloquence and greatness of artistic thoughts. Literature as a component of cultural description of all times, has emerged through a myriad number of shapes and forms and all this surge has only one objective, that of reflecting thoughts of essence throughout all times, as well as unraveling metaphysical subjects for more development, for more prosperity and social emancipation. In this context and within a variety of genres that have been shaped, here comes today the sculpture of our ideas, in order to discuss and serve as a mirror image of literary summaries which have been published here, lights and shadows of concepts, although it may always come against us. Agron Shele

When action follows emotion, and art is that primary gift as a participant in the evolution of human being, many times developed and others simply contemplated, and when that action becomes reality from unexpected horizons with the same inner tone that so much needs this Humanity, we can say that art sublimates every form of existence, every creed, every language and that is when the inner tone of the soul becomes universal and fulfills its work in the same intense pulse that allows the great Contemporary Literature of the World gathered in This Great Anthology of Atunis Galaktika 2019 , is understood that knowledge and understanding through that world sensitivity born where all the truth and beauty fit, the words are transformed into eternal and valuable messages. To be a universal poet is to understand life in all its dimensions, because the poet lives committed to the foundation of his existence in a constant state of wakefulness; has the pretension to move, teach, instruct, illuminate, make visible the invisible, inquire about life, its reality, its problems, relationships, and everything that brings together life: solidarity, friendship, human equality. In every poet there is an art of living in alternation and renunciation, that gift of seeing and contemplating. Within the world culture there is a common denominator and it is the ethical and aesthetic, moral and at the same time the one that transmits human values. Here gathered poets from different places on the planet to share the exchange of other idiosyncrasies towards human growth with respect and equality. It is an indispensable work to reflect in every cardinal point, reaffirming the wise ideal that embraces the totality of education for the care and development of human life.

Susana Roberts Embassador of Peace- Argentina

ANTHOLOGY OF CONTEMPORARY WORLD POETRY

Poetry was born long before writing as well as music with which it created a bond before having an independent life with the advent of the press. A long time followed when just a few had access to poems usually destined to an elite of learned people and later on to crowds of students called more often to a linguistic rather than a critical analysis. Today the web has opened its doors to poetry and here and there groups of poetry have been created thus giving the chance to poets far away in space to meet and exchange experiences, thoughts and emotions on a daily basis. Poets are endowed with a special sight, know how to grasp what is usually hidden to the common eye, have the capacity to observe in nature even the tiniest details and also know how to penetrate the meanders of the human soul, carefully read their needs and aspirations. This is what we knew about poets from any era. What is new, today, is the chance to cross our local borders and reach distant cultures so breaking barriers and prejudices for long thought durable and irremovable. These changes produced a real modern miracle: a new feeling of closeness to different cultures and peoples that we often felt as foreigners if not our enemies. The exchange between poets has offered the awareness of a common denominator, of having more things that unite us than those that divide The web has produced a silent revolution in so many fields, not excluded the cultural one. And it is in this context that I applaud the idea of Agron Shele who wanted to put together, in this amazing anthology of contemporary world poetry, poets from distant countries, speaking different languages and professing different religions. It’s a reason for my personal pride to know many of them, for whom I can’t but nourish great esteem because people of great human value even before than renowned poets. I am sure readers will appreciate the poetic production of these contemporary world poets and that this anthology will be for time to come a milestone in the literature of our time.

Dr. Maria Miraglia

©Mar Thieriot (Canada) Oeuvre au bleu (45 x45)

Maria Thieriot is a specialist on connecting emotions, philosophy and art, and believe that those connections are helpful to understand and solve human conflicts peacefully. Painting and poetry can express human suffering in a peaceful manner and may help people to deal with emotional conflicts in a creative manner. http://www.marianathieriot.com http://www.marianathieriotloisel.com

Athanase Vantchev de Thracy (France)

Athanase Vantchev de Thracy is the author of over sixty volumes of poetry in both classical and free verse, covering almost the entire spectrum of prosody. He has produced a series of monographs and a doctoral thesis on ‘Light Symbolism in the Poetry of Paul Verlaine’. Athanase has also written, in Bulgarian, a study of the great Epicurean patrician Petronius (Petronius arbiter elegantarium), the favourite of Nero and author of the Satyricon, and in Russian, a master’s degree dissertation on ‘Poetics and Metaphysics in the Work of Dostoevsky’. With his extensive knowledge of the ancient world, Athanase Vantchev de Thracy has devoted numerous articles to Greek and Latin poetry. During the two years he spent in Tunisia, he produced three successive works on the two Punic-era Tunisian cities, ‘Monastir-Ruspina: the Face of Light’, ‘El-Djem Thysdrus: Fiancée of the Azure’ and ‘The Mosaics of Thysdrus’. During extended stays in Syria, Turkey, Libya, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Iraq, Egypt, Morocco and Mauritania, he was deeply impressed by his encounter with Islam and spent long years in the study of the religious history of the East.. Athanase is a laureate of the Académie Française, a member of the Bulgarian Academy of Arts and Sciences, the Brazilian Academy of Letters, the Academy of Higher Education of Ukraine, the European Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters and the Academy of Udmurtia (Russian Federation). He is Doctor Honoris Causa of the University of Veliko Tarnovo, Bulgaria and of the Brazilian Academy of Letters, laureate of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a member of French PEN., a member of the Société des Gens de Lettres de France, and the Maison des Écrivains et de la Littérature, President of the international movement Poetas del Mundo and a Universal Ambassador for Peace (Geneva). He has been decorated with the highest honour of the Bulgarian state, the Order of Stara Planina. His poetry has been translated into 28 languages.

Two Short Breaths to Máša Halamová

Always the fresh sparkling waters of the stream at dawn, the beating heart and the sonorous grammar of the blue tits’ song! And this gentle golden light of the buttercups filling the soul with joy.

The white anthuriums in the crystal vase, the burning consonants of the air and your delicate hands intimate with my dreams. On the bright white cloth the red fire of some apples. And I remain calm and motionless in the face of the day!

Twilight Emotion

‘Wi' lithsome heart I pulled a rose Full sweet upon its flowerin' tree And my false lover he stole my rose But ah! he left the thorn wi' me’ Robert Burns

This evening, at twilight, sitting on my veranda, above me the chorus of an army of sparrows,

I read your wonderful poems, my tender brother in poetry, my very dear Robert Burns.

And it was the ebb and flow of the universe, the unscrupulous currents of destiny, bright hearts and burials, the injurious circle in which your brief existence was enclosed, of which you sang so loudly!

And then a twilight emotion took hold of my soul and rid my heart of its inertia!

O, the vertical chronology of the days: the permanence of waters, the incision of children’s cries, the blazing fury of poppies, the monotonous ardour of the summer in its crimson tunic, the wild brightness of the air where the smiles of familiar things gleam, the space where hope begins and desires that come alive in a moment!

O the perfect clarity of your verses, these dark clouds clinging to the rough skin of time!

The poignant truth in the hard labour of your Scottish ancestors!

O my brother in Poetry, how dear to my soul

13 are the sweet desolation of your poems, the brilliant colours of your dreams, the renewed fervour of love!

Ah, this trembling emotion in the heavy undulation of the hours and the purple eddies of dusk!

Impetuous Beauty of the Night to Elizabeth Canori Mora

The bewitching song of frogs playing with the brooch of the moon in the green waters of happiness!

Shining circles of forms defined by the graceful dance of shadows!

The mauve mist gently extinguishes the light from windows!

The incandescent quiet, the indecipherable space the night bringing virtue to words!

Cantors and Chartists carrying censers, young naviculars, the tutelary God of joy, pleasant resoluteness of sudden inspiration!

And our childish names, my Angel, writings in smooth red ink in ancient parish registers!

O this immortality breathing in our frail breasts!

Ann Christine Tabaka (USA)

Ann Christine Tabaka – Pushcart Prize in Poetry Nominee

Ann Christine Tabaka has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and three cats. Her most recent credits are: Pomona Valley Review; Ariel Chart, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, Oddball Magazine, The Paragon Journal, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Scryptic Magazine, Ann Arbor Review, The McKinley Review. *(a complete list of publications is available upon request)

Kenya

The dream becomes real before my eyes. Golden sunrise, blazing vermillion sunsets, lush green savannahs. I have witnessed all. Great Rift Valley, Cradle of Mankind, prehistoric memories reverberate throughout.

At Lake Nakuru, a thousand diamonds dance as flamingos march the shoreline of shallow water. Breathless rush of wings rising from the marshes. Leopards crouch in wait, while mischievous baboons and monkeys tease from above. Crowded villages filled with friendly smiling faces, and the laughter of children playing ancient games. Amazing sights, creatures, landscapes and people, cataloged forever in my mind. A journey of the heart fulfilled. The dream becomes real before my eyes.

Asking Directions

How do you know which way to turn, when you come to the fork in the road? Directions notwithstanding, can you ever know the right path? Life is filled with obstacles that none of us comprehend, yet we continue on until the end, never knowing where we began. We do what we can, and along the way, we may make a friend or two, if we do not fear to ask directions.

Lost in Time

Sometimes life goes thundering past at a blinding speed, loosing all concept of time. The tasks and chores that fill our lives seem an unending litany of busyness. Missing the sweetness that a moment allows, the day drifts on in breaths and sighs. Stop, step back, open your eyes. Wrap yourself in the wonder of now, for in a moment it will be gone. vanished with a whisper, like the morning mist evaporating in the warmth of the newly risen sun. Hold on to each breath and allow it to fill you with the beauty that is before you. We are only here for an instant, then we fade along with lost memories hidden among the cobwebs of space and time.

Alfred Asis (Chile)

Consul of Isla Negra and Littoral of the poets, “Poets of the world”, Isla Negra, Chile. Ambassador of Peace, “Universal Circle of Ambassadors for Peace” France- Switzerland. Member of the Chilean Writers’ Society. Member of the Vallejianos Studies Institute of Trujillo-Peru Universal Ambassador of Culture, Tarija-Bolivia. Cultural instrumental poet, Brazilian Poetic Academy. Illustrious visit of the Inca imperial city of Cusco. Prominent adopted son of Santiago de Chuco, Capital of Peruvian poetry.

PASSIONATE POEM

Springs of your tears Come to my soul With the infinite sweetness Of your calm eyes, And when the moon calls me From the sky to the meadow It bathes my body and falls thin As sowing my soul More to the arrival of the sun Your meadows are lit, your crazy ways, Your pleasant image Producing in me, expecting flavors And you make me spill words

For the mountains and seas, Even beyond the universe With unbridled force.

MORE TO SEE

Search in the silence the noise of your soul, Look in the soul for the presence of your spirit. You will realize that they are Many things around you And many beings who love you, Those who are always thinking of you Wishing you the best of life. With your faith and good thinking There will be no stumbling blocks in your way, Stars are not only in heaven, There are also in the sea, In the shadows and in your home.

SHIPWRECK IN YOUR TEARS

I want to shipwreck In a tear of yours.

Sinking me into the abyss Of your body.

Sailing the lake Of your own desires.

Surrounding me with your breath.

Sowing your lips With my kisses, To leave my sobbing footprint In your intimacy, And be carried by the wind.

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko (USA)

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few. After his death, it was his friend the late great Kathleen Raine who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish. Although her manuscript was orphaned upon “Tambi” s passing, her poems and correspondence have been included in his Special Collections at Northwestern University. A former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion and devotee of Spoken Word, she has read and performed at various venues including S.F.’s renowned Purple Onion and The Intersection for the Arts. Her sold-out one-woman show Where the Blue Begins was presented in conjunction with Sonoma’s performing art series Women on the Edge. More recently she was a featured poet with Helene Cardona and John High at Poets Live, presented her work at Shakespeare & Company, participated in five présentations hosted by Three Rooms Press as well as performed at 100 Thousand Poets for Change here in Paris. Klimenko’s works are widely published in journals and anthologies–among them: XXI Century World Literature (in which she represents France) The Poet”s Quest for God, CounterPunch, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology, The Rumpus, Writing for Peace, Big Bridge, Levure Litteraire, Iodine Poetry Journal, Literary Orphans, Danse Macabre Anthology,The Opiate, Strangers in Paris, Paris Lit Up, Vox Populi, Occupy Poetry (in which she is distinguished as an American Poet) and Maintenant: Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C and in New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the Writer/ Poet in Residence for Spoken Word Paris.

Heart’s Compass

You pass through me like windows on a train– freeze-framed in Winter my shattered Spring I look for you in all the compartments of my heart groping blindly at flashes of reflection

(Why did you pull out? I ask At which stop did you finally exit?) knowing full well I have swallowed you the night before swallowed you as I have the sun the moon and all the dead stars– light years of your grief passing through me now

I, the cavity of Paris compass without a needle– my arteries stretching like roadmaps across the universe of my heart

How I let you slip through me I will never know why I sent you to your own dark eclipse your delirium of narcotic bliss engraved on the head of a needle

What is it we hold in our hands that slips through our fingers– this human landscape of blood and tears How do we hold onto heart’s needle this compass of compassion

21 this shining star this point of reference– hold onto light lost in a City of Light hold onto that one magnet that pulls us to a place where we belong

One day we may lose true North lose our way lose this moment lose whole continents of ourselves like refugees with no where to turn like I lost you you who once took refuge deep inside of me

I still hold South between my thighs still wait for you to move me like the earth like this engine pumping blood this train pumping iron like Night and hydrangeas exploding into the ecstasy of novas and constellations tunneling the black hole of me the deep blossoming throat of me– you, my heart’s needle- a singing meteor that passes through me as light that hums in me like Spring– the one place I cannot get to

I am the cavity of Paris that lovers once poured into– my heart a weeping sieve Milky Ways oozing from the swirling globes of my eyes and breasts– the trickling cum of humanity peeling Time from my lips like a mask

At night alone in my bed I marry the sacred dark of you I marry the souls of all your dead planets all the sweet amnesias of heaven that live inside my head I curse myself and heavy-lidded Night that slumbers through the day I, dragging the moon like my flesh behind me while Dark goes on and on like the bottomless sky with no ending or beginning

Dark knows we are afraid of it wants only to be loved I swallow it as I do my tears I kiss it like I drink in air I stuff the shame of guilt back into my horizon praying that light will find me

I am the cavity of Paris that lovers once poured into– my heart a weeping sieve Deep inside myself inside the shadows I cannot contain- statues and monuments to the dead– a whole city of shimmering possibility rises as smoke above a skyline of ancient syllables quivering on the tip of my tongue

The pallbearer of my own dead poems bereft of words, divine direction or a satin box to lay my aching compass I drift alone in the dark alone with you and the breath of Winter erased by a night that forgives.

Dr. Ashok T Chakravarthy (India)

Dr. Ashok T Chakravarthy, a poet and review writer, India, is composing poetry with a global perspective for the past 25 years. Of the 2000 poems composed, nearly 1600 poems appeared in various magazines, journals, anthologies, newspapers, e-zines etc. in nearly 100 countries across the world. His six volumes of poetry received wide readership acclaim. His poetry is aimed at promoting universal peace, environment awareness, protection of children rights etc. for which he was commended with several prestigious awards, viz., Universal Peace Ambassador, International Intellectual Peace Award, Asian Who’s Who, Effulgent Star etc. He was conferred with the FOUR prestigious doctorates and honored with First Laureate of the World of Literature 2017 by World Nations Writers’ Union, KAZAKHSTAN. Mr. Ashok is also the Hon. Adviser of Borneo International Open University, Malaysia, Vice- President, Global Harmony Association, Russia, Research Committee Member, U.S.A, Centre of Non-killing, Norway etc. More about his tryst with poetry can be known at: http://peacefromharmony.org/?cat=en_c&key=286.

LONGING FOR PEACE

Autumn leaves flutter with the early morning gales Dew drops glitter under the gold-reflective sunrays, The pleasing horizon unfolds another dawn, delightful The ‘Longing For Peace’ unfurls in my thoughts castle.

Blessed are the flowers which during nights blossom Blessed are the buds which for a new tomorrow dream,

Blessed are the clouds adorning the sky, day and night Blessed are we, whoever cherishes the dazzling sight.

Faith and amity adorn the earth as ornaments of peace A place to bask under the warmth of love-surging eyes; Why can’t we exhibit our wit, patience and tolerance? To sort out recurring frictions and rising differences.

The sprouts of evil; ‘hatred and egocentric ambitions’, The hassles of progress; ‘injustice and non-cooperation’, When both are overpowered by love and self-realization; The planet earth is bound is become an abode of heaven.

Instead of ruin, we foresee equivalence and prosperity Instead of uncertainty, we foresee a worthwhile future; The clouds of passion shall shower everlasting trust, The winds of change shall blow every atom of mistrust.

On the ripples of freedom, float the thoughts of peace With firm resolve, let us honor the Longing For Peace.

IS THIS OUR UNITY OR ENMITY?

Yes, Peace is THE ONLY HOPE for humanity But, it’s slaughtered in the name of enmity, If, we fail to really understand each other How can harmony exist between one another?

Hate if groomed, will wipe out human unity Conflicts if stirred, push regions into poverty, The clutches of enmity are mercilessly brutal They annihilate the universal peace symbols.

People in search of peace, women and children In the orgy of destruction are not spared even; The orphaned, children and victimized women Express volumes of inexpressible grief and pain.

Ill-intended thoughts and ego-bloated tendency The ever-increasing thirst to snatch supremacy, Derail the wheels of world peace and prosperity, They pose dire threat to the world and humanity.

While nuclear warheads pose a perilous challenge, Ballistic missiles aim to target the farthest range, The icons of love, peace and hope for humanity Stare at us in askance; is this our unity or enmity?

WHY NOT WE AIM

So uncertain; yes, life is an ever changing mirage If we discard earthly passions, it brings a change. Yes, the world is infested with the disease of conceit Except thorns; how come cozy petals one can expect?

Like a lake that dries up when the water recedes Often, hope after hope fades as fleeting time unfolds; Under the toxic and illusionary bonds of delusion We fail to apprehend, what is reality and illusion.

Like a frog in a small pool disregarding the ocean We revolve in a sphere of self-centric ambitions; The day we remove the desire-laced thorny pearls The light of wisdom, yes, lights-up the path of petals.

Like a combination of cozy petals and sharp thorns Life is a combination of both delights and mourns; Unless inner foes like desire, anger, greed are plucked The path of petals is eternally elusive and blocked.

Gifted with mind power as also with power of discretion Why not we aim to light the lamp of righteous vision; The ocean of virtue; pleasant, cool, soft and fragrant Shall transform every day and every moment as vibrant.

Alisa Velaj (Albania)

Alisa Velaj was born in the southern port town of Vlora, Albania in 1982. She has been shortlisted for the annual international Erbacce-Press Poetry Award in UK in June 2014. Her works have appeared in more than eighty print and online international magazines, including: FourW twentyfive Anthology (Australia), The Journal (UK), The Dallas Review (USA), The Linnet’s Wings (UK) The Seventh Quarry (UK), Envoi Magazine (UK) etc etc. Her poems will appear soon in “The Curlew Magazine” and “Poetry, Life & Time”. Velaj’s digital chapbook “The Wind Foundations” translated by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj is published by Zany Zygote Review (USA). Her poems are also translated in Hebrew, Swedish, Romanian, French and Portuguese. Alisa Velaj’s poetry book “With No Sweat At All” (trans by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj) will be published by Cervena Barva Press in 2019.

THAT PAINFUL EDGE OF LIGHT An imaginary dialogue with Garcia Lorca

He had told me Granada Hills Differ not a lot From the hills of my birthplace He had also told me Winds have no homelands ‘Perfumes – flowers – knives’ You once wrote And I knew not that such a melody Sprinkles guitar sounds at evenings

Even light has no homeland I had told you Dawn is dawn on all shores And none has ever angered At flowers Perfumes and serenades and oranges Your endless Andalusia, my darling So I know not which orange Shelters that painful edge of light Or you might have picked it up And now you dislike telling me the truth.

TOGETHER WITH THE SUN

One day will come together with the sun To put an end to your migration through foreign lands With the help of seagulls And of fish that used to shine our nights We will find our words gone with winds So the first dawn, the second dawn And the third dawn will return again And our voices – my light – Will echo through the dawns of all the seas of the world Deep voices Once lonely Of which the only prelude Is a guitar chord.

THE CALL OF THE WOLVES

I have now come With my peaceful soul and breath Don’t expect to single out anything at first sight Only on Sundays soul is a contemplating view Breath stays hovering between me and the world I shall stay a little longer, and then I shall leave Otherwise the ripen apples will rot with gloom I shall stay as long as needed, not a single moment more Departure becomes meaningful when the sun’s winds blow Arrival is blessed with a few rain drops On a day as clear as the Ionian Sea waters Don’t implore me at all to stay this Monday The blue of the waters is the voice of my journeys The blessed call of the depth of the skies The only happiness empty of farewell sadness I told him that I adore small-mindedness.

Annie Johnson (USA)

Annie Johnson is 79 years old and has been a poet for 65 years. She wrote her first poem at age 14. She lives in the State of Indiana, in the USA. She was married to her late husband for 56 years. She has three grown children and two grown grandchildren. She played a flute in the University Symphony for three years on a music scholarship; she still plays her flute. She is a world class quilt designer and quilter with many honors for quilting. She has published two novels and three poetry books. She continues to write something everyday and is currently working on two children’s books. Annie loves life, loves cats and loves cooking. Her children and grandchildren come every Sunday for dinner and to spend the afternoon with her.

Magic Trails of Youth

Night pulls a blanket of stars over the earth. The forest slumbers in the starlight. A wide-eyed owl sits in a tree Hooting to keep the night awake. In my dreams I wander the mossy paths Listening to the tree frogs, my senses Tuned to the faintest sounds of the night; A snail crossing the path ahead of me; Mice breathing under ferns, hiding From the sharp eyes of the Owl. Raccoons snoring in a hollow tree.

A Doe and her fawn slurping water From a brook that sparkles moonlight Like diamonds glittering in the dark. Now in my dreams I'm walking On all the girlhood trails I’ve known, Opening like a misty thoroughfare Swirling around my soul, the memory Of places the heart remembers, dormant From long years on unmarked highways Leading to adulthood's brick and mortar life. Bricks hold the thoughts and memory Of what strife brings to one, past youth; Past dreaming and yearning for the softness Of a shadowed, whispering yard, lit By fireflies and youthful innocence Dancing in the magic of girlhood laughter Carried on the wind like some distant train whistle Flashing through town long after curfew. Morning dew greets the waking spirit of reality.

The Doorway of Dreams

You run naked through the meadows of my mind And splash me in the sparkling streams of dreams. You romp with me over the shadowy woods of time And run ahead of me to greet the morning’s laughter On wings of golden sunlight and trilling bird song. Dreams have a way of opening eternity’s doorway To glimpse heaven one sweet night at a time. Sky rockets of starlight and moonshine adorn What we can only imagine in conscious awareness Scattered across the skies of night and dreams. Would that I could meet such beauty of time Cast upon the hours of sleep in thoughts of you And take you by the hand and look into your eyes And speak all the love I whisper nightly in your ears. Oh, how cherished you are in my mind and heart

Both awake and deep in the cradle of sleeping night. Yours is the face my eyes adore and yours the body My body longs to touch, to taste and awaken next to In the soft light of morning dust motes dancing in the air. I shall lie on the ancient threshold of dream’s doorway Awaiting the future, when time decrees, you step from My world of sleep, into my waiting arms and day awakened.

Song of Beauty Sonnet

Beauty fills my soul wherever I walk. The earth is a garden; an Eden to roam. Sacred the bee hive; the glide of the hawk; Green forests beneath a summer sky dome. The deep sonorous song of the sea tides; The moon pulling to shore the crashing waves; All speak to the spirit that faith provides, Glowing with the depth of beauty life craves. My mind gathers earth-scenes sparkling like gold; Treasures I want to take back to the stars. Music tucked in rainbow curves to unfold Over peaceful lands where there are no wars. On my star-bound journey, I’d pack these along; The vignettes of dancing cranes and whale song.

Alicia Minjarez Ramírez (Mexico)

Poet, Translator, Singer, University Professor, Broadcast locution Radio and T.V. She was born in Tijuana, Mexico. She is an internationally renowned poetess and author who has won numerous awards including the EASAL medal by the European Academy of Sciences and Letters 2018 at Paris, France. Awarded "Pride of the Globe" WNWU, Kazakhstan 2018. Honorable Mention in the category: Foreign Poetry, of the International Prize Poseidonia Paestrum, Edition XXIV, Italy 2018. Awarded "Universal Inspirational Poet", Pentasi B. World, India 2017; Winner of a special mention and a medal in the International Poetry Prize NOSSIDE Italy 2015, recognized by UNESCO. Awarded with the IWA BOGDANI Albania Award, 2016. Awarded with the Third Place in French Poetry in the International Poetry Prize "Sous les traces de Léopold Sédar Senghor" at Milan, Italy, 2016 recognized by ONU and UNESCO. Winner of a mention in the NOSSIDE Poetry Prize, Italy 2016. Awarded "Universal Inspirational Poet" Pentasi B. World, Africa, Ghana 2016. She was considered among the International Poets published in the XXI Century World Literature Book released at New Delhi, India, 2016. Her poems have been translated into: English, Albanian, French, Cameroonian, Arabic, Azerbaijan, Turkish, Chinese, Taiwanese, Portuguese, Polish and Italian. And published in more than 125 International Anthologies, journals and magazines around the world.

BREATH OF LIGHT

Mute allegory of clouds feeling my cedars’ roots, designing the path; song of blackbirds and orioles, stunned chimera permuting fertile figs and pomegranates.

Musical waterfalls permeate thick alders and chestnuts, ethereal decline; Antioch’s legacy rinses and distorts coasts, olives and vines over the Patara’s coastline.

Emir necromancer descends from bare meadows revealing seeds to quench the moon in the subtle geography of my own shadows.

Your eyes light up the awoken clay of jade and honeysuckle, moistening poems to clear the air of the past hours.

Imprecise and concrete trail upon the wind of days that intertwines our dawn. A brief breath of your light is enough in the abyss of my night.

TAKE ME IN YOUR SILENCES

Many sighs in tears Takes the time. I don´t want the wind Disperse your breath, Neither the verses That ignite my kisses, Making of your body The green ink Of my whole poetry!

With the moon Reflected on your back So smooth, So pure, So mine!

Just take me In your silences!

Today I will keep All my dreams, Tomorrow My soul will take Your memories, Just waiting For the moment To embrace you again.

Translated by: Alaric Gutiérrez

Armenuhi Sisyan (Armenia)

Armenuhi Sisyan- writer, poet from Armenia. Professor of Armenian language at Yerevan State Medical University, author and co-author of several training manuals for students. Her works are translated into 11 languages: English, Japanese, French, Italian, German, Chinese, Polish, Russian, Persian, Albanian, Spanish. Member of Writers’ Union of Armenia since 2007. Board member of International Writers Association Pjeter Bogdani in Brussels (IWA). Member of Japan Universal Poets Association, (JUNPA), Kyoto. International Advisory member of ‘’Education, Literature’’ magazine of Changhua University of Education (Taiwan). Author of 9 books, last 2 were published in Kyoto (Japan) in Japanese. Her stories and poems widely anthologized, frequently appear in top Armenian literary journals and published in different literary magazines and anthologies abroad. Participant of different international literary festivals and programs. (Аustria, Switzerland, Italy, Japan), winner of different literary prizes.

***

The memory chills among my fingers, my eyes unwillingly stare, while the birds migrate to warmer places, in despair, the victory of winds it is, not of the heart, that my cheeks will not blush from the warmth of memory. My words follow the birds: they rest where the poetry is.

***

For all of those days That I won't see, I will love you, Day! Will cherish you in my hands, Kiss you from the bottom to top, And warm you up in my embrace, So that you take my breath to them, Until you wave goodbye Let me love you, Day, For all of those days, That I will not see.

***

Because of your lies and blowings, wind, the leaves fell down one by one, but the tree is in it’s place- nakedly honest… How perfectly honest is the nudity of the tree!

Araz Ahmadoghlu (Azerbaijan)

He was born in Khoy - a city in Southern Azerbaijan - in 1968 and grew up there. After graduation from college he entered Shiraz Medical University and became a paramedic, a technician of radiology. He got employed in Urmia medical college and worked in several hospitals there. His late father had wanted him to be a doctor, but working in hospitals shoes that he was the man of his dreams. He was interested in music and literature. While working in the hospital, he entered Tabriz university to study English literature because Azerbaijani Turkic language and literature is considered a big crime and then is still banned. He got married with a teacher and two years later his bachelors degree in 2000. His son was born in 2000 and his daughter in 2003, While he was working on his post-graduate studies to get M.A. degree. At the same time he founded Sahand Language School in Khoy in 2001. He got his M.A. in English literature. His thesis was a comparative study of Beowulf and the Book of Dede Qorqud. While he was working full time during all this period as a technician of radiology in the hospital in his hometown, he was teaching in Azad university, Payam-Nour University and his private language school. Then he went to Baku to get his PhD. He took his legal rights to the supreme court and got retired from the hospital job in 2017. He is going to get PhD this year. He has published 4 books in literature in Baku and one in Turkey. Although he writes in English, Farsi, Turkish, and Azerbaijani Turkic, his books are prohibited to be published in Iran because of Azerbaijani Turkic, especially its Latin alphabet. By the way, his essays in four languages have been published in different places in Azerbaijan, Turkey and Iran. He has been to several international conferences and festivals, too.

I AM LITERATURE (MANIFESTO)

I am your soul, oh homeland, Breeding your flowers! I am your never-ending And eternal endeavors! You are my necessity, And I am your heart, of course! You are my spice, my taste; And me? Your bread, of course!

MY ANTHEM FOR MY FLAG

Since the azure world I was, Infinite, clean, and clear, Innocent, such a surprise That trembled thee in fear.

Thou flooded my blood Down the valleys and sneered. Capped the velvet plains my blood, My anthem, my flag appeared.

Thou escaped from me, I know, Like a wild golden deer. I chased thee for years, though, My shining star! Oh dear!

Bending bow I got for thee, Eternally I am free.

OPEN UP YOUR HEART

Open up your heart, Clear up your insight To completely forget What you’ve left behind, It’s never late, To eliminate The black spots You’ve carved in your mind.

*******

Open up your heart, Clear up your insight To see the consequences Of the blind pride, To see what vicious greed Has been doing, indeed; To see the poor’s blood Soaring up in tide!

*******

Open up your heart, Clear up your insight To receive What you deserve, The essence of life, The pure true love. Etherealize your-self Through the heaven above.

Amy Barry (Irland)

Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She loves to travel. Trips to India, Nepal, China, Japan, Bali, Paris, Berlin, Budapest, Milan and Falkenberg have all infused her work. She is published in several anthologies, journals, and press and e-zines globally. Amy and her work have featured on radio and television in Australia, Canada, Italy and Ireland. Her poems have been translated into Italian, Turkish, German, Romanian, Greek, Malay, Azerbaijani, Irish and Persian.

Awards :

Mother won 1st prize in English Poetry (Versification & Recitation) at PAU World Poetry Day 2017. Recipient of Neruda Award 2017 (Poetry) May 2017 Crispiano, Italy. Between Captivity and Villa Maria was awarded ‘Highly Commended’ (Poetry) in SiarSceal International Literary Festival 2017, Roscommon, Ireland. She has read at Literary Festivals and events in Ireland and abroad. Amy is an Honorary Member of Pablo Neruda Cultural Association, Italy. She is a recipient of the Westmeath County Council Bursary, 2017. Amy loves sushi and trampoline jumping.

Divine parallelism

What I want is to hear my heart beats like lusty fire and see my fingers reach out to touch your breath.

What I want is to embrace you, and my feverish lips to kiss you with urgency like the desire of a storm — where, beauty and passion erupt like the rising sun.

Revisiting St. Loman’s hospital

Memory expands, frame after frame, unstoppable — behind bolted doors of grey, sitting on a cracked floor with bended knees, pleading for understanding, hell cursed like a vulgar visitor with bad breath, voices came, at times so inspiring, lyrics poured out like maple igniting the room.

Ungraspable — sometimes drunk with weakness, I had wished to grow

even weaker, I had wished to fall, lower than down—

Do I belong here? Mam had those strange ideas that I should be here.

Buried anger storms silently — then disappears.

Foul no sense, disbelief — shattered disappointment burns her eyes, her brain, hot blood rages through her veins, she wants to thump her fists against their faces, pained memories like rough charcoal- sketches, numbed — reaching out, no hands.

Ahmed Zaabar (Tunisia)

Tunisian poet from Wardanine (Tunisia) Born 1963 Studied philosophy at Manouba University (Tunis) Works as Producer at Alaraby TV in London Winner of the Short Story Award at the Sidi Bouzid Festival of Young Writers in 1984 in Tunisia Published short Stories, poems, articles and reviews in Arabic magazines and newspapers. Member of the Arab National Congress Member of the Executive Committee and Chairman of the Media Committee of the Arab Club in Britain publish two poetry books in Cairo and Beirut Former Chairman of the Cultural Committee of the Arab Cultural Forum in Britain His poems have been published in various anthologies and he has participated in several Arab and international poetry festivals. He has published two poetry books and a collection of his poems have been translated into Spanish. Resident in London since 1992

Be Not But Yourself

You who wrote And writes the creation verse. All who wrote your book are Behind you now… in the back. They wrote you, but you write them.

Erase what they wrote. Existence is nothing but The trace of your footsteps.

***

You and your female are one.

***

Listen not but to your heart. Your female is you, And you are part of her glory. If you burn in her light and fire, You become the echo of her being, And Existence becomes your echo.

When

When All meanings are petrified, And all what is holy Loses spirit and reaches its end, The poets continue what God has started. * Life is A passing coincidence; Neither a believer nor an unbeliever. * Her manifestation is the body, And her enemy: the Day of Judgement. * This world is my prison, And the body Is a king of miserable, tyrannical clay. *

This soul is myself, And I Have been scattered in all souls As fragments. And I am A sole individual.

To Perish

To Perish Is not that you’ve been denied and abandoned By your homeland, That the exile has no childhood, That you’re unable to forget your motherland No matter how much she denies or forgets you.

To Perish Is that you’re two un-meeting halves; You are neither here nor there

Exile Is an un-healing wound in the spirit That turns greenish with time. Exile is a fracture in the meaning of homeland.

I— When I call My country, The echo bounces back at me. My own country: The grief that waters my longing And grows within.

Aditi Raj Jamwal (India)

Mrs Aditi Raj Jamwal belongs to Dharamshala,Himachal Pradesh in India.She has done her masters in English,B.ed and is a teacher by profession.she topped in the college and with her academic a cumen and excellence has given an impetus to the schools she served and won best teachers award too.Her poems have received various awards in online poetry groups.Few have been published in national and international newspapers and magazines.Her research paper on pictorial poetry has been published.Few of her poems have been published in different anthologies.she is the admin of' Indian literary forum' and 'word wide writers'.She is one of the winner of Bold Gold Pen award and member of world National Writers union Kazakhistan. Apart from poetry she holds diploma in interior designing and loves to do painting too.

The secret whisper

Defying all odds, Majestic the tree looked, While soaring great heights, Deep rooted it stood.

Anchoring itself to earth, Reaching for the sky, Standing firm in raging storm, Until sunlight blossoms inside.

The magical whisper of that tree, Did secrets narrate, If your roots are strong and deep, You will find yourself stand firm always.

But oh! dear when the roots are in need, Don't forget to give your shade, Feel delighted to shelter it, For you it has stood long way.

Wish I were a wind

I want to be lost in the wind, To embrace nature in everything I want to blow in the direction I want, To play with leaves in Meadows, If given a chance.

To the trees I want to be a song, Bring fragrance to stagnant ponds, Gazing at flowers, Dancing together in glee, I want to feel butterflies fluttering around me.

Every river,every wood just a breath away would be, Every mile I would fly will seem like inches.

I want to peep the nature all it concealed, Touching everyone,everything Not to discriminate anything. Oh! I wish I were a wind.....

She is much more

She is a flute song when she talks, A forest whose sacredness you are bond to par take, when you walk.

She is a white swan Adding beauty to the misty lake, Making you look more beautiful, Drenched when you are In her faith.

Her blessed eyes are like diamonds In the stars of matchless skies, They as if shed divine light.

She is the colour That influences the soul, Besides her outerself She is much more, A colour that gives love,life and hope.

Adem Zaplluzha ( Kosova)

Adem Zaplluzha, one of the most prolific Kosovan Albanian poets was born in Prizren in 1943. He completed his primary and secondary education in his hometown and graduated from the School of Pedagogy at the University of Pristina. After that he worked as a teacher for a while in several villages near Prizren and then as a legal translator at the Kosovan Electricity Corporation after that until the end of his career. He started writing and publishing literature from his childhood with his first poem being published in 1957 in the Pionieri literary magazine. At the Kosovan Electricity Corporation he co-founded the literary club 'Kosovan Poppies' which later published some of his works most notably in the 'Ngjyra e Kohës' ('The colour of time') anthology. His works were published in a wide variety of literary and non-literary publications in Kosovo, Albania, Macedonia and Romania. In 2013 he was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Writers and Artists Club of Durrës, Albania. In the same year the Albanian literary critic Fatmir Minguli published a collection of critical essays on his body of work in a book entitled "Revoltë dhe meditim mbi poetikën e Adem Zaplluzhes".He is a member of the Kosovan Writers Society.

WHAT ARE THESE EARTHQUAKES?…

Your steps do not leave any prints, they cleared all my memories, An old coffin at the graveyards, discusses with the pantonime.

Nothing left to be touched, the blood’s jellies are raising, A yellow morbid shadow, like Edgar’s raven is knocking on the memory.

Last night you did not open the gates, but you even did not close them, The waxy lock was crying along with the wind, a monotonous barking was heard beyond the walls…

Again the raven’s voice like the night’s voice, resounds in my mind, The windows are not opened, long since the thoughts are locked.

Slowly and with fear I touch my limbs, frost seems to have entered in my soul, What are these earthquakes which are shaking off the top of my hair?…

ON THE SUNKEN EYE OF THE CAPE

Last night, a ship crushed in the quay of forgetfulness, It threw the anchor of expectation, In the depth of the anaemic sea were heard only the laments of the shells.

The soldiers did not return from the sunken steamboat, Hundreds pairs of shoes and blue envelopes, swam on the melancholies of the waves, From the cape of sorrow were heard the wails of the white mermaids.

The grieving sea was crying, like the bride in the wedding chamber the wind screaked, On the sunken eye of the cape, remained hostage, The afflicted tears of the fairies.

WHOSE VOICE IS HEARD TONIGHT?…

Tonight I am not alone, with my shadow I am doing down to the river, I touch the sleepy woods; I touch the nests of the blind birds.

Not a single voice is flying in the space, even the birds of the night have left, Who cried last night, that the dried wood resembled the cuckoo.

No one is answering; perhaps the words are dead, From the dun depths of the earth, are heard only the calamities of the roots Like a bird, the wounded leave is writhing… Whose voice is heard tonight, when for the first time I am not alone?

Ayten Multu (Turkey)

Ayten Mutlu, a Turkish poet and writer (born in Bandırma, Turkey. Graduated from the Faculty of Management of İstanbul University in 1975. She was retired from The Central Bank. Her political activism began in high school, when she was fifteen years old. Being in political activity she took part in the Women’s Rights Movement too. She has published poetry, prose, short stories and essays on literary criticism. She also translated the works of a number of contemporary poets from English to Turkish that published many of them in periodicals. She translates the works of the women poets from Antiquity to the present days in selections from the world over. Her research on women poets from Antiquity to the present day, published in many literary magazines. She presented papers at some universities. Some of her poems took place in many countries, some magazines, newspapers and anthologies in France, Sweden, Germany, Spain, Senegal, Morocco, Italy, Serbia, Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Macedonia, Romania, Spain, Argentina, South Korea, India and Russia. She is a laureate of Ibrahim Yildizoglu Literary Prize (1999), Poetry Prize of the International Meeting of the Poets of Yalova (2001) and Sunullah Arısoy Literary Prize (2005). Akköy Magazine Poetry Worker's Award (2015) Ismet Kemal Karadayı poetry honorary award (2017)

WE GOT LOST INSIDE US they were talking beyond a faraway place solitude and me

53 left the voices into the table clothes and walked the blue moon was also walking with us a hazel cat in the blind looks of flashing red lights stood and looked at the shades of intertwined ghosts which fell into the waters in Bozcaada like a solemn lion stretchingly for a while a man was sitting alone a woman was sitting alone we were two of us you with me me with you hand in hand we escaped from a crowdy loneliness and joined a lonely crowd first we read sorrow in each other then we sat on wet grasses you spoke keeping silent i kept silence speaking while ships in Bozcaada Harbor were waiting for people lights were off the cat went having left each other into wet grasses ---at a place in time you and me...

SNAIL TRAILS i used to see it just before evening fell its light was bluish,

it's missing nowadays, hard to know if it went out or my eyes did, but it was my star, he said, sighing then he took his hands out of the grass which he kindly caressed and he looked at my face from afar snails, he said, eat grass only they leave behind indelible, bright trails wherever they go i wonder how a snail extracts this beauty from grasses mankind is strange, he went on shaking his head as if he wanted to delete the nebulous shade straying on his lusterless eyes he always likes keeping his experiences in a bag as if he will have time to look back he fancies watching his shattered past through a youth mirror broken in his heart pensive, he kept silent for a while getting old might be easier in the past, life used to flow sluggishly but nowadays it's impossible to have time to catch its breath it sweeps grasses without regard to trails what a speed is this, hard to understand and time never waits for what's left its behind and he stared at snail trails again it was clear that he has forgotten to forget for a long time i couldn't understand what he was murmuring whisperingly as if making a hiccup was a song or an elegy

“experiences turn into memories one by one some occasionally blowing like a breeze some quietly waiting with a dagger in its hand for starless days of old age…”

Ayo Ayoola-Amale (Nigeria)

Ayo Ayoola-Amale, is of African heritage. Her work as a poet receives critical attention internationally. She is the Muse of Poetic Harmony, also known as Pacifist Poet and is acknowledged as a poet for positive social change. Ayo enjoys going into schools as a committed advocate of poetry who has seen the critical role that poetry plays as an important catalyst for learning, stimulating creativity and in developing vital communities. She believes that poetry should be made a part of students’ daily lives. Her poems are concerned with confronting the problem of violence, racism and the breakdown of human community. Ayo’s intimate relationship to the peace movement is phenomenal- peace is the word her life is making. Her poems and other literary works have appeared in several international and national anthologies, magazines and journals.

TIMELESS

I exist in the dawn light, in the dusk all round I have gathered all the dialect in a divine sounding trumpet so many faces with torrential outbursts of breath Undying crossroads, the feet stops, the feet stands the same time its strengthening growth

I come here; I know time like the sun knows its stomach I sit here, I walk between sand storms

I stand there and walk the sea cliff at dusk I leave here without loyalty

Like piercing winds I do not exist

The scent of my voice stood up in front of me Asking to sit inside my head My mind gets up, solid again Carrying a lovely trumpet in a cool breeze and that’s all that took off my breath from my place of birth I know my spirit.

UNRIPE DAYS

A blown out feast the last life, the last hope, the last wisdom, generally, individually, always diving violently into the wreck the guns stood on flowers turn to dry feed, Undeniable right to destruction- “gun rights,” they say, “ gun‘s a necessity, seeing guns, using guns that was born to rape us with its finger under our pants through the misery of the ages Guns burn the possessor frozen-stiff Caressing our beloved to ashes In the silent night, the moon arms rages The unripe days hurried to cemetery When light struck our minds and stayed on The sages sing with hands greening, splattering from the leaves At every wind the stones of death wiped off from days and nights the way a candle melts, armaments go out with a feeble heart Undeniable right to life- “we have a life to become,” we say, “ No right higher than the sacredness of life.

Areeba Tayyab (Pakistan)

Areeba Tayyab ,Author of "The Bloody Muse"( World Laureate in Literature 2018 by World Nations Writer's Union)", Lecturer English Language and Literature Superior University, Academic Researcher, Columnist at The Nation and The Educationist,Former Chairperson of Youth General Assembly and Active spokesperson of gender issues and socio psychological aspects of the youth, Teaching Assistant Lahore College for Women University and Creative Writing trainer at University of South Asia.She can be reached at https://areebatayyab.com/

The Muse

The Red Bloody monster speaks to me in night, An innocent day filled with light of polite. The night treats me with an intimate flight, I stop reducing my urges, staying quiet.

A wet and soggy feeling it is to be close, The glass so blur makes an image of rose.

“Stay calm”, said the bloody monster to my ear; Your flesh is mine; your soul is mingling fine. This thrilling sensation I cannot bear, But how to stop me from his dine?

Submit, submit and submit, this is what it has to say, While I with my bare feet regret to pray and pray.

Temptation, Thrust, Connection, Lost, Ugly, Redemption. Thy words rotten, Thine world fallen.

Her Similes

Meet him! Will I? The enigma of my dreams, Like a cake of cherry cream, Eat him will I? Or look at him like: gods stare at the free mortals, Lust stares at love, Power stares at peace, Or sinners stare at redemption.

Kiss him! Will I? The lips of my poisonous mate, Like a sensuous dose on a first date. Kill him, Will I? Or kiss him like:

A bee sucks pollen, A corpse drinks a cure, An anemic some blood, Or breast for her babe.

And all my similes for you, All my meters sung for your rhythm.

Alma Braja (Albania)

Alma Braja was born in Albania, in a stone town named Gjirokastër. Since 1993 she lives in Athens, Greece. She studied tourism and currently she works in a travel agency. Her first touch with poetry was when she worked in a radio station in her town. She says that it was poetry that founded her again, after many years. A few poems are published in a collection with albanian poets that live in Europe. Some of her work, are also published in several portals such as: Atunis, GazetaObserver.com DritarjaOnline.Net, Albmendimi.Arts. Her first poetry collection will soon be published.

At last!

To find what you have never asked, At last! To say that the present, has an expression to describe the peace of the soul, whispering in your ear: At last!” To breathe differently, and to feel what is described only with the words: “At last! “ To know then the self, that there will never be an end, to what made you stutter, after whispering: “At last!”

And the mind will know, that better solution cannot be find in the future, nor in the past, except experiencing that moment which belongs to the present, and through a timely touch, knows how to admit: “At last!”

Don’t be sad!

If the winds have already departed from your land. And the trees, those that are not wearing leaves, do not move. Winds are lost completely. There was a time when they spoke, while the trees were silent, listening the whisper of the leaves. Now you have to get used to silence. Slowly, you have to wait for new winds to be born. Let’s stay here. In a future past, hope is resting. And in her sleep, a past future is dreaming. Don’t be sad that is sleeping now. And while dreaming, confuses the next day. Don’t be sad, yesterday is the reason. Lost are, completely, in the present, the winds. Don’t be sad! Hope will awaken.

Barbara Pogačnik (Slovenia)

Barbara Pogačnik (1973), Slovenian poet, translator and literary critic, graduated from UCL in Belgium, completed her MA at the Sorbonne in Paris, and has published four poetry books: Poplave (Inundations, 2007), V množici izgubljeni papir (Sheets of Paper Lost in the Crowd, 2008), Modrina hiše / The Blue of the House (2013) and Alica v deželi plaščev (Alice in the Land of Coats, 2016). She is also writing short stories and essays. Her poetry in translations has appeared in reviews and anthologies in more than 30 languages. She has participated in more than 60 different literary festivals and manifestations all over the world and more than 150 authors have appeared in her translations.

WHOLE NOTE

I saw a jeep driving on water, its tires flattening like disabled people`s feet, it waddled on the inside of the foot. In other cities, too, electricity rose like tide. The jeep is trying to break, but the water carries it on. We skidded, we’re going to skid. We are jeeps, television waves. Greedy seagulls flying just over the water, our heads on offer, rising above our common watery clothes like candys, convincing people of a theatrical experiment. And in other cities, too.

LACE COLLARS

Love means to learn to look at yourself The way one looks at distant things For you are only one thing among many.

Czeslaw Milosz

The house exists, and in it so many people with lace collars. They stroll round the living room, glancing at windows. Shaking one hair at a time from the pillows. The one without a name, like others, also turns towards windows. Snow is drifting through them. Turkish windows, or Arabic — far away like the figure running over snow towards the shore on the western edge of Europe. Icy puddles of mild apricot unmoving under the invasion of the first moon in flight.

People in the lighted house cannot find the golden hair, the apple of desire: how to stay trusting when you only have a hairbreadth escape? The sky above the shore spreads out a giant pale blue handkerchief bristling with ice crystals in the morning, the thin strands of cloud across the distant orange of the sun. The trees bowed all their transparent palms in one direction, claiming with their black silhouettes that it has all been written where nurturing veins run. But even in the corners of car sheet metal, tiny wounds of rust say how the mouth of aging widens, turning towards me like a drumskin or a stomach.

I'm crying, I'm crying, and my mother says: cry! This is the way I run into the hope that the icy blue railway station will melt down its color. Later, a window might be found on the building, someone will open it and fly a flag. The window is so high that first, you find yourself right next to it, then, deep from the night, it will look straight into your eyes. Trust lurks at every corner

63 like a playful dog, pulling on the leash, tangling paws into it, eager to dash away.

The office of lost and found shows no windows, lost even with a telescope. A big walnut table, but nothing of mine’s been found. The hair on the head still goes awry like the arms of Celtic trees, the hair on the pillow still lying level like books. In these straightlaced days, the country's president strokes a child in a lace linen hat. A blue eyed little girl. The boy in the local library tries to scan a book code, but grasps the infrared scanner clumsily. Embarrassed, the book smiles, wedged uncomfortably into the hollow gap of the couch, like the dead grandmother excitedly recalling a truth from her life in dreams, one that her children didn't know about.

For today I'm freed from her prophecy that I'll sleep through every morning. The sky's hair travels on. Lace roof decoration hangs over the gables of stone houses. Nobody behind the window, only a broken glass sailboat. The one without a name comes, leaves in disarray, and returns. He looks like an orange tree in the bathroom. I heard his words before he said them, I think, my heart pounding under the limelight in giant waves that pour on me from all the windows of a country cathedral. It’s useful to learn how to perform cardiac massage on oneself.

Translated by Julija Potrč & Christopher Meredith

Bilall Maliqi (Presheva)

Bilall Maliqi is a writer, poet and publicist, was born in on 08.04.1969 in a village ElezBAli, municipality of Presheva. He writes poetry and prose for children and adults, h e deals also with literature critics. He is the author of 21 works: poetry for children, for adults, prose for children and adults, journalism and literary critics. Anthologies: the magazine Panorama by the authors of South East Kosova “ Sigh for Earth “ by the author Hysen Keqiku (2004) ; In lexicon “ authors of Albanian Literature for children and adults 1886- 2009” by prof. as.dr. Astrit Bishqemi; in poetical antology Albanian- Swedish “Fllamande Ballad” by Sokol Demaku (2009); In poetical anthology “The Echo of Centuries”by Sokol Demaku, (2010). In poetical anthology by dr. Fatmir Terziu “ Virgin Tears, (2012); In Belgium Poetical Anthology French-Albanian “ Anthologie de poetes Albanophones(2012);

Maliqi is a founder and editor in chief of the magazine “Qendresa” which is published in Presheva Valley. Maliqi is a president of association of Presheva writers; Maliqi is a member of League of Writers of Kosova; Member of Ars Club “ Beqir Musliu” Gjilan; Member of the board “ Atunis” President of “Atunis Lugina” in Presheva.

AN EVENING OF LONGING

An evening of longing Beyond the pages That are softened From the sea waves

I walk attracted From the aroma Of warmth and vibrancy For the first time I enjoy the tide of waves

Beyond the city Lamps were cracking Darkness with light Discovered Wetted beauties...

THROUGH TIME

Valleys raised With their wrinkles Convess longing Of waiting

Their heights As they are assembled Among themselves For times gone by

Below them The river Is refreshed by waives Of Arberia, are those Through time...

MIGRATION

Winds of the Sea Migrate While crashing And rinsing the sand The vertical width

Thousands of souls Challenge the warmth Of the king DRITJONË

And in the sea’s stomach The ships slowly Are bending Our walk.

ART LIFE WIRTING

Enjoyable atmosphere Encompasses the lungs They emerge from the sea

A contrast of colors from a mountain Are erupting abrumptly The inflated surface Of a turbulent longing

Life of art Of an open undersky My dreams frightningly Are destroyed.

Biljana Biljanovska (Macedonia)

Biljana Biljanovska (Skopje, 1948) is a professional (freelance) translater , journalist, writer , poet . Most of schooling followed in the Serbo-Croatian language, in Belgrade, and finished elementary and high school, and part of university education. She graduated from the State University " St. Cyril and Methodius" , Faculty of Philology in Skopje, on the group Romance Philology, where he studied French and Italian languages, letteratur and culture. On several occasions abroad in Italy to improve translation and intrperation on the High School of translators and interpreters in Milan. In her resume but translations from Macedonian on to the Serbian, language, equally represented translations from French and Italian authors in to Macedonian language, and from Serbian and Macedonian in Fransh and Italian languagis.

I WOULD...

I would like to speak To enrich all people, with warm word to open their hearts to them, It was not like that the whole world is different flows to expire and bring joy to everyone.

I would like with warm look to receive all the children of the world as they were our born, to not feel the difference among strangers and their own.

I would like to all the nations of the world To speak only about peace About understanding and craving that we all equally struggle for it, that peace is our only cry and the goal is exalted.

I would, but I do not, Power loves use weapons to parade, To show them power in front of everyone to exercice.

I would like to feel them, but they are louder, because of the money they turning around a world just how they look at them.

I would do a lot for people but the only thing I can do is to enlighten the world and I expect to follow spiritual growth of our race human - the only one!

THE DREAM OF THE POET

I believe that every poet At least once was dreaming eternal peace among people, harmony and undrstending among all nations!

And I dream this dream already for five decades, I just roll it over my head and I'm colour it differently: Once I start from Est and I paint it scarket, second time from the West, Then I paintid in green!

But the content is always the same: People from all over the world from all sides in color of rainbow - They shake, greet, throat and everyone loudly repeats in all languages PEACE BETWEEN ALL NATIONS OF THE WORLD

Bukarić Ensar (Bosnia and Herzegovina)

Bukarić Ensar was born in Bugojno (1968). He lives and works in Gornji Vakuf - Uskoplje (Bosnia and Herzegovina). He is a graduate mechanical engineer. He is working with many magazines, represented in the collections and anthologies. His works have been published in Bosnia and Herzegovinia, Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro and USA. "Poetizing the universe" is a collection of poetry that he published together with colleagues Vernesa Manov and Nijaz Rujanac in October 2018. Most of all, he writes short stories and poems, and some of them have been rewarded. Especially he likes to write for children.

Killing Passion

The passion, which kills will last, Breaking skin with nails. Manly I suffer pain Collecting tears into edges of Still glistening eye pupil. I supress insignificant pebbles of slobbering saliva from my nostril and throw it under their legs.

Insolently I put conflicts to their will. Multiplying them with zero Provoking and pretending crazy.

They say they wish me well. Want me for an example, For a president Model for young generations, And I, provoked by nothing, drunk from the executioner’s song Step proudly and unconscienously Through the sweet world of letters from which those who clean themselves in their own mud constantly expell me.

Black Wasp

Only when you see How many times Black wasp Flies up and down Bringing pine needle, Investigating objects next to the nest, Escaping swallows skillfully And amount of suffer to bring in The needle into the nest, you will only then know that it is not around to scare you, to intend to you its sharp sting. It is preparing nest To bring young ones to the world.

Only when you see How much it suffers And vast quantity of material For this effiort,

Perhaps you will not be afraid And maybe you will remove Obstacle from the entrance into its flat.

At the end you might see that it trusts you and would not take you as its executioner.

Fortunate are those who understand

Sneaking

I sneaked out of my dream tiptoeing, closed the door behind me with whisper.

At the moment when I was bleeding I decided to disappear Using shamless neglect Of half-naked actors.

I planted the surrogate of the soul, My distorted self In the shape of own clone, Until the act of unmasking.

I expect enough time to Escape far away .Let those remaining in dream Be judged.

I do not need an epitaph!

Translated by Nihad Mešić River

Beatriçe Balliçi (Albania)

Beatriçe Balliçi was born in Elbasan in the 15th of May, 1950. She graduated from the University of Tirana in Albanian Language and Literature, in 1972, and went on to become a teacher in the field. She is the author of many poetry volumes such as: “Kush m’i fali manushaqet” (Who Brought the Violets?”, “Harpa” (The Harp), “Ajo melodi e ne te dyve” (That Melody of Us), ect. She has also published many literary criticism articles and essays regarding different authors and literary works. Her wide body of work also includes translations from renowend authors such as Thomas Mann as well as contemporary writers such as Anna Gavalda. She has been awarded many national and internaticional prizes. Her poems are part of many poetry collections published not only in Albania, but also abroad.

The Harp

When a young maiden I was Each time I combed my hair A harp tuned somewhere.

But when the first gray hair Gently I touched with my finger The harp tune vanished away.

To my man

To my man I will bestow All the contents of the April skies Which glitter before the sunrise!

Many days and nights are gone And how many times in a single day I’ve cherished for his name And shed tears for an unfulfilled desire? None is aware, neither the sky Nor the tiny blade of grass! My body has shivered during the nights And nobody is aware of that! Neither my room walls could witness Your existence or nothingness Besides my eyes. Good night my man I’m gonna sleep Letting the fire burn in the fireplace I hug you Embraced by the pure arms of nights and days.

Dr. Claudia Piccinno (Italy)

Teacher in a primary school,operating in more than one hundred anthologies, even abroad (India, Malesia, Singapore, China) she’s a former member of the jury in many national and international literary prizes. She has received awards in major national and international competitions of poetry, including an honorable mention in the Paris 1st Word Literary Prize and a 3rd prize in Lugano, Switzerland, 3rd prize in Albania; She has been the first italian poetess to be awarded with The Stelae of Rosetta, World Literary Prize in Istanbul on November 2016. She was conferred with the most prestigious award “World icon for peace” for Wip in Ondo city, Nigeria, on April 2017 . . She is italian editor for the international literary magazine Rosetta World Literatura in Turkey and for Atunis International Magazine. She usually writes for Oup archives, Setu literature magazine. She has also written numerous critical essays or prefaces about other poets’ books. She has translated from English into italian language lots of authors. She lately got a gold medal for poetry at Lunigiana Center of Study about Dante Alighieri. She cooperates with her verses to some art catalogues. Her poems have been translated into Arabic, Spanish, Turkish, Serbian, French, Chinese languages.

Memories of a Sibilla

To pretend your death It seemed like a Titans’ business. To the initial despair To the real confusion Took over the clear certainty Of your inconsistency Of incompatibility Between imaginary (mine) and emptiness of soul (yours). Tricks of magician in your days Worship of the catwalk in your clicks. My anger was easy to tarnish while you were wearing with silence and grin the mediocrity of comfortable alliances. It was the way out that you chose to make no light in your heart Empty bark you will remain where no nightingale will do its nest. I recited the eternal requiem between us and no more matters in which infernal circle you will crash. The penalty of the counterpoint

Is that while you’re still alive you will face your guilt

Love me God

Love me in my imperfection And in my mistakes. Love me in the mysterious restlessness that envelops to my roots. Love me God

77 in what I have good and even more in what I have wrong and deliver me from unjust and undeserved distant future. Love me in the anger that I don’t turn into compassion, in the gestures I have held back in order to not cross the threshold towards madness. Love me and give me back the innocence of those who believe in the future, Love me in order that I don’t lose the amazement of the present. Love me and let me make peace with the past. Love me God because in the beatitude of your infinite I will rest.

From the monologue of Cassandra

The Carnival looks out at the same piece of sea, right there where I could have been happy. Foam of alchemical feeling carried me away from everyday pain. But then I went back to the crime scene with the little lantern in order not to hurt me . And yet the same crazy splinters of an omnipresent love they rip old wounds And it was only fault of my steps trained themselves to reiterate trust in the most sterile of illusions, that of being loved despite my weaknesses.

Caroiline Nazareno- Gabis (Philippine)

Caroline ‘Ceri Naz’ Nazareno-Gabis, World Poetry Canada International Director to Philippines, is a multi-awarded contemporary poet, editor, journalist, museumist, linguist, educator, peace and women’s advocate. Graduated cum laude with the degree of Bachelor of Elementary Education, specialized in General Science at Pangasinan State University. Ceri have been a voracious researcher in various arts, science and literature. She volunteered in Richmond Multicultural Concerns Society, TELUS World Science, Vancouver Art Gallery, and Vancouver Aquarium. She currently experiments on deviantArt , mask and shell painting, and collecting artworks from the exquisite nature. Her photoart ‘’koireography’’ was exhibited in South Korea, with the theme ‘’VISIBLE POETRY CONNECTING THE WORLD". Her mentor in photography is her husband, Bryann, a freelance photographer and a professional teacher. As a science educator, she has found American Society for Rickettsiology- University of Montana, a research niche on biological safety. Her creative writings have been published in different anthologies and magazines worldwide. http://panitikan.ph/2018/03/30/caroline-nazareno-gabis/ https://apwriters.org/author/ceri_naz/ https://cerinaz.deviantart.com/

79 my all my coolant, my energy filler, my sunshine and sunset, my daybreak, my morning breeze, my alarm clock, my blanket, my dream, my wish my wound patch, my shapes my left and right guide, all by my side my storm gear, my mountain, my compass, my sky, and yes, my lifetime poetry whatever it is called you're my everything.

Scarce and Scars

Would you say Love, is in scarcity, Like an extinction scenario? fractions of hatred, let it overcome with generosity, for when the time runs out no breath, energy and vital signs exist flora and fauna would all be framed and everything will just pass away, may humans not be endangered in the forest of life--- of enlightenment.

Interstice i am anywhere in the crevices of the unknown, spaces between us, are spatial mess, upturn dreams. i am the host of outnumbered filaments in the wormholes of rummages that share spots of destiny, in our certainty shadows, untold gems of tomorrow. i am a step towards the line, devoured centillion dots of bends while harmonic waves come to your ears, as you listen deeply. i become the center of galaxies because you radiate interstellar bridges and equidistant spiral arms, yes, memories linger in my gravitational insanity.

Carmen Moscariello (Italy)

Carmen Moscariello is a poet, journalist, director, teacher of Italian and Latin in high schools. She has published about 1500 articles in sixteen years of collaboration in "Il Tempo", she has collaborated for six years with TG3 Lazio. She is president and founder of the "Tulliola" Award at the XXIV Edition. The award was awarded a medal by the President of the Republic Giorgio Napolitano for high cultural merits. In the span of thirty years she has published about twenty works, including poetry, non-fiction, theater, among which: The Eyes search the wind; Imizad and letters to Nataschia; it is not time for the Messiah, Daughter of the moon; Oboe for transverse flute; Earth in the evening; Giordano Bruno Source of fire; Proserpina; Eleonora with beautiful hands; The lost watch; In the shadow of a heresy; The Alumbrados; Rhapsody of love; Tunnel of dreams, Synchronous Destini Amelia Rosselli and Rocco Scotellaro (a work that has achieved great success). They wrote about her works: Domenico Rea, Walter Mauro, Michele Prisco, Aldo Carotenuto; Michele Urrasio; Francesco D'Episcopo, Aldo Masullo, Ugo Piscopo and many others.

The ivory door

You are my little Buddha I turn you from sleep to light drawing in the firmament the dream of you sunflower of beautiful loves Leonardo, little Buddha and I'm happy grandma I dance with you until dawn tumbalalaika at the time, tin tin tintan from da-da-re Leonardo ta-ta-ta I play with your silver fingers on a cameo plane the notes migrate, run gallop among valleys and rivers and I'm still a child while I sing the gift of you.

If I come to look for you

Oh my past, I will join my hands so that I can finally drink at the sun cup to never meet you again finally I can loose you in empty buildings in the thick morning fog in the sick eye of the white stone where rests the mystery dream and some detail in my being an ancient daughter of vagueness for a time that is not, nor it is neither it will ever be.

Strumentum scribendi

The wait long invasive incidences of Advent it is the enchantment of the new light and from that time the gaze transpires Advent of distant stories of new tenderness, of silent fluids of stones in the magic of foliage It waits suspended the advent of autumn and the wind is silent in the arms of the fluids comets we pass suspended we live the waiting in the womb sings life the heart is clear beats the wait ancient odors vaporize and I caress the tender gem he will come, he will also come to feed this year of joys and light in the smoke of the fireplace.

We pass suspended we live the waiting in the womb sings life the heart is clear beats the wait ancient odors vaporize and I caress the tender gem he will come, he will also come to feed this year of joys and light in the smoke of the fireplace.

Translator Claudia Piccinno

Corina Junghiatu ( Romania)

Corina Junghiatu born in Bucharest , Romania, 12 April, 1981 Education: 2008 - 2011, The University of Bucharest, Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Education Occupation: Book editor "Lirical Publishing Graph" Romania Editor of the "Romanian Speech" magazine Director of the literature and art platform "World Literary Union" Member of " The World Poets Association" Vice champion of the "European Poetry Championship" Publishing: Galaktika Poetike "ATUNIS", 11 February, 2019, "DAILY OBSERVER", 09 February, 2019, Anthology "Music of my soul", 01 February, 2019, Magazine " Logos and Agape", 31 January, 2019, Magazine " Romanian Speech", 29 January and 13 January, 2019 Books: Author of poetry volume "Exil in light", 10 February 2019

Peace flows into me

The tempest calmed Peace flows into me I fly above the wind And I can arise For hundred years From darkness to light

I paid this price of peace With the price of solitude And with all the letters Of a farewell poem In my Universe the poppies blow When I am waiting For the proof of pain in the row With the exuberant innocence Of my soul...

I am not yet born

I am not yet born I'm still a particle In the Universe I look for the place Where my seed Will come to life I choose to be born In each of the colours Of the rainbow Or in a tree circle Or in a white rose Or in a coral of the shell But when the dream ends There is a place where I go In a mixture of a casualty Called LIFE...

Duska Vrhovac (Serbia)

Duska Vrhovac, poet, journalist and translator, was born on March 24, in 1947 in Banja Luka, Republic of Srpska, BH. She graduated comparative literature at Faculty of Philology, University of Belgrade, where has been living and working since. Currently she works as a writer, translator and freelance journalist. With more than 25 published books, some of which have been translated, in part or in full, into more than 20 languages, she is among the most significant contemporary authors of Serbia and beyond. Present in newspapers, literature journals and anthologies of absolute value, she has participated in many gatherings, festivals and literary events in Serbia and abroad. She has received important awards and recognitions for poetry, including: May prize for poetry - 1966, Yugoslavia; Ascension of Poetry - 2007, Serbia; Premio Gensini, Poetry Section - 2011, Italy; Naji Naaman's international literary prize for complete works - 2015, Lebanon, Beirut; Plaque and medal with the figure of Sima Matavulj, founder and first president of the Serbian Writers' Association - 2016; and the gold medal for the “generosity, dedication, perseverance and creative contributions to spread the culture of the nation-es“, assigned by the Institution for Culture and Education of the Republic of Serbia. Duška Vrhovac is a member, among others, of the Association of Serbian writers, Association of Literary Translators of Serbia, of the International Federation of Journalists, and she is Ambassador to Serbia by Poets of the World (Movimiento Poetas del Mundo) and the current Vice President for Europe.

POETS - PESNICI

Poets are a gang, pretending nomads, indecisive interpreters of banalities and eternity. They are useless seekers, intemperate lovers, hunters of lost words, the spies of roads and seas.

Poets are vain gardeners of overgrown royal gardens, vanguards of star derailments, messengers of sunken ships, desecrators of secret paths, crafty repairers of the Ursa Major and the Ursa Minor, collectors оf astral dust. Poets are thieves of illusions, troubadours of rejected utopias, seducers of any kind, tasters of poisoned food, prodigal sons and professional seducers, heroes which spontaneously put their heads at the guillotine at which they are also executioners. Poets are the crowned guardians of language’s proper being, lovers of unsolvable mysteries, charlatans and pimps. They are the favourites of gods, tasters of magic drinks, and crazy squanderers of their own lives.

Poets are the last offshoots of the most delicate sort of cosmic beings, cultivators of the soul's white flowers,

unreliable creators of untenable worlds. Poets are interpreters of lost signs, carriers of important messages, a warning that Life is endless and Universe an unfinished project.

Poets are fireflies on the junkyard of the Cosmos, conquerors of the colourful rainbow belt and performers of the holy music of the cosmic birth. Poets are invisible companions in the silence of sense and absurdity of all the visible and the invisible. Poets are my only, true brothers.

TO FIND MY OWN WORD

Countless poets have already told how they see a whole world in a grain of sand, infinity in the palm of a hand, all heaven in an eye, and how a single day an eternity can hold.

How many of them have glorified love, cursed suffering, sorrow and pain, described death, hell, paradise and a happy home, earnest that everlasting shall be their work and name.

Everything has been said and seen, forewarned, sung and written about, and there is nothing that has ever been.

So why then do I here stand like the first woman and the first man, as if I were a God?

To say what is already told? To describe what has evolved? To find my own word.

Domenico Pisana (Italy)

Born in Modica in 1958, Doctor of Moral Theology, he is the founder and President of the Quasimodo Coffee Cafe in Modica. Poet, literary critic and essayist with several works translated entirely into Polish, Spanish, Romanian and English, he published 9 volumes of poetry, 6 books of literary criticism, among which stands the essay on Quasimodo That Nobel from the South - Salvatore Quasimodo between glory and oblivion, translated, in 2011, in Romanian. He also published 11 texts of a theological and ethical nature, among which the volume, published by San Paolo editions, stands out. On your word I will throw the networks, translated into Polish and Spanish, as well as "3 volumes of historical-political character. In 2006 the Municipal Administration and the Pro Loco of Modica awarded him the Gold Medal of the "Premio della Modicanità"; nominated for several awards, in November 2016 he was awarded the "Premio Federico II" to culture; in January 2017 he received the "European FARFA Prize" for culture and territory, awarded to him by the International Association of Literary Critics based in Paris; in September 2017 he was awarded the "Magister Vitae" Prize for the contribution to culture in San Vito Lo Capo (Trapani) as part of the 5th Edition of the Vito Ruggiriello Memorial. Of the works of Pisana we report only those translated into Polish, Spanish, Romanian and English: Na twojw slowa zarzuce sieci, Polish edition 1999, 4K PHUP Sp.z.o.o., Bytom, Poland, 1999; En tu palabra echaré las redes, San Pablo, Santafe De Bogota, D.C., 1999; Acel Nobel venit din South. Salvatore Quasimodo intre glorie siui tare, Iunimea, Iasi, Bucharest, 2011; Odes tho the twelve lands. A stringed wind from the Ibleans, Armando Siciliano Editore, Messina, 2016.

IBLA

An embroidery of beauties Ancient Greece made on your very face, Ibla, where the old necropolises in mount Rito are shown by my age and its memory looks out onto experiences preserved by the centuries. Swabians, Normans, and Aragonese 9 planted seeds of development, of death and rebirth stepped on ancient stones which were burnt by the sun, and witnessed the tremor of the earth 10 that pulverized houses, churches, and palaces in an apocalyptic scenery. You reawaken, Ibla, dreams of curious travellers, whose eyes lay down on wonderful arches and portals, on balconies sustained by satanic figures, on marquetry and battlements of your splendid church a destination for Saint George Martyr devotees: 12 fiction characters set the scene carrying away baroque civilizations and beauties, human feelings and the turmoil of life. Like a mother you stretch out your arms, Ibla, towards the horizon coming out from your womb, where the tolling of the Cathedral has been calling for centuries joyful generations of people. You shine, Ibla, like a jewel on a woman’s finger, you’re wrapped in a blanket of beauty never worn out by the time and the negligence of people.

CRADLE OF MASTERWORKS

A cradle of masterworks you are in my eyes, Ragusa, while the moon caresses your domes and light effects spread around the air when the day goes down. An atmosphere of pleasing beauty comes from the Cathedral 14 lying on the sleeping city, the silent bell tower watches over the balustrade of the pensile churchyard, where the time received sweat and tears from men and women during the centuries. Traces of ancient necropolises left in the bottom of your heart foreign dominations, that you now preserve in a chest of memories Tabuna, Monte Rito, Balatelle were born in your maternal womb, challenged the weapons of Romans and Normans, and a violent tremor of the earth divided for many years the path of your people. Now that the astute pride of a man 16 could sanctify you in the splendour of a county town, you live in the brightness of Baroque seducing the eyes of the passers-by and you widen the thoughts of your children scattered all over the world. You, Ragusa, cherish us between two worlds, call enchanted visions to our mind and open your heart to life with the song of your beauty.

Despina Kontaxis (Greece)

Despina Kontaxis a Poetess and Translator was born in Greece on 22 July 1978. She is a recipient of Poeta Crociato Dell’ Unione Mondiale Dei Poeti –Crusader Poet of World Union of Poets (Italy), ‘Pride of the Globe-2017, by World Nations Writers’ Union of Kazakhstan ‘WNWU’, 1st Book Award by ISGWA for the book "Pravi-100 years of freedom" (Greece) and many more. Her poems have been selected by: The UN Disarmament Office, her poem "Hibakusha", was selected for the top 10 in promoting Disarmament through Poetry (Japan), her poem “Sentimental Parade” was included in the Wedding Anthology "A Royal Romance" by Forward Press for William and Kate (UK). She is a recipient of Honorary Doctorate of Letters (UK) and Honorary Doctor of Poetry (Greece).

JOURNEY

Journey of the soul among the stars at the land of incarnation where hands are offered.

Joy, happiness and fire something always will glow. From all the bad things go away as the soul enters the body.

Experiences, lessons of life the crystal is always clear. Speachless and marching the range of time is gone.

Vibrations that change through the course of life. The frequencies command to leave the earthly matters.

Development must start the spiral journey upwards. It will became anagenesis and our life’s wisdom.

Experiences, lessons of life the crystal is always clear. Speachless and marching the range of time is gone.

APOLLO, THE GOD OF MUSIC

Come God Apollo and vibe your lyra. Bring a new era and make fear hollow.

Offer us hope the art of healing a prophecy from your oracle that your return foretells.

The tragedy of now and then may seize at your presence. Give us your magical essence that ether carries within itself.

Come God Apollo let all beauty rise with the hearing of the music that your strings donate.

The pentagram’s notes bring in mind new oaths that are given in your name give to numanity a new aim.

An instant

An instant from loneliness to eternity. A momemt from crazyness to sanity. A thread from sane to insane. A passage from bored to ultimate creativity. A speck of motivation to turn from unactive to activity.

A small distance between being cheated or being in love. An instant that turns the page of life.

Your absence transformity. The sound of your breath covered your deformity.

Now you are gone. The instant is here to last a lifetime.

Dashamir Malo (Albania)

Dashamir Malo, born city of Permet, Albania. He finished Military Academy and later the Police Academy. Since 1990 -1997 he worked in his profession in the city of Saranda. In 1997 he immigrated to Athens - Greece where he worked and lived until 2002. In 2003, then resumes work in his profession as a police officer and is currently Chief Administration of Border Police Station in Saranda. He has published books of poetry "Between solitude and silence", "Precedent" and "Hiding the Lot", “Maybe”. In 2014 he published the book of poetry "Vaguely". He translated from Greek poetry volume "Selected Poems" of the Greek poet, publicist and journalist, George Hronas and book of essays "Crasy dance of the Merylin's." Also has participated in anthologies of poetry, "The gates of forgetfulness", "Itaca of speech" and "Lanes open". He continuously published poems in literary newspapers such as "Dight", "Word", "Nacional", "Writer", "Art Ionian". He has also published cycles of poetry in Greek, Norwegian and German language. He is one of the following organizers of poetic annual meetings, which are held in the city of Saranda from Ionian Makers Club.

False rainbows (Requiem for the system that passed)

At evenings we heard an age – mate crying At mornings, as well. We grew up by the means of hunger. We hoped. This was the only alternative. The sole left.

Our desires were false rainbows That time dissolved. We waited for the birds of dreams to return. They had abandoned us times ago. We waited, waited for long. We shouldn’t cry, We should only laugh. That’s why we sadly laughed. Later on, Later became stutterer. Our beings took shapes of things. From day to day We died slowly and slowly. And we doubted More and more…..

The owl

The owl began its old song Upon an oak Now that the murky evening falls The night brings along a false peace, While it looks with the eyes of the deceitful, and listens with the ears of the burglar. Sleepy stands there beyond The old mountain, With a distorted sky Over its head. And a moon That eats itself because of sorrow. This night that shelters the anxiety Melted our ways in the darkness. A torn sheet of the cloud Like a flag After a lost battle, Tossed by the furious wind of January … Be quiet!

Someone passes Or the barefoot rain Falls onto the leaves. ?! Be quiet! Someone passes … but even if passes, the lost path will be

To the day which passed

I did not remember the face Of the day that passed Days change the portrait Like the girls of the Pub – Bars Change the make – up.

I feel lonely. I lost even the bus of the last hour.

I don’t know why this midnight scares me, With this empty silence With these prostitutes Who await clients at the wide road, With these traffic – lights That remains red Like the eyes of the drunkards.

I walk aimlessly. mournful sounds are heard from far.

On the keyboard of the night Plays an invisible hand.

Danijela Trajković (Serbia)

DANIJELA TRAJKOVIĆ holds an MA in English Language and Literature from the Faculty of Philosophy in Kosovska Mitrovica, Serbia. She is a short stories writer, poet, translator, reviewer. Published by literary magazines, newspapers and anthologies worldwide. The DANIJELA TRAJKOVIĆ holds an MA in English Language and Literature from the Faculty of Philosophy in Kosovska Mitrovica, Serbia. She is a short stories writer, poet, translator, reviewer. Published by literary magazines, newspapers and anthologies worldwide. The most recent in World Poetry Al manac, edited by Dr Hadaa Sendoo and Balkan Poetry Today, edited by To Phillips. Her first book „22 Wagons“ was published by Istok Academia, 2018.

Home summer’s tongue licks all our attempts to build a home we conjure rain to show us where foundations are we pull roots out

99 collect brown leaves for the cellar oranges for walls yellow birds for windows

we are eternal tenants wait for winter its fire scarf and winter is late as the trains in Serbia our feet are bare our bodies are cold asphalt two skies winter is our mother old woman slow walk she has no choice but to come

Abducted it was night when they abducted me I didn't see their faces they tied my eyes put on the operating table separated my soul from my body all the blood ran out they said were going to throw it in the Red Sea not to leave any trace then they buried my soul on some cemetery

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my pale body now attracts many men I hear from the conversations dogs and birds who are fed at the cemetery have sometimes I hear your steps as well your voice you pass along an unmarked grave just say You're too far away and continue walking

Hibernation lay my body on a stone slab in a place where the sky is clear where the sun can lie to me for some time more that you’re coming where the eyes of the moon will cuddle my face falsely for a while just a little bit more where the choir of stars will sing fickle lulls to me where only the beaks of vultures will type your secret on my body

Cock cock is blind once it gets into a dark pit and washes its face at the source it will be able to see and the source will turn into river so great that will flow into the ocean and the ocean will become so great that it will flood the whole world and there will be no more continents

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©Irina Hysi (Albania) “Knight soul” (70x60)

Graduated in master's art management, the Mediterranean University of Albania. The veil between deep inspiration, poetic intuition, and appearance and image realization as a painting often accompanies the category of all the artists who possess these types of techniques, but resizing and expressive forms with the language codes and the spirit of the music make this art to touch the highest constellations creatures of the creative spirit.

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Dr. Ernestina Gjergji Halili (Albania)

Ms. Erenestina Gjergji Halili, studied at the Faculty of History and Philology, in the department of Language and Literature, where she also attended the academic journalism course. During this time, Ms. Erenestina engages in the press organs of the time, with poetic creativity and writings about that time’s problems. She is also one of the students of the “December Movement'91”. In 1990-1991, she contributed as Culture Manager, inMTKRS / Youth Federation. Ms. Erenestina Gjergji Halili, is the author of three books: "Gjama e erës", “Bibliography of the published Albanian Drama (the first study in the field of Albanian dramaturgy, in Albania, Kosovo, Macedonia, Montenegro, etc.), and a third book named "Bibulz". With the "Gjama e erës" book, Ms. Halili won the first prize at the National Book Fair, in Fier 2016. Various scholars have evaluated the poetic and anthropological elements of the book, including it in their papers, as subject of different scientific and literary studies. With the "Bibulz" volume, she was evaluated by the Institute for the Protection of Albanian Culture in Austria, with the “Crystal Pen for Albanian Poetry", 2017. Ms. Halili was also awarded with the "Albanian Excellence" title, in 2017. Dr. Erenestina Gjergji Halili is the founder of the 'Drama Club' at UT, an innovation in the Albanian university life, with rich literary and dramatic activity, taking place inside and outside of Albania.

To the Cathedral

I have to get to the Cathedral Carrying a load, carrying a word

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I have to get to the cathedral In the hustling night, through endless dark

I have to get to the cathedral; A man acts by his word and the word has been given, So I have to get to the Cathedral.

Soul full of peace, sky filled with my son I have to get to the Cathedral

I've bent my head, I've yield my heart To the given word, at the Cathedral

A voice is hushing in glowing timbre I have to get to the Cathedral

The ironhead bell slowly wobbles, The steps are hasty, at the Cathedral

The wordless darkness darkens the night, The man of word, who kept his word, Has stopped breathing, at the Cathedral...

Give me, tell me, wash me…

You should give, tell, wash me, Devil’s bulb on my spirit path into the evening Entering in my church washed by divine mercy Being blessed in the light, not even coming the evening

You should give, tell, and wash me A handful sphere of untouchable insights To know like a child knows by heart my female Bible In the sanity of human, to be washed by kisses You should love, tell, and wash me Like a saint…

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Dr. Ezhil Vendhan (India)

Dr. Ezhil Vendhan is a celebrated poet from India and a recipient of numerous international accolades and author of number of poetry collections. He has been honoured with the 'International Icon of Literature' by Contemporary Literary Society of Almor: Banda', ‘World Laureate in Literature 2017’ by the World Nations Writers’ Union, Kazakhstan and ‘World Icon of Peace’ by World Institute of Peace, Nigeria for his contribution to the world literature. The ‘Fellow of the Regal World of Scribes’ was conferred on him by the Writers’ Corner, India. His poem entitled 'Banyan Tree’ is an acclaimed masterpiece of Dr.Ezhil Vendhan’s writings. Its original Tamil version was selected as the best Tamil poem at the Multi -Lingual Poets Symposium 1995 held in New Delhi, in conjunction with the Indian Republic Day. His poems have translated and available in twenty four languages.

Smile Please

You will like to smile again as you feel your love within. Smile for a moment You lose nothing but beget something. Smile for a while as smile makes your face glow like a flower. Dimples may appear which are unique and rare. Smile often and whenever you feel as smile brings out your real self. Smile is sign of positive attitude raises your altitude. Smile relieves pains and stress

105 and make your heart healthy. Smile is highly contagious and brings you more returns. Smile wherever you are as smile makes your presence, Reinforces your image influences you on others. Smile please without delay as someone near may be in sorrow. Smile to anyone near as smile ensures joy and cheer.

THE BEAUTY OF SILENCE

We are wandering souls around the universe in the company of angels.

We cannot identify ourselves in the noise pollution and restlessness, as we are friends of peace and silence.

I feel we are like nature, creepers, plants, trees, grass, flowers, fruits and all grow in silence. And see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence.

We need silence to touch our souls mutually. Let us pass through the silence valley where we could enjoy the melody of dew drops falling on the grass blades.

We could hear the budding of soft petals in the fragrant flowers.

We could glance the beauty of silence

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when polengrains emanate honey. Let us enjoy the fauna and flora of the wonderful nature in silence.

AN INTERCEDE FOR LOVE

You assert yourself for truth You proclaim to be noble. You claim to be pious and spiritual You preach high morals. You speak of faith and harmony You pronounce peace and love for all.

But why you scare about others Who are weak and marginalized Who are underprivileged and poor Who are in hunger and poverty.

What is your meaning for love Whether you have love without concern Don't you love for wellness for all.

Does goodness to others is not your meaning of love. How you like to translate your love Is there any other interpretation for your love.

Why you propagate hatred and enormity Why you are dishonest to your own claims. And then what you stand for I intercede for love and peace.

Compose yourself of the best as this life is precious and only once make out maximum sweetness you can to the life and lessen the bitterness.

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Еlka Nyagolova (Bulgaria)

Poet, translator, novelist, anthologist. Graduate of Sofia University “St. Kliment Ohridski”. Lives in the city of Varna. Author of the novel “Nemite Kambani” /”The Silent Bells”/, as well as of 20 books of poetry, published in Bulgaria, and another 10 in other countries – Russia (two books), France, Ukraine, Serbia (two books), Macedonia, Poland, Croatia, Greece. Winner of a number of national literary awards, among which: “Yuzhna Prolet” /”South Spring”/ – for a debut, “Izvorat na Belonogata” and “Dora Gabe” – for lifetime achievement, Botev’s Prize for poetry (by the eponymous publishing house), “Mara Belcheva” Prize. Laureate of international literary awards from Russia, Ukraine, Latvia, Macedonia, Montenegro, the United Kingdom, Poland, Serbia... Holder of the Russian orders “M. Lomonosov”, “Derzhavin” and “Griboyedov”, “S. Yesenin”, as well as of the Pushkin’s Medal. Her poetry has been translated into 20 languages. She translates from 5 languages herself. Member of the Union of the Bulgarian Writers and the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences and Arts. President of the Slavonic Literary and Artistic Academy. Director of the International Writers Association for the Balkans. Full-fledged member of the Academy for the Russian Language and Literature. Editor-in-chief of “Znatsi” /”Signs”/ magazine.

BEFORE THE WINTER

Love is worn out as a many year-old overcoat. It has faded to gray with dry cleaning. Its cuffs are quite shabby now.

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(Probably, from all those caresses!) The lining inside is a bit torn (it has been hiding the family secrets). Some impudent stain has also appeared – a trace of delight that was shared ... A two-eyed loose button is hanging with a heavy head drooping. And there’s a hole in the pocket – perhaps through this hole have been lost the brightest small coins for the minutes, that had to be saved for the rainy days.

Love is worn out. The clothes hanger’s grown heavier with smothered memories and cold seasons... The old clothes lady is shouting outside – she buys anything that is worn out. My heart will just break if I call her. But she’s hastily bargaining, and is stuffing in her bag all those creatures, still breathing, with their different languages, destines, lives. Then she slings over her shoulder this Babylon silently moaning. And she walks away down the empty street, now all covered in white with the first snow ...

RECIPE FOR MAKING BREAD To Niya

Bread is made with love. With a thought of something nice. With a hope that’s all in white to engirdle the whole world with it. You should do it lightheartedly. Make sure you don’t lose the secret words, which you’ve been keeping

109 for this moment only. With the memory of your mother’s image, with a rhythm from a song that she sang you should then sift the white – not the flour, but the white expectation. Then in the middle – a small hollow you should make with your hand – it is easy. Instead of yeast – you must put in, simply, the happiest hour. Knead and stroke gently the bread dough - tenderly, eagerly, long enough … And don’t forget – you are performing a woman’s ritual, nothing less! Then you bake that in the oven of your own soul, on the live coals … It smells of fresh bread at home now … (And the Holy Family comes down.) You only don’t miss the essence: bread with no salt is the same thing as the flat flavour of tasteless life with no salt in it. Make sure there always be with you some fire and salt in the house. And, if you just forget something, call for me, please, call me quickly! With my hands all white with flour, I will come out, my dear child. (My porch is too high up there, its beams are creaking with old age…) I’ll be descending quite slowly with the cloud, transformed into rain then, until I give you all the instructions… But the bread will be made for sure!

Translation: Ilko Belev

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Elida Rusta (Albania)

Elida Rusta is an Albanian author who bases her poetic idea on the combination of the epic elements that came from the oldest Albanian mythology with postmodernization and contemporary literary tedences today. After graduating from the University of Shkodra, the "Language - Literature" Faculty, she worked as a teacher of Albanian Language. The profile of education, but also the passion for poetry have made this author create her own unique style that identifies her for the aesthetic values and the universal message she conveys. She is a participant and winner of various literary competitions, with her poetry being valued amongst others. Winner of : First Prize Michigan, Detroit, from the "Assembly" magazine. Winner of the first prize, Përmet "Gjurmët Naimiane". She is Ambassador for Peace “Women’ s Federation for World Peace- Europe”. Her poetry is periodically published in literary magazines: Poetic Anthology, and continues to attract the attention of both literary criticism and readers. She is the author of the poetic volume "1000 Years of Ajkunë" and has been publishing other volumes of poetry and prose in the genre of the novel. She lives and works in Shkodra.

With pigeons I used to sent letters

With pigeons I sent letters even though they were killed on its way By mistake, the letter of love fell into your hands ,

111 that I wrote for someone else. Neither its soul nor its letters you understand It’s not for you! Elsewhere my prince wanders. With the purse of metaphors, from star to star he took the step More beautiful than Sokol Halili Who used to provoke Balkan’s girls, While riding his brother’s knight My prince has a yard beyond the Moon and he ties his horses in Mars. The daughter of Illyrian Shas’ snake, and Shkelzen’s son, under which I dry up the wounds of four thousand years, I beautifully suffer, and I don’t care about Einstein . Nothing is relative, everything is written in my chromosome. That’s why I am not like you !!! If I’ll ever get pregnant in fall or spring, to a planet I’ll give birth, to a beautiful one like my children’s eyes.

The crystal creeks of my heart

Under a bark beech the invisible cicada is singing the soul’s heat You, don’t know the crystal creeks of my hearts. Your geography connects the rivers with Lana you park your soul there, near the defiled waters. You never go out with pines and rocks that don’t walk, but dance in the sky… There, my prince collects pine cones

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Plays in the evening with me, does and birds. He kisses me and I hide behind the peaks inflamed like the sun. Ah, it looked like I played the science, the philosophers, the achievements? Purgatory and Paradise were written on “Hell” by church. Einstein’s masterpiece Isn’t it his soviet girlfriend that even FBI’s Hoover never found ? And the bomb, Didn’t my neighborhood’s children even know about the bomb when they’re playing “kaladibrançe” a game about jumping on your back? The daughter of the snake and the sun, the niece of Illyrian’s Shas, at the Migjeni’s theater in Scutari, who sleeps on Nietzsche’s moustache, I don’t care about gods and idols. For me only a prince was born I told them! He ties the horses on the moon, I go after him walking on a lawn, Towards the road to myself…

Don’t go towards the sea

"Don't go towards the sea He is a salty snob who never gets enough with sweetwaters! Get back into my eyes and pour like tears, flee through the leaves, grass roots and flowers! Become morning hoar!” The rivers slipped from my lap and took the opposite road of rain, to the skies! Maybe to irrigate the Mars where the prince depastures the horses The dreamy father of the three of my rivers"! I go with the wind where I drain the storms Dressed in whispers…

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Eva Kacanja MA (Albania)

Eva Kacanja was born on October 7th, 1971 in the city of Kruja, Albania. Her poetries are introduced in several magazines and anthologies and have caught the attention of literary critics. She has published the following volumes of poetry: “The statue of the soul”, 1995 “At the bottom of your heart”, 2004 “Scent of soil”, 2011 Eva’s fourth volume of poetry is in the process of publishing. She lives in Durres, Albania with two children.

Air when the mind in air rises like silk in the breeze when the night opens its eyes to thousands of flashes when the body flows like river in its banks when in kisses you undress my concerns and doubts when like a child you groan and the lack heal when in my ear you whisper "You are my balm!'' Like the Earth's vein my brain turns on...... Like a wild bird returns

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hides thrugh the silent night the sleepless moon Lost angel you do not know wounds... I will be the wound of your soul...!

Full...

On the body is filled autumn like a cup full of oil, Like leaves I curl on her veins, Red like an apple, Yellow like gold, Melt like the earth, Open like the sky... Crazy variegated coming from the depths from the fire that lights up lips and soul You blessed light by God shed in the sunlight burn and take my eyes...! nice

Man nostalgy

I wasn't stuck inthe pain of my love No! Half moon on the sky, It hurts and hurts...... In the beauty of your love tonight I felt nostalgic Manly this nostalgy which can even erode a mountain....!

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Eden Soriano Trinidad (Philippine)

Eden Soriano Trinidad was born in Philippines. In 1991- She pioneered the establishment of a mission school and currently the School Director of that school, Registered as Lucio Abrigo Memorial Learning Center, Inc. Her 1st Poetry Book titled “EDEN BLOOMS” is a collection of her own compositions. She is one of the main Author of “PLETHORA OF POETRY”, a book of poetry by Zambaleno Poets. Several poems of her have been featured in ATUNISPOETRY.COM She is the Founder of LAMLC Poetry KIDS. She write poems in English and Filipino Languages and in Sambal, her own dialect. She is currently working on Eden Blooms 2 “Symphony of Souls”, “Sambal Poetry Collections”, and the translation of the story of a Hindu Legend in Filipino Language. She has written the article about Pentasi B World Friendship Poetry World: The 2nd Coming to Africa during the International Humanitarian Conference (IHC) 2018, held in Ghana Africa. September 29, 2018 – bestowed upon her an International Humanitarian Award as top delegate and speaker during the International Humanitarian Conference (IHC) by Hafrikan Prince Art World Founder & CEO Dr. Waheed Musah in the University of Ghana, Accra, Ghana, Africa. July 31, 2018 – bestowed upon her a Medallion and Plaque of Recognition as PENTASI B World Featured Poet 2018 by the founder of Pentasi B and father of Visual Poetry Doc Penpen. June –August 2018- Department of Education featured her poem titled “May Isang Guro” (Once There Was a Teacher) in DEPED ZAMBALES JOURNAL, Zambales, Philippines.

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DESIRES

Consumed by the burning desire of our own anxious cares “Like a deer that pants for water.” We lust for glory, wealth and power. Like King Nebuchadnezzar who hankered to rule the Babylonians, The Desire for truth and vengeance as mothers mourned for their slain sons. Some Desire nothing but to cut short their life Because of disgrace, wallowing in the pit despondence. Some men Desire to roam the world like Jim Rogers Who navigated the world in his motor bicycle. Others Desire to gain more knowledge in the timelessness of skies. They Desire to be the best and be at the top of Forbes lists. Like a love ~ struck teenager eyeing the man of her dreams. Ah, Desire will never be devoured by the fire! Desire will always make innuendoes that creep in the muted silence of our hearts. As men continue to desire the riches of here, now and herein after May we desire not the glittering jewels, But be steadfast in wanting pristine affection Like ribbons unfurling the sheen of each and every pearl.

Made in The Philippines

Abroad, she is just but a domestic helper But look at her now, even for just a second Back in her hometown, she’s a fashion icon. What is wrong with those flamers and commenters? Would you rather that she remains wearing a maid’s uniform? As she strolls, do window- shops at the malls? Wearing shiny leather boots while scrubbing the floor? Royalty while she washes the dishes and laundry?

So what if Cinderella is just a servant abroad But transforms into a fashion model back home?

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True, she is not just a sophisticated fashion model And an elegant, smart beauty queen For indeed, she is our beloved country’s beloved modern heroin Leaving her dear ones to work in a foreign land Sacrificing a lot to give her family a better living.

Filipinos often brings home honor and beauty crowns We do have endless supply of beautiful Filipinas And our pound-for-pound boxer is a plus. Remarkable, wonderful, the best overseas Filipino workers ever! I’m a proud, true – blue Filipino. And for my God and country, “no bitter pill to swallow”.

BROKEN SPIRIT

Wish I could be there with you, Just to listen to you. While you outpour life’s disappointments. You have endured so much without any ranting. Life is not friendly with you. Your spirit has been broken. You look so devastated, Torn and dismayed. I wish I could be there beside you Just to hold your hands tightly And lock my eyes with you. Your thin hands cover your face While you retell your brokenness Disgusted, you hide your sadness. Wish I could be with you and hug you all night To wipe the rolling tears From your disbelieving eyes. And caress you and shower you With my tenderness smile Just to let you know… I care about you, I care about you, I care about you!

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Edmond Shallvari ( Albania)

Edmond Shallvari was born in Korça on July 30, 1957. He graduated from the Faculty of Economics, Tirana University, in 1982. He made his debut in poetry and short stories at the age of 12 and continued to write throughout his university years with a focus on economics and philosophy. He is the author of many poetry and short story collections, which have attracted reviews by many critics and have received various national and international literary prizes. Shallvari’s work has also been published in periodical magazines which praise him as a contemporary author whose vision surprises and charms the reader, living a long-lasting impression, creating a niche of his own in the field of letters. Currently, Edmond Shallvari is in the process of releasing five volumes of poetry and a book comprising psychoanalytic stories entitled "The Mystery of News". These new collections, together with "Our Metamorphosis", translated in English by Alfred Kola, are available only via Amazon.

Our metamorphosis

To me a wrinkle was added, mystify?! A grey hair to you was added again? But still in love you and I Like in the time our love began.

Thicker optic glasses for me to see ? You grew a year older in age? But still beautiful you seem to be There is beauty in every stage.

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To me was added another complaint? You added a “no!” in our bed? For the next night I have to wait I know for me you wait ahead.

Another longing was added to me? You had another dream to add? Then what! let’s call it a variant to be That once began, never to end.

A lass Name

They were curls of a strange dream They were dreams of a common night Curls that gave my mind a gleam For those eyes I was mad at sight.

Green eyes never gazed at me Took me to paradise leas Paradise never had such lea Her eyes created the Hyades.

Name, surname I called myself Whether among images and dreams Close to me came a real sylph Life must have fairytale streams.

I must say, curly life’s no blame In the green, life best abides If my life took a lass name Love for you another name hides.

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O wave!

Why look at me, O sea wave I’m not the cliff before thee That you’d touch, collide and crave With a woman’s vagary.

Eroding is the cliff in woe And it is aging before time And it is thawing like the snow Like not inhering onetime

What remained with you to save Besides the comminuted cliff What changed you O sea wave Aged and lonely in your riff.

Wish that fate I never have That was doomed for your friend Neither a woman like you wave That brings a cliff to a bad end.

Twin Fetuses

After they took blindness from Homer Another Odyssey they thought to write After grabbing tragedy from Shakespeare A second Macbeth they’d copyright

Before Shakespeare, from Alighieri They stole every circle of purgatory And overnight the hell they’d vary From Cervantes, a twin of Don Quixote

So were challenged the first geniuses In the absurd world of twin fetuses.

Translation from Albanian into English by Alfred Kola

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Eltona Lakuriqi (Albania)

Eltona Lakuriqi was born in Tirana in 4 November 1984. She was graduated in International Relations (Diplomacy). She is author of 6 poetry books: “Eci” (“I walk”) in 2004, “Maskat” (“Masks”) in 2015, “Gotat blu” (“Blue glasses”) in 2016, “Kaos shpirtëror” (“Spiritual chaos”) in 2017 and “Poezi” (“Poetry”) in 2018.

PLAY OF GLIMPSES IN A BAR

Know not myself, Why I became jealous of you… Waiting for our first date, But you didn’t show up In the bar eyes stared at me, Impatiently to see you, I got e glimpse of someone like you, An innocent play of glimpses, Picked up my cup without raising my eyes So did he…. Both kissed the rims of cups in silence, He knew not I thought of you, But he might be you. I didn’t know he had just partnered another, That might be me. Rose and left the bar,

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You didn’t come, he didn’t see me… Oddity, How I become jealous of you…

RELUCTANT

One eye staring at the light The other one at the black abyss The veil dividing the face Like a meridian in between light and darkness The light beam comes from space You try to smile at it But the darkness within you Blocks your steps and reasoning One foot East West the other one The black veil amidst them Like a cloud of magpies Gloomy in your dawn Dreadful in your dusk Throw away the veil Rejoice the zenith of the day.

Reflected in the mirror

You far away… I’m in your mirror. I locked myself there as in our nest. I see myself… I speak… I laugh I live there. Like a madperson… Yes, yes that is how they consider me. I paint my eyelashes… I paint them again… a couple of times. Beneath them I shed your tear. Time dries it. I feel its hand… You far away… I’m with you in the same mirror. Time combs my hair, but I don’t want to go.

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Eliza Segiet (Poland)

Eliza Segiet – Master's Degree graduate in Philosophy. Completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Arts and Literature at Jagiellonian University. Torn between poetry and drama. Likes to look into the clouds, but keeps both feet on the ground. Her heart is close to the thought of Schopenhauer: "Ordinary people merely think how they shall 'spend' their time; a man of talent tries to 'use' it".

Questions

What if you rock the memories, and hear how much they wanted to live? What if you rock the echoes of the past?

How did people differ then? By faith, by dreams? Some ate bread from the oven – I did not – I think I did not like to.

Tell me, grandfather, why, to take a bath,

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were they going by train?

I don't know – I don't think I remember.

As Long as Time

Around everyone is something that cannot be took in.

Doctor—diagnosis—prognosis!

An inexplicable evil that sometimes wants to take away the future.

It begins to drill down, deeper and deeper.

As long as time allows to oppose the enemy - with hope and love we try to overcome bad judgments.

And the values of life?

It is more important to be than to have.

Black Drops

She can still see you her dreamed world in which she gave up dreams for love.

And now? On her cheeks,

125 like rain run down the black drops of ink – the rain of the soul.

With tears she wanted to drown out her longings, but she is unable to lose the memories. Like a camel with its water, and so she – carries the weight of the past.

Breath of Love

Between the lips, between your speech and my silence, is the breath of love, the gasp of Eros, the traces of arcane powers bringing our lips closer to each other.

Close to fulfillment, in a frenzied lust we unite our desires. We become one.

Translated by Artur Komoter

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Frederik Rreshpja (Albania)

Albanian lyricist Frederic Rreshpja was born in Shkodra in 1940. He graduated from the University of Tirana (Department of Pedagogy) with a diploma in teaching. Rreshpja made his debut in 1967 with a poetry collection titled Albanian Rhapsody, followed by Three Tales for Children, The Brave of Bardhe Village and Eranda. Soon after this last publication, he was arrested and sent to prison. Upon his release, Rreshpja continued to write, but in 1975, a special order from the Ministry of Education and Culture forbade the circulation of his books and Rreshpja was once again sentenced to four years’ imprisonment as “an individual who poses the social danger of undermining, weakening and overthrowing the power of the People’s Government”. Frederik Rreshpja was repeatedly denounced in such terms. In 1991, after the fall of the communist regime, he was appointed Chief Editor of Ora Journal in Shkodra. In 1992, he founded Europa Publishing House and a cultural and literary magazine of the same name. Rreshpja is rated as one of the greatest Albanian lyricists. Some of his other books are The Distant Sound of the Hovel (1972), In This City (1973), Time to Die Again (1994) and Lyrics (1996). In 2004, he released the volume In Solitude. Rreshpja’s poetry has been included in several volumes, such as The Lexicon of Albanian Writers, 1501–2001 by Hasan Hasani; Robert Elsie’s The History of Albanian Literature; Anthology of Albanian Poetry, translated and published in French by Alexander Zoto; and Anthology of Albanian Poetry – The Golden Half Century by Ali Aliu. After a stroke in 2000, the poet endured bad health and extreme poverty. He died in Shkodra on the 17th of February, 2006.

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Lost Love

I came out of the Guernica of the night Brutally killed, The black horse of grief In the alleyway waiting.

The black horse of grief threw me And like in an old ballad, I fell; Carved into old engravings, My face behind the night’s armour.

Doomed by a blighted spring, By the entire world abandoned, The black horse of sorrow the only faithful soul Weeping for the old master still.

Night

Asleep are the tree tops Asleep the lightning in the clouds’ depth The field, a shoulder to the wind.

Everyone has an ache to rest their head on. Everyone has a longing drawn like a vignette On the slumber of the world.

But you come and wake me up Torrentially, every night.

Ah, I did not know that memory’s fingers Could be transformed just like that, into a knife…

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Forever

O evening air enshroud me: the withering hour has come. When my eyes closed will be, dry will be sea And boats of tears will founder on the empty shore. I fold, and the rains I lock up.

Though I will re-flower in some chosen hour I have been the world’s sorrow… O evening air enshroud me, the withering hour has come.

Ave, My Mother!

Stay in the rain. That’s the only thing I ask. Who is he? The raindrops pattered on my forehead: That’s what I heard in the sound of the rain In summer, at the foot of the age-old oak Where the door is ajar for the birds.

Ah, when I was young and handsome I believed The torrents of the world all fell for me, But now so many years have passed This raining makes no sense at all. My mother washed away in a stony rain, The classical demise of the fallen gods.

Ave, my mother! I only ever believed in you: Another God I’ve never had. Amen!

Translated by Miranda Shehu-Xhilaga

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Prof. & Dr. Fang Yaw (Taiwan)

Prof. & Dr. Fang Yaw-chien (born in 1958, Tainan, Taiwan) is a leading poet, writer, scholar, and editor in Taiwan. He obtained his Ph.D. degree in Taiwanese literature, National Cheng-kung University. Currently he is Distinguished Professor & Chair of Department of Taiwanese Languages & Literature, National Taichung University of Education, Taiwan. He has been the presidents, publishers, editors-in-chief of several important associations and magazines. He has published 11 books of poetry, and more than 100 literary treatises & articles. His poetry has been translated into English, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese, Turkish, Mongolian, Bengali, Telugu, etc.

When Bauhinias Get Fevers

When bauhinias get fevers, The spring will come. From the bottom of my heart, I will sing songs. We will contemplate each other Till we both get fevers.

When bauhinias get fevers, The spring will come. From the bottom of my heart, The Sun will rise. We will sit under the tree Till the whole park get fevers. When bauhinias get fevers, The spring will come.

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From the bottom of my heart, The rainbow will appears. We will walk hand in hand Till the whole streets get fevers.

When bauhinias get fevers, The spring will come. From the bottom of my heart, I will bloom. I will plant a flower in each one’s heart, Let each one get a fever.

To Demi, With Love

With my deepest eyes, I watch you as an oil painting. With my sharpest ears, I listen to you as a serenade, With my sincerest nose, I sniff you as a jar of perfume. With my warmest lips, I kiss you as a boutique of roses. With my gentlest hands, I fashion you into a crystal figure. Finally, With my praising heart, I read you as a willow tree, And a banyan tree.

Kalanchoe Garambiensis Kudo

From formlessness to the beginning of a sky and a sea, from nothingness to Genesis, I have stood guard over this expanse of crystal sea and emerald forest

131 since time immemorial.

Light of midday sun pauses on the top of my head, I sit on the cliff, smiling a golden grin, and setting the rules for this universe.

When moonlight lifts up my body, I lean against the hills, and help the skies carry the stars with my green frame.

Chinese, Dutch and Spanish armadas cut across the blue Bashi Channel In the past 400 years. Japanese and American bombings destroy the wooded chest of Formosa. And I’m the witness to all the abuse.

War and peace staged in the same marquee tent. And I persist in testifying to Cape Eluanbi’s timelessness.

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Fatima Nazzal (Palestina)

Palestinian Belief and Homeland Humanity Belief, My soul will be shed for you, O world. I live as a refugee in my homeland. The occupier who settled in my land and stole it considers me a static person, while those who brought them from different parts of the earth with different nationalities only because they are Jews or have been judaised are considered citizens. I wrote what my spirit was flooded and translated into Turkish, English, Italian and Spanish and I tried to reach my voice for the whole world.

The bitter neutrality

I want to draw to you the lines of the labyrinth Not for fun or wasting the time, But drifting towards a secret, melting into the furnace of losses That we try to surmount, not because of our eloquence, But an escape for hope, which is a lie and a mirage.

We might get caught in the labyrinth Lured by the surprises.

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The heart watches its steps And the roughness of salt that stuck to our skins And leaks what the sensors of vacuum has absorbed from our bodies. We feel dizzy The night steals the truth from us. Darkness becomes a secret hidden under its coat And when the night comes after decades, our grandmother opens the well of her broken tales.

What history are we to write now? devouring dust, eye-lining with it our intentional blindness to our pains under the pretext that war is deception, and loss is another face of maneuvering.

Let me now draw the scene for you; It is now being embodied at the gates of Jerusalem At the sloping and serpentine wall that splits the home, the yard, the road, and me. I am the body torn into two homes. I have become a field of mines, where my children are their detonators, the tremblings of the hanging night on the two lines entwined in black and white.

Salvation has become grey, Neutrality is our blast: we who gasp after the morsel dipped in begging.

The young boy who stood upright holding his catapult, is dodging the rifle pointing to his chest. The wind carries to his ears the echoes of cries in the time the bullet hit the gazelle dead, shedding its musk behind the fence.

We had dreams like all lovers. In my country we built with sands

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our home at the beach, named our children, quarreled, and I wanted a baby daughter that takes after me. We woke up astonished at our yells, where we used to steal our meetings between two windows separated by an alley in the camp.

After the third decade of your absence, my last day was at UNRWA. I was leaving. I looked in the mirror that was hanging in the corridor. Grey hairs had invaded the parting of my head. Time had left its slams on my face. The creams of our unborn children. The memories of our madness. The passions of my heart for your voice that was missed behind two life-sentences and an impossible distance.

Its boldness appeals to me. Nothing betrays me if I leave my steps to the road. Love has a space growing in my heart, which my eye feeds to a window I have just opened. My imagination is greedy that devours all that pass through it. Then it cuds them in a memory attacking me now, where the river flows and floods the banks.

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Gino Leineweber (Germany)

Gino Leineweber was born 1944 in Hamburg / Germany. Since 1998 active as a writer. From 2003 to 2008 he was editor / editor in chief of the Buddhist Monthly Magazine (Buddhistische Monatsblätter). From 2003 to 2015 Chairman of the Writers Association Hamburg (Hamburger Autorenvereinigung). Thereafter Honorary Chairman. Since 2013 President of the Three Seas Writers’ and Translators’ Council (TSWTC) based in Rhodes, Greece. Member in German Exile-P.E.N. (PEN-Zentrum deutschsprachiger Autoren im Ausland)

BIRD

I am a bird Without feathers A singer Without a voice I do not fly I do not sing But longing For a lifetime I am a tree Without branches A flower Without a bloom I do not grow I do not blossom

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But longing For a lifetime If I were A bird, a singer A tree or a flower I would not Have wasted My potentials On a lifetime As a man.

NEW MYTHOLOGY

Behind religions the immortality of All philosophies fades Dwindling ideas: Old mythologies Loss images – For every being Their foundation Abstracted Look deeper: Infinity The worlds run Blank and void New metaphor: Ant! Tulip in Tulips’ Field Every being Impermanent: Galactic energy Form and dynamics Life and love Acceptance of the movement. Meditation On the basic form With all power In the spiritual: Redemption

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THOUGHTS

What you thought In the first place Was like the spell Of a divine princess That leads you to run around Like an ancient bellman Who has woken up The entire town Telling the world about Your happiness Shouting the solution To all the suffering: Love has survived! But it turns out it was a trick Of the black princess In the mirror of disguise To get laughs on idle nights

Publisher: Verlag Expeditionen GmbH © Gino Leineweber 2017 Hello Darkness – Poems 2010-2014

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Gerry van der Linden (Netherland)

Gerry van der Linden published her first book of poems, De Aantekening (The Note) in 1978 and her most recent one, Verse helden (Fresh heroes) in 2017. Certain characteristics of her work: a playful yet passionate approach to language, a keen eye for the absurdness in our daily lives, a thematic preference for travelling, love, death, life in all its senses. Van der Linden teaches Poetry and Creative Writing at the Amsterdam School of Writing (Schrijversvakschool) and is a personal coach for (aspiring) writers. From 2005 until 2008 she was a member of the board of the Dutch PEN Center and took care of the WIPC (Writers in Prison Committee). Alongside her twelve collections of poetry to date, she has published three books of fiction. She also works as a visual artist, makes collages and creates installations of leftover materials. Publications of Poetry: De aantekening (The Note), De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam, 1978; Val op de rand (Fall on the Edge), Prometheus, Amsterdam, 1990; Aan mijn veren hand (At my Hand of Feathers), Nijgh & van Ditmar, Amsterdam, 1993; Zandloper (Sandglass), L.J. Veen, Amsterdam, 1997; Lila en de tekens (Lila and the Signs), Bèta Imaginations, Rotterdam, 1999; Uitweg (Way Out), L.J. Veen, Amsterdam, 2001: Goed volk (Good People), L.J. Veen, Amsterdam, 2004; Glazen jas (Coat of Glass), Nieuw Amsterdam, Amsterdam, 2007; Wat een geluk (What Happiness), Nieuw Amsterdam, Amsterdam. 2012; Stadswild (City’s prey), Nieuw Amsterdam, 2014; Een vreemdeling in Alentej. (Uma estranha no Alentejo), Caminho das Palavras, Portugal 2016, poems in Dutch/Portugese, with photo’s + images of art objects made by the poet.; Verse helden (Fresh Heroes), Nieuw Amsterdam, Amsterdam, 2017. Publications of prose: Enveloppe (Envelop; novella), Amber, 1992: Wind (Wind; novel), Nijgh & van Ditmar, Amsterdam, 1995; Dolk (Dagger; novel), L.J. Veen, Amsterdam, 2000 Van der Linden’s poems have been translated and published in anthologies, reviews and books in Turkey, Bulgaria, China, England, France, Germany, Indonesia, Lebanon, Portugal, Macedonia and Slovenia.

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Where the Pine Tree blooms

The head of the grubber grows towards the earth, the earth with its grandeur of productivity, the scent of the chestnut, the head that resembles the chestnut. Where the houses are in their narrowness and uniform, the chairs lined up, the laundry clean and ironed straight, the mower growling in the barn, the violets winking on the watch. Where everyone pushes his silence into the empty shed of talk, the grubber ground under feet, the mother holds the tray in hand, the tea lukewarm with lee. Where I take steps across heads, wood anemones. Where the house awaits me, teeth sharpened, has eaten the child, the daughters and sons.

It rumbles in my continent. Rivers drown themselves in their branches thrusts the turmoil. On the shore sleeping has stopped and the royal outpost has been swept away by a rebellious moon. I did not kiss a water rat, left fish the head, put on top and finery, put out the breakers with personal gear.

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And then saw how beautiful rivers flow without me.

The thing called love

Throwing stones on waves in circles at you, still wanting to tell you, now no answer, no move will do

Now seething rage splitting the words on the same stone, the same rock and hope, hope for what shivers in clothes, stumbles on the doorstep of reason in silent fight the same stone, the same rock bend and straight, backing out, the healing gone, the fist up there and kisses eating the soul, eating the soul, I am telling you unpretending, without pride I have poured to the brim an empty ocean.

Translated by Greta Colburn

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Günsel Djemal-Elüstün (Cyprus – Turkey)

She was born in Lefkosia Cyprus from Cypriot parents. Her father was a policeman her mother was a fashion designer. When she was 11 years old emigrated to England and graduated from secondary school Edith Cavell in Shorditch – London. After 1974 war in Cyprus returned to Cyprus 1976 and graduated from Turkish Language and Literature also continued studying English Literature at Turkish Girls Lycee’ 1977-78. From 1980 – 1990 has lived and worked in occupied Lefkosia – Cyprus. Moved to London in 1991. Lives a humble life and enjoys the little things. Has been writing poetry since she was 11 years old. She was at the international poetry editorial board at http://www.agonia.net from 2009-2012 also were publishing her poems online there and still writes and publishes her poems there. Her poems translated into more than 10 languages also into Albanian and Chinese languages.

***

Kiss me from the night sky drain the moon and the stars in to your heart leave poems on my face disturb my hair which you have wrapped

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with your eye lids to that Mediterranean blue leave your dreams on your boat bilingual we talk as one tired alone drew your eyes and look I will carve you to the Venetian pillars If you want we can demolish the barricades from the white of the jasmine I become sad she obstinately blossoms through the sandbags at Victoria Cafe’ before the mesmerized glances of the cops kiss me.

Famagusta who’s toy hasn’t been this city trust me being a poet is a lie the blue on our hair did not fit the waves crashing on the rocks should remain with you I’m the reprisal to this port is it a little thing to kiss you from your Cypriot location.

Dumb woman / women (this poem has been dedicated to the woman who died working in brothels in Cyprus)

The temperature of July is making the present immemorial bandit is biting our tongue owl is hiding in the port of Famagusta on our faces crow black days untimely blooms ‘ebeden ölmez’ – immortal flower In brothels; they are not stupid but pretty

143 does not know Turkish humiliated with rude behaviour in pain with loud voice and broken Turkish she is responding while her whipper continues tormenting woman is dying a dumb woman/women perpetrator unknown don’t our eyes sharpen backwards when our feet hugging to life like stone breaking weed at the ports bayonet’s and at wharfs arsenal and the delicate body of the life worker is getting cold her dreams are on white pages one evening without looking behind to the roads she walked even if you hang it on the washing line and despite this poem I wrote her hopes already turned into soil.

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Hannie Rouweler (Netherlands)

Hannie Rouweler (Goor, 13 June 1951) has been living in Leusden since the end of 2012. Her sources of inspiration are nature, love, loss, childhood memories and travel. In 1988 she debuted with Raindrops on the water. Since then more than 40 poetry volumes have been published, including poetry books in translation (Polish, Romanian, Spanish, French, Norwegian, English). Poems are translated in about twenty languages. She attended five years evening classes in painting and art history, art academy (Belgium). She published a few stories (short thrillers); is a compiler of various anthologies and poetry collections. She is a member of the Flemish Association of Poets and Writers (VVL).

The poet and his hat

The role plays. The poet knows his words better than a rendition in any film - he chews he swallows and spits out and what's left in his hat: it is not that pigeon that died or the rabbit

145 half unconsciously leaving the stage disappearing in the theatre scenery just like words come and go and come back again and deputy wise stammering, sighing, crying out, keeping silent.

So keep your hat as good as it goes and place it carefully on a table. So let everyone look at your hat as if it were a red shoe made of synthetic leather snakeskin remnant of a wild animal from the safari park of dreams and deceits. Keep your hat, dear poet, never lend it out otherwise you will never get it back.

(for Tony Rombouts)

THE HEROES OF THE PAST (Russian soldiers, graveyard Rusthof, Leusden)

Here they’re lying side by side, heroes, young soldiers, like they also fought side by side on foreign territory for freedom. For others.

Who sees the crosses on the long rows will be caught by an unprecedented sadness, a face that belongs with each grave still from a young adolescent, maybe twenty, a little older, still a boy with a father and a mother far away.

Someone from the platoon that shot them

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like rabbits on an open field, then wiped the mud from his soldier's shoe, must have thought: this is crazy. Someone from the enemy must have thought: this is madness, we have become the enemy of our own souls, our own humanity.

They lie in long rows, the boys who fought for freedom and fatherland. We will never forget them. The sacrifices they have made go far beyond limits of a single man. The end, a profound and bitter taste.

Dove on a branch

Good morning, Mr. Pigeon! Did you sleep well last night? and do you come to my window, for a tasty breakfast?

Wind force 8. The rustling outside of a plastic cover around a motorcycle on the terrace of the neighbour lady across. The bushes shake dangerously with their branches back and forth, the roots hold them in the earth. That good earth that preserves everything, absorbs it, and digests and let grow.

Despite the winter there are still small white flowers in the grass, stubbornly sticking out their small white heads everywhere. Snow stays away, this winter, it is more autumn than another season, that plagues this country and also my mind, the breakdown and shaking words loose. The new alphabet took the pigeon on the branch of my tree in front of the window with him.

I will have to wait until he comes back, new meanings lodges in changes that are nearly in sight.

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Hélène Cardona (France, Spain, USA)

Poet, actor, and literary translator Hélène Cardona was born in Paris and raised all over Europe before settling in the United States. She earned her MA in American literature from the Sorbonne, where she wrote her thesis on Henry James. Cardona is the author of the bilingual collections Life in Suspension (2016), called “a vivid self- portrait as scholar, seer and muse” by John Ashbery; Dreaming My Animal Selves (2013), and The Astonished Universe (2006). David Mason describes Cardona’s poetry as “liminal, mystical and other-worldly,” adding, “this is a poet who writes in a rare light.” The book was included in The London Magazine’s alternative poetry list for 2015, which hailed it as “simultaneously rapturous and lucid.” Cardona’s luminous poetry, hailed as visionary by Richard Wilbur, explores consciousness, the power of place, and ancestral roots. It is poetry of alchemy and healing, a gateway to the unconscious and the dream world. Stephen Yenser calls Life in Suspension “a terrific and singular achievement,” and Joanne Harris declares it deeply spiritual, “a tour de force of language and phonetics.” Exploring language and the psyche, Cardona discussed her poetry in a 2014 interview: “The poem is a gesture, an opening towards a greater truth or understanding. Art brings us to the edge of the incomprehensible. The poems, in their alchemy and geology, are fragments of dreams, enigmas, shafts of light, part myth, and part fable.” Cardona’s translations include Birnam Wood (by José Manuel Cardona, 2018), Beyond Elsewhere (by Gabriel Arnou-Laujeac, 2016), recipient of a Hemingway Grant; Ce que nous portons (Dorianne Laux, 2014); and, with Yves Lambrecht, Walt Whitman’s Civil War Writings for WhitmanWeb (2015). She has also translated Rimbaud, Baudelaire, René Depestre, Ernest Pépin, Aloysius Bertrand, Maram Al- Masri, Eric Sarner, Jean-Claude Renard, Nicolas Grenier, and Christiane Singer. Cardona’s work has been translated into 16 languages. Her work has been translated into 16 languages.

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How God Thinks Is Surprising

My mother and I are two swans intertwined. We show the world stage our connection, our closeness. The bond never fades. God is director of the play.

We’re part of each other, a continuation of movement, dance, beauty. Together we form a whole, a heart, an angel.

Our core holds a plate to be filled with life.

We create and celebrate every reason, the symmetry of our truth a vision, an offering.

We invented time. The more we make it disappear, the closer to God we grow.

I understand the nature of plants, living off the land and rain. I used to be a flower.

I like morphing into an animal, devouring who I was.

The earth never fails me.

Hélène Cardona From Life in Suspension (Salmon Poetry, 2016)

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Musica Eterna

We have fallen into the place where everything is music.

—Rumi

Are we always more fascinated by the legend? What if myth meets you en el camino, healer in the heart of compassion, peacemaker smiling its message on piano keys, dusting the bookcase of life, whistling follow your pen, be a song?

I blow wishes into the universe, celestial cape, matrix to subdue demons and possess truth.

Surprised by my lunar earth nature, inhabited by ancient forests, I molt into flying serpents, pelicans touching wings, magnets of expanded vistas, a crest crowned by doves, in its center the caduceus entwined identity, magician’s score, water weeping out of hands.

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Hilal KARAHAN (Turkey)

She was born in 1977, at Gaziantep, Turkey. She has graduated from Kütahya Tavşanlı İstiklal Elementary School in 1988, Balıkesir Sırrı Yırcalı Anatolian High School in 1995, Ankara Hacettepe University English Medical School in 2001 and Ankara Başkent University Medical School, Obstetrics and Gynecology Residency in 2006.Although she has been writing since elementary school, her professional poems, stories, articles about poetry have been published since 2000. She was one of the editors of ÇAMCAK Culture and Literature Magazine, published in Ankara Hacettepe University Poem Club during 2000-2002, ETKEN Poem Magazine, published in Alanya during 2003-2004 and MÜHÜR Poem and Literature Magazine in İstanbul during 2010-2013. Since 2017, she is a member of publishing council of international bilingual poetry magazines of Absent, Rosetta Word Literatura and Sahitya Anand. She have more awards, national a nd international.

Refugee Tent

1/ It was night, cold. She crept silently to her husband. Cleaning oily hair with her palm she cleared also the fury.

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2/ Without shaking the tent, waking the children up he turned towards her face: He was abashed at speaking to his wife and spitted out in her vagina.

3/ Hungry children are in fire the syrup that doctor gave was not enough for two. The parents are relaxed to hear their coughing: Thank God, today also they didn’t die.

Little, Black, Sheared Hands… Days are the edge of a cliff if it breezes, they will fall upon the metropolitan area, upon factories, skyscrapers, squares upon mosques, bazaars the ash will be scattered They look like the roses opening in the cliff little, black, sheared hands that were branded by pricks and torn by a sharp evening under heavy rains even the God ashamed for what he created Wind collects black wedding dress from the cliff and brings it to cooling lap of her parents dreams take to the doors unopened houses are ever graves Why is God still so far?

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Death in Aegean Sea

1/ With its claws, death pettles rubber boats crossing Al Sirat certain hopes drop into fire ocean. The world, whose sough is disappeared, waves at backstage like a curtain.

2/ When morning has dawned, refugee children trundle into the middle of mettle: Europe is looking blind, listening deaf. If they can reach to doors, it will accept 400 thousand refugees to make lief toothpicks for cogwheels of capitalism. They will be hungry, thirsty but still alive if they can pass Aegean waves, Greek police batons, Hungarian wire fences, Macedonian railways, if they can reach Europe.

3/ Middle East has shaken out the tablecloth, paradise and hell are got under foot Everyone lives in heart’s cage watching the earth through wounds

4/ Presentation: “Tragedy of little child as a symbol of thousands’ desperation: After his family’s struggle to reach Europe, a Syrian child was drowned in Aegean Sea and his corpse was thrown to Turkish coast.”

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Houda Elfchtali (Morocco)

- Teacher of English in Meknes / Morocco - President of Moroccan Art and Culture association ERATO. Delegate in The Maghreb countries of "Motivational strips " internatiinal poetry Forum . Delegate in Meknes/ Morocco of "100 thousand poets for change" of " and of " Afropoesie" . Literary consultant in the Forum of Poetry in India . Litterary Guardian in" World Union Poets "/ Moticational Strips. Freelance translator . Art critic. Author of " My words and Worlds" " Shades of my soul" and " the edge of the blue" with contributions in American internatinal anthology "Divine Choir ". Vice president of association" 8 Mars de la peche no kill et de la preservation de la nature" . Director of "Meknes Choir". Member singer alto in Meknes choir. Member in national board of the Moroccan syndicate of creative artists ( SMAK). Ex president of the section of Meknes of "The League of Moriccan Women Writers". Ex vice treasurer of MATE ( Moroccan Association of Teachers of English ) and still active member in it. Award Winner in different poetry international forums.

My Notebook

And all these years I have been Taking notes Of the messages That your eyes Have sent me

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Now my notebook Is full of you But your eyes Are devoid Of all the words That they used To spell in my heart And of the meaning That i used To jot down Like a fervent learner Facing a master

Shouldn' t I Have written you That way?

Should I Have left blank The whole pages Of my white book ?

Shouldn' t I have scrutinized Your eye color To that extent?

Shouldn't I Have taken your colors For my eternal rainbow?

Should I Have ignored That look in your eyes And got safe From that Horrible possibility Of your emptiness ?

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AHD THE EARTH

She s the earth She s the breeze The pure air And the soft wind

She s spring .. And winter And all the flowers Grow inside her

They re her daughters And she s their eternal Destiny and source ..

She s the years And the seasons .. She s the greeen touch And all the plants names

She s the past And the present She s the voice Of the horizons And the mirror of the souls She s the fire .. In the snowy days

She s the sound Of the water drops In the dying ears ..

She s the flowers fragrance She s their wonderful colours She s the garden of love She s the powerful seed ...Of life

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Hana Shishiny (Libanon – Egypt)

Lebaneese living in Cairo Egypt by Marriage Studdied art and painting in lebaneese college ' Alba'graduated as interior designor from American University of Beirut.. Poet and writer..having a weekly page in a literary magazine Coming to Cairo..working as interior decorator. Having my own gallery of art and furniture Now ..poet. writingbin both languages English and Arabic.

Hope for the coming year

The night has fallen, the moon is dead Winter has stolen ,soul and heart Dreams fading, like this year that ends Unknown song , softly echoing in mind….

Will hopes surprise me, and enlighten my days Will butterflies return,craving my flower’s nectar And fields of peace, bloom sheerful and gay And my needs of love..be full filled near or far…

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Symphony of delights

The city is veiled with smoky grey Stillness in a pause that scares Time stopped moving Moments stand still in the air Waves of the Nile scrolled noiseless… Life suspended…colorless and bare…

Loneliness flow like blind birds Sipping my bitterness in deadly peace Roaming with clouds into distance Clime defyingly agree Devoured by your absence

How could you take the dreams of angels How could you silence the living breeze…

Get the rainbow back into sight Let the loving rain drizzle on deserted hearts Let me hear the waves flirting with lonely sand And the moon shows in her silvery gown Playing temptuously her Symphony of delights..

Nothing will exist but me and you And the singing nightingales celebrating. The warming night.

You said

You said in your eyes, i see words As green as on Ceadar’s tree And hear the chirping birds Sheltered from snow,,loving and free

In those eyes,i hear your loneliness Telling your nostalgia,for a caressing rain And million pregnant clouds,,holding tears Ofdissapointment..and unforgotten pain

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And i hear seagulls,singing in silence And waves of love with rippling light The webb and flow of warming tide All waiting for dawn to come again

On your skin i smell the spring Of a land forgotten..forests and sea Stream of lost promisses Homeless hearts, Of you aand me

So close your eyes,and back in my arms Let our love answer your hidden calls Let the moment hold our untamedness And wild flowers, will bloom in souls...

Color their days

Can you hear the call of night When laying under the rays of sun Can you feel the heavy rain When in sunny days you dance and run

Can you hear the weeping mums When in peace you enjoy love and fun Can you smell the sweat and blood Of men in war,when peacefully your day begun.

Winter is coming, for the child of sorrow Wandering ..unseen on streets of tomorrow How can words ,open the eyes And poets help ,to color their days.

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©Immacolata Zabatti (Italy) “The doors of the soul” Oil painting (60x 80)

Immacolata Zabatti Grottaglie (Taranto) Italy

Her works are present in numerous public and private collections, they are often published in the accredited press, on international yearbooks and catalogs of art, on the Mondadori Modern Art Yearbook with official quotations. She has exhibited in collective and personal, both in Italy and abroad: at the Museum of Modern Art in Barcelona - Osaka (Japan), Palace of Culture in Stuttgart - Gallery Christiane Peugeot Paris - Brik Lane Gallery London - Sale del Bramante Rome - Galleria Farini Bologna - Taormina - Museo Sciortino di Monreale - Noto - Palermo - Lecce - Triennale di Verona - Florence - Benevento - Palazzo Ducale of Genoa - Salerno - Matera - Taranto - Bari - Life Gallery Battipaglia - Arone & Arone Gallery Locri ecc. They wrote about her: Elisa Silvatici - Teresa Gentile - Vittorio Sgarbi - Paolo Levi - Josè Van Roy Dali - Vinicio Coppola - Alfredo Martinelli - Vito Cracas - Salvatore Russo - Sandro Serradifalco - Stefania Bison - Alessandro Salvatore - Enza Conti - Adriana Repaci - Azzurra Immediate - Ester Lucchese - Teresa Stacca - Federico Caloi www.zabatti.it

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Ibrahim Honjo (Canada)

Ibrahim Honjo was born 1948 in the former Yugoslavia. Since January 1995 he has been living in Canada. He is a poet, writer, sculptor, painter, photographer, former journalist and property manager, now retired. He write in his native language (Serbo- Croatian) and in English. His work was published in many magazines, newspapers, and it was read on radio stations in Yugoslavia, Canada and US. Honjo is an author of 29 published books in Serbo-Croatian and English language. Several were published in two languages. His work is represented in more than 30 anthologies. Some his poems have been translated into: Italian, Korean, Spanish, Mongolian, Bahasa (Malesia), Slovenian and German. Honjo received several prizes for poetry.

PAIN

From pain into a poem From a poem into pain If you become a poet You will follow that path Because it is the borderline of life If you manage to control that borderline You will remain a poet Poet guardian of all difficulties Poet guardian of all pain and indiscretion If you succeed in locking pain in a poem You will know how to control life

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With letters and words only You will be able to fight with yourself In the great arena full of pain You will be able to tame wild ideas And survive in this madness Where self-control lost all meaning If you remain a poet You will go from pain into a poem From poem into pain every day You will not spend money on unimportant things You will not make money You will be free from financial problems But burdened with needlessness Of your existence and your poems That will be your biggest pain

LOVE AND MONEY

You talk about money I talk about love You have money I have love You cannot buy my love But I can make money You can make a new love with love With money you can make only money With love you can make money With money you cannot make love What is money without love

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SUICIDE STREET

Do not go to that street at night that is the street of suicide it is the street of prostitutes it is the street of fear and shame it is the street – of madness some other music is playing there people are singing some other songs there other sounds can be heard there and a strange light is covering the desert landscape on the blind side of the street the traces of non return are lit framed in red bouquets everyone has gone from that street do not go to that one-way street because it is the street of suicide do not go to that street even during the day there are homes without a name and number with black graffiti from the ground to the roof with broken window panes and rotting doors do not go to that street day or night because you will disappear in one direction they will eat you up and swallow you in a second it is a street of suicide and prostitutes a street of fear and shame a street without a blink and breath it is the endless one-way street blinded street where they eat human flesh and drink human blood

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Ikuyo Yoshimura, Ph.D. (Japan)

She was born in Kyoto, Japan in 1944. Poet, translator and researcher on R.H.Blyth and world haiku. She graduated from Doshisha University and gained her M.A & Ph.D. from Aichigakuin University. She started to write poem in her college years and studied haiku under Kaneko Tohta. She is a retired professor. She founded the writing English haiku group, “EVERGREEN” in 1987; was president of The Poetry Society of Japan (2010-2012), a contributor to Kaitei Haiku, and Modern Haiku, Simply Haiku. Her publication includes Small Pictures (1966), At the Riverside (1990), Linked Poems by College Students (1955), Spring Thunder (1966), The Life of R.H.Blyth(1996),Cats in Love (2000), Desert Rose (2002), Internationalization of Japanese Short Poems (2002), Evergreen Haiku Anthology (2003), Waiting for a Breeze (2003), An Introduction to English Haiku For Japanese (2003), Halo Round the Moon (2004), elephant’s eyes (2009), white fish (2009), Drops of the Setting Sun (2009), paper plane (2012), and heat haze (2014), Trio of Windows(2018) as well as articles on haiku and senryu in English. Member of poetry group, Kyoen and JUNPA. http://haiku.velvet.jp

Spring Greetings though some withered leaves of poinsettia are scattering on the floor a fresh and vivid green plastic plant decorated on the corner of the room the sofa occupied stuffed animals waits for

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someone coming back to make him clean the room going through Japanese white apricot blossoms in full bloom a mother cat rushes to her house where the newborns are waiting for her milk sweet scents of flowers are borne on soft breezes the first day of spring today my talk was only to a cat I drink hot cocoa with my favorite honey now it’s almost time to go to bed wondering who peeps me tomorrow

Autumn Greetings the shining harvest moon knocks on the roof to roof it may be the bright called fortune down at the door happy autumn comes with rich harvest we hear Lovely and lively voices of “Trick or Treat” here and there the young and the old walk together

165 each and Every walker might believe strong knot each other the night of Halloween is deepening into the next All Saint’s Day

Winter Greetings a cup of tea with fresh green herb gives me powerful drops of energy in this winter morning a couple of doves are cooing by the riverbank near my hut through the open window a butterfly’s flying into the school library fluttering among books like searching for the way to leave for the freedom on the Christmas Eve

I will bake a home made cake on Christmas Eve my friends bring wine & chicken over to my room Lennon’s Happy X’mas is heard slightly is the night a dream?

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Irene Mercedes Aguirre (Argentina)

Irene Mercedes Aguirre - writer/poet. She has an extensive university historical and cultural background (UBA-USAL), with deep knowledge of Argentina and Latin American culture, Management and Cultural Policy and Art Criticism (INAPIUNA). She is Ambassador of Peace by Thousand Millennia and PEA Foundation in Argentina and Ambassador of the Universal Peace Ambassadors Circle France / Switzerland. Chairman of the Committee designated “Educating for Peace” by the National Association of Pan American (reg. In OAS). Lighthouse Universal Peace appointed by SIPEA / IMAL, Mexico; Santa Clara de Aíis Award; SATO award for excellence in the literary and professional work; World Award finalist mystical poetry Fernando Rielo, among others. She is a founding member and member of important national and international institutions and she has an abundant production of individual works and anthologies in Argentina and abroad.

Vital Tension

We did not quicken our step just to wander aimlessly blind to the objective of life cloyed by things, without destiny.

Nor did we conquer the word just to waste it, starved of sense nor form a vocabulary as a simple device for sound.

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Somehow, mysteriously if the human being looks up to the skies it will be possible to grasp other rhythms to open up spaces for our desires.

For in the labyrinth of the minds within their inner tissue, deep folds, we will sense the heavy beating, the muffled rumour of other worlds.

Within those intimate palpitations we will capture our own essence, a memorious cadence of the genes forged in the depths of time!

From within, we will later emerge, and from up high, come down straight away, and between the sky and the earth, elbow to elbow, we will build a life, if we try!

Crucial

Indifferent time slipping away, anguish of the life that it imprisons with the crucial sickle of the last turn, summons us urgently, leads us to choose the optimal path from all those possible. To discern.

Though our existence seems like honey with its broad spectrum of joys tries to protect us under its shelter, a sort of sixth sense warns us against taking the beaten track and to rekindle our feeble light.

That avowed lamp of the mind, like a reckless vandal beckons

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and assaults our being as it lights us. Sacred possible altar, never absent, invites us to sow its seeds, in virgin earth unknown to us.

What to do? Turn our back? Look away? Ignore what is possible, disregard the beacon in the solitary immensity? Or keep on trying, fencing in the noble thought that is glimpsed through the darkness of the day?

The Slope

A shared human lineage brings us together and similar dreams connect us. You suffer, you love, you despise, and your brow reflects the thought that unites us.

On Gaia we walk through our days, of the centuries, lightning flashing, with their perennial dramas and joys, with blind, mendacious passions.

But we still have a long way to go! A long way for us! This slope so slow, the climb so hard as it rises, goes higher and exalts us! So high and sublime! So upward!

It leads to the highest place, right to the centre, the very being. No more lives without meaning! So deep into abstractions does it enter, towards hasty understanding.

And still so far to go! Isn't it, Companions? How far away peace is! So many miseries! What if we were to go in union? New blood would surge through the arteries!

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Ilija Šaula (USA)

Ilija Saula was born in Karlovac, Croatia, December 4, 1963. He spent his childhood in Kordun, in the village of Dugi Dol, earned elementary education in Krnjak and secondary school in Karlovac. Today he lives and works in West Chester, Pennsylvania, United States. He is the author of six books of poetry and prose and a novel. His works have been translated into English, Italian, Spanish, Polish and Albanian. He is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia and the Serbian- Canadian Writers' Association "Desanka Maksimović" from Toronto. He is a founder of the Kordun Literary Workshop.

ALLOW ME

Allow me to say The entire night inside of me And the entire days outside of me. I know That you also have Your secret night and your own White day.

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JUST FOR YOU

When I die Then also will the stars shine Life will continue to flow As it flows now. Part of my sky I will not give to anyone Only to you. Because Even then I will call you mine.

HOPE

Your illusion blossomed Wilted on the lips Thirsting for love. You gave the bud of your youth To males, breaking their heart. Lost virginity Never will return. In the flaming passions They destroyed your perfection With a flash of their bodies in the night. For the comfort of the soul And the time that comes Only a glimpse of hope remains to you.

DO NOT CRY LOVE

I love you under the shade of the chestnut tree In the boulevard of freedom Under the full moon In the turmoil of the night Holding your hands With the memories embroidered with love.

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Our love Gave the seal to our youth Nailed to the bottom of a glass From which we drank wine, And gave a vow to generations That are coming That the cup of love cannot be emptied. Do not cry my love. If we violated you It is a sin.

Forgive our sinful souls.

POETIC NOCTURNO

The poem came from my mind Eyes cut grooves into the female breast I sail through the kingdom of a distorted mind I carry a yearning of a bird in a nest

I wept in my youth In the labyrinth of events I touched the bottom of dreams In a wave of the turbulent night.

Night is repressing the poem into memory I am driving prosecutors into the realm of the night Cursed be fate that ruins the poem Retaining vanity imposed by others.

I place the poem on the pinnacle of my mind To connect us with the new moon at dawn I kissed that new day And kept the poem in the depth of my soul.

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Iliriana Sulkuqi (Fejzullai) (Albania- USA)

Iliriana Sulkuqi (Fejzullai) was born in the city of Elbasan ( Albania) in 1951. Iliriana Sulkuqi studied at the Armed Forces Academy. Sulkuqi also completed studies in linguistics, literature, and philosophy. Sulkuqi has received numerous national and international awards. Her poems have appeared translated in: Italian, Greek, Macedonian, Bulgarian, Rumanian, and English. Iliriana Sulkuqi was proclaimed “AMBASSADOR OF PEACE” by the World Peace Federation (October 2011). Iliriana Sulkuqi is honored with the title “MOTHER THERESA,” for displaying “Reflection of Kindness, Peace, Love for a Special Contribution to Art, Culture and Humanism”, Skopje, 2016. Iliriana Sulkuqi’s life and work is depicted in a documentary film (in Albanian and English) ‘Lirikë shpirti” ( Lyrical Soul ), Since 2004 Iliriana Sulkuqi resides in New York.

Find me a title

Without the word fire Without the word ice Without the word death Without hunger, without thirst…

Without a waning voice… Without a single tear, Without God’s name,

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Without my name Without your name…

Without damp colours Without soil from the moon Without a burned sun Without malice, without revenge, Without a fairytale word Without nightly dreams Without waves or storms Without the kiss of a breeze Without a wavelet, without a coast Without an arrival, without a path…

Find me a title Without the name of a bird Without the name of a star Without the name of a mountain Without the name of an island Or ocean…

Without the beating of hearts Without the inquietude of longing…

Without a golden autumn Without winter, without frost Without a pollen season Without a naked summer…

Find me a title Without a pentagram Where notes play With our souls.

And sings a song…

To Love I give my soul To hate – only Love

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And sings of sorrow a beautiful song: Take me every which way taxi driver And halt thither where the teardrop anchors And my teardrop do veil

And halt thither where the silence blazes Where the soul is set on fire from a thrill Where eyes refuse to see, where heart shivers Where the body feels palpable by a “djinn”

Where Earth and Sky fired Ablaze as lightning-bolt Where God descends, the dead are resurrected Where the night covets the day

And sighs of night’s born sorrow: Take me every which way Love Over seven heavens, with seven moons, With candles adorn my body!

From my eye

From my eye to yours In soul – road The tear melted…

From my eye to yours Drop of tear weighs as heavy as the Earth…

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Ion P. Iacob (Romania)

The poet Ion P. Iacob was born on November 12, 1955 in Breaza, Buzău, Romania. He published thefollowing poetry volumes : "Filantropia Hospital" - Panteon Publishing, Piatra Neamt, 1994; "The Vortical Current", Princeps Multimedia Publishing - Iasi, 2013; "Unreal Homeland", Călăuza Publishing - Deva, 2016; His lyrics appear in some anthologies: "The Shadow of the Dragon" - the anthology of the Romanian haiku, Haiku Publishing, Bucharest, 1993; "One hundred masts", Haiku Publishing, Bucharest, 1997; "Moon in the splinters", Haiku Publishing, Bucharest, 2000; "Knots" - haiku anthology in Southeastern Europe, 1999, Prijatelj Publishing, Tolmin, Slovenia. It's one of the editors of the journal “Ardealul literar” and member of the Romanian Writers' Union. Editor of the site”THE POET'S LAND”.

THE JAIL OF SALT

with the milk teeth of my brief biographies I bit symbolicly the realm of gentleness on plain paper devoured teeth in a time without space in an space without season Lao Tze

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contemplates for me the corpse a word:

"untill nirvana there is a long and dangerous way most valuable is the light of the salt mine " in a time in which we have forsaken the wordy territories on dead horse of the fixed formes.

SEAL OF PURE-BLOOD tenderized under saddles now broken of hoofs is just the heart sometime with the little angel sometime with poisoned arrows.

FAREWELL MONTALE!

"Poetry is like honey in large quantities becomes toxic " in the inner courtyard of my block a dog foreign is a poem

177 full of bones (farewell Ossi di sepia farewell Montale) He looks at me With famished respect bring him manuscripts and do not touch they chose dust of my feeling of communion I was able to show him one ossicular one vertebra a finger My fingerprint holograph tattooed skin with stars a apocryphal text about The poet "when he is born draw it like a hunk of meat " when a poem is born I was born and I am the scream.

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José Sarria (Spain)

Poet, essayist and literary critic. Correspondent Academician of the Royal Academy of Córdoba. He is secretary general of the Association of Writers of Andalusia, a permanent member of the Jury of the Andalusian Prize of Criticism and general secretary of the International Association for Solidarity Humanism. Author of twenty-three books of poetry, narrative and essays. He has been translated into Arabic, Italian, French, English, Sephardic and Romanian. His work appears in more than forty anthologies and magazines. He has specialized in the research of the Spanish neoliterature in the Maghreb, being a speaker in seminars at the Universities of Spain, Morocco and Tunisia, as well as the Cervantes Institutes of Morocco and Tunisia and the summer courses of the International University of Andalusia ( UNIA). He holds numerous national literary prizes. It is included in the General Encyclopedia of Andalusia.

GARDEN OF HEAVEN (mother’s house)

To my mother, always.

My memories are of an arabesque patio adorned with pots of bright red geraniums and a garden that generously bestowed the hospitable shade of the lemon trees, despite the passing of time and their neglect. The song of birds, perched on the tops of the few still standing trees, accompanied the sun’s rays passing through their branches. Only their chirping flouted the solitude and

179 silence of this sanctuary, and their sonorous trill transformed the decadence of the house into the gate of paradise.

There, every afternoon, the angels descended the golden stairs of Jacob to listen to the song of the birds, caress my mother’s hair and pronounce my name.

That house is the South, garden of heaven, home of the heart and gives birth to the origins of the water.

THE COUNTRY OF WORDS

I have no other country than the word and the crimson colour of the geraniums: the last vestige of my southern origin where there is a white house that treasures the sound of the wheel carried by water, a kingdom of quinces and pomegranates with its leafy orchards, a haven of peace on the edge of oblivion: the place where my submerged hours live.

I always treasured the certainty that in the end we would have kept the murmur of water in the ditches, sustenance of the geraniums and the common homeland of the word.

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Juljana Mehmeti ( Albania- Italy)

Juljana Mehmeti was born in the city of Durres, in Albania. Since she was a child she became fond about literature and writing, especially poetry, a genre that in the following years will turn into a real life motive, a way to better express her ideas, her thoughts, her visions and metaphysics , her point of view according to her consciousness but also improving the awareness of the same suggestion that surrounds the human world. The first book “Soft – Poems” published in Italian language attracted the attention of publishers and Italian literary criticism, not only for its particular style, but also for new words, the language used, the philosophical message and the currents present in her poems that go from Hermetism to Surrealism. The second book comes from the field of translation entitled “Vramendje” – (Rimugino “) of the Italian author Alessandro Ferrucci Marcucci Pinoli, which will constitute the first experience in this field, but will also strengthen his long-standing conviction, to know and translate in his language, many popular Italian authors.. The collection of poems “Oltrepassare” is her new book, which presents itself with the new tendencies of Albanian literature, postmodernism and universal consciousness, from experimental currents to absurdity. She currently lives and works in Ancona, Italy.

The only sun

Tired, the gaze is lost in the void beyond the facades that hide the light

181 where lighthouses shine in the intersections the prolonged waiting for the steps of silence time obscured in twisted visions dragged in the midnight of the shadows.

Sad gray fogs surround the darkness Rising suspended between the screams of the wind I cry with madness for what went away still hidden in deep memories ... in the gloomy whitish of the highest ridges the coldness of a single winter day.

Tired the gaze is lost in the void of air saturated with absurd forms chaos dispersed between turbid traces and cosmic particles become dust.

Tired the day by the traps of destiny on tips of icebergs that scratch the clouds between hidden stars, the promise is fading waiting for the return of his only sun.

Crucifix to forgiveness

Looking beyond yourself looking for sensations that pulsate sleeping rhythms breathing the dry air of a hidden sun in his void, without knowing what is distressing you, it is like loosing himself in the ether dragged through the clouds of the hermits and the sarcophagi of the Gods awakened at the threshold of the day wet by the murmur of the rain ...

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Feeling as a slave of suspended feelings that turn on and off between the deserted spaces of disappointment and the crumbled pyramids in the escape of the last pharaoh, scratched on the walls of memory mummified in pain carved in infinite hieroglyphs sprinkled with the scream of the wind and blown in centuries of love, it is like traveling in an abandoned island where only the sea thunders the echo of the waves and you, a hermit of pain with your eyes to the sky, you crucify yourself to forgiveness.

Through the furrows of the sky

I haven’t exchanged my eyes, Apart from my blur eyesight Absorbed in your silences, Exclamation yelled by the quints of night Dragged to the pain With broken limbs Drawn towards the torment Through the furrows of the sky Sliding on the hill of the sun Dressed To the marble statue of the indigested pain In this kneeling of the time Overflow of waves In the wave of the memory.

Translated by Claudia Piccinno

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Dr. Jernail Singh Anand (India)

Dr Jernail Singh Anand is an internationally acclaimed poet, author, spiritualist and philosopher. Author of 55 books, Dr Anand was born in 1955 at Alamgir, (Ludhiana, Punjab India).He holds the doctoral degree in Mysticism from Panjab Univ Chandigarh and post doctoral D.Litt from Univ of South America. Dr. Anand's books 'Bliss' and 'I Belong to You' have been translated into Persian and published in Iran by Prof Nargues Muhammadi. He innovated the Theory of Biotext along with an Iranian Univ Professor Dr Roghayeh Farsi. Anand's literary reputation rests on his three epical works..' Geet: The Unsung Song of Eternity'..a lyrical epic which sequels Milton's 'Paradise Lost'. Another work which brought him the Award of Trendy Tale Teller is 'The Ganturbury Tales'. His most powerful work of epical poetry and philosophy is 'The Satanic Empire' which sequels Dante's 'The Divine Comedy'. Dr. Anand's work of critical theory 'Creative Consciousness' and his lectures on Poetic Creation and Cloud Syndrome have revolutionized the theories of poetic creation. His recent article on Sisyphus as a Karmic Hero' has given a new direction to Camus' concept of the Absurd'. Dr. Anand has represented India at Kubatek 39 poetry festival in Italy (Feb 2016) and participated as Key Speaker at a Peace Conference in Nigeria in Nov.2016. He was awarded Cross of Peace and Cross of Literature by WUP (Italy) and was Secretary General of World Parliament of Literature. He was conferred Lord of World Peace and Literature award at India World Poetry Festival in Hyderabad. World Icon of Peace from Nigeria and Art4Peace Lifetime Achievement Award. Dr Anand is among the few top English poets of India whose poetry is placed among the best in the world.

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STEAM IT OFF

Matrimony is the dangerous trek where fools rush in but angels fear to tread.

No man claiming wisdom would ever venture into a terrain declared unsafe.

Procreation is not what I contest. I stop at the time, When body is activated and mind stilled.

Senses overpower the sense. And man is all blood. When heart holds sway Over all impediments created by mind.

When passion strikes human wisdom And paralyses brain in parts In that impaired state only can one do what he may never when his wits are at work.

And in order to ward off thoughtful intervals we gather people and there is noise of bands.

Rough dancing keeps you busy and away from the calls of thought.

In this melee you enter into A contract you sign Without reading. Because your father too had done it.

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There is an age to do deeds Which age forbids And this is adolescence Our scriptures prescribe best for matrimony.

THE LUXURIOUS SURROUND

Dedicated to all those loving human souls who believe in the Lord's ultimate benedictions.

A child in the arms of its mother is in luxury Like a poet in the midst of valleys And a man in the confusion of possessions.

A politician in the thick of a deceptive career And a common man in the cauldron of promises..

A night in its weird luxury commissions nightmares and a day in its diametrical dispensation fills poetic senses with luxurious landscapes.

No luxury can access the joy of a child in the protection Of his parents Where he /she is left to spring about boundless like a roe.

Accord me that luxury O Krishna.! That you are overseeing While I mindful or otherwise Jump around in this luxurious surround.

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Jovanka Stojčinović Nikolić (Bosnia & Herzegovina)

Jovanka Stojčinović Nikolić, a poetess, prose writer, essayist, and cultural booster, was born in the village of Ritešić near Doboj (Bosnia & Herzegovina). Up to 1998. she worked as a secondary school teacher in Doboj. From 1998. to 2010. she was General Manager of the Culture and Training Centre in Doboj. After that, as a member of Mayor’s staff, she was Adviser for culture, sciences and education. So far she has published 15 books of poetry: A Wanderer’s Star (1975), The Tight Sky (1994), The Loneliness of a Rose (1995), The Naked Sun (1996), The Stone of My Blood (1996), Barefoot Plants (1997), A Service-tree (2000), Bitter Light (2002), The Key-hole – Selected and New Poems (2003), The Shape of Light (2006), The Darkness of Pure Gold (2006), The Dark Eye of the Street (2009), In the First Person (2011), The Dark Eye of the Street (second edition) (2011), The Thirteenth Stair (2014), The Chosen Moment (selected poems) (2015). In 2018. she published a book of accounts, essays and reviews under the title Parallel Roads. She was President of Association of Writers of the Republic of Serpska.

MOUNTAINS IN MY BODY

All night long I have been flattening mountains In my body

Behind a mountain top (which I cannot reach) The Sun is falling down a cliff

Levelling its rays against jagged stones

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Simply As if covering by running its shine in a flash

We are two wholes separate from the outside Each one in its own body With a thousand windows through which various places Can be seen

The brighter ones are similar to me The darker ones are as deep as gorges And I have difficulty to see the living people in them

While I am flattening mountains The darkness between the lights is swaying my skin And I feel as if it had always been An unforgettable encounter with the world And my only possibility To reach the Sun on the cliff

THE REAL STATE

I am sorting out my old clothes in the wardrobe Of my bedroom The clothes that keep making Confusion in my head blurring the vision About the real state of my clothing immobility

In the middle of the room there can settle the largest white cloud Through it everything in the wardrobe can be seen

All dreams in the sleeves of the nightgown The night hours of my insomnia and words That by some miracke have remained in the inner pocket Of the light blue outfit from my youth

In fact I wonder whether it is just the room And wardrobes that all life long Have been watching over old and new things

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Saving the mother tongue (which I can never lose or buy) Or it is the mirror of the same age facing them The mirror that in any case may be replaced

But how can I fix its crack on the oval side Which has existed for years due to a tiny part of the mirror That dropped into my hand two decades ago While I was polishing it to shine like the soul of the bedroom

I conclude that nothing can be finished Until the things are replaced

SERIOUS MATTERS

Sipping black coffee from porcelain cups We are talking about serious matters Disclosing new things to each other

She is showing me her fingers pricked by the needle Of her old Singer sewing machine Which she must repair as soon as possible In order to patch all seasons of the year into the apron And to stitch in all secrets outside and inside

Thousands of farewell letters and important talks

Of streets with no soul on them And of corners beyond the reach of a hand

Looking closely at the blue needle-like punctures On her finger cushions she utters in a low voice

I suffer when I see that the world is falling apart And so far we have lived on this .

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Jean C Bertrand (Haiti)

Jean C Bertrand is a Haitian Poet, writer, Playwright. Birth Place Port- Au- Prince Haiti Born Dec – 05- 1961 Nationality Haitian Founder Mystic Vision Poetry group, and Poetic Vision. Ambassador Of World Institute for Peace Haiti Branch, USA. World Union Of Poets Gold Cross Complexion based Discrimination Book Awarded with the medal of Ambassador De Literature HafriKan Prince Art World Ambassador Of Humanity World Institute For Peace (WIP) Poetry and the Bards (Moderator) Pure people’s Poet (administrator) Pot pourri Poets/ Artists ( administrator) PoEmarium By Dr NK Sharma (IP) Abuja Independent Writers Association (AWA) AUTHOR Jean C Bertrand.

Unseen dialectic

All majestic, O sweet genesis, Poetic verses, thy legacy, Ancestors symbolic, All spoken linguistic, Listening to parabolic, Spreading speeches, Misunderstood by evil doers, O beauteous kama, magnanimous, luminous, loving spirit,

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Missing the rays, the moon, the sun, Walking in the valleys, heartbroken, Green trees in calamitous, breathing fire, Darken momentous moments, Watching the wind blows, Damn it, no dancers in the garden, Faded leaves, crying roses, mirthless, Thy beauty, thy gaiety, earthly, thy sweetest decoration, in milky way, Murmuring the stars, bursting into tears, Heartfelt in gloom and doom oceans,

In the heart of art

In the heart of art, There’s a rainbow, sweet discovery, Dancing in deep blue, with flowers, Images, waves, all magic, painted words,

In the heart of art, There’s a passion, with loving smile, A desire to breathe, delicious inspiration, Heart beating, caressing the burden,

In the heart of art, Immeasurable beauty, the light within, A mountain of love, calming, thunder, Touching hearts of sufferings,

In heart of art, The elegant, luminous, beauteous glares, Shall sustain in this place, the luxurious breath, Sweet legacy, fueling cosmos with glee.

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On the lips

On the lips of spring Birds songs blessed Fly high n dance in harmony Wrapping under cosmos breath

On the lips of bitterness The salted rocks Murmuring down deep blue Mermaid kindness, tender hugs

On the lips of sweetness Flowers grow n glow in spring, Summer smiles blowing gentle Breeze, from the sea of calmness

On the lips of rain Divine essence, welcoming Roses in the forests, mountains To be blessed with mirth n dance.

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Jagdsih Prakash

Jagdsih Prakash is writing poetry in English and Urdu. 8 of his books of verse have so far been published—6 in Urdu and 2 in English. In addition, 50 of his Urdu poems translated into English by Prof. Muhammad Shanazar have also been published in a book. 4 of his Urdu books have been given awards by various academies in India .He is also a recepient of INTERNATIONAL BEST POET FOR THE YEAR 2014 BY THE International Poetry and Research Centre, China and NAJI NAMAAN LITERARY PRIZE FOR THE YEAR 2017. His poems have been translated in Chinese, French and Italian. His Urdu poetry has also been set to music and sung by reputed singers and is available on Youtube.

SOME THOUGHTS FOR A LONELY WALK

When the road is long When the thoughts are astray When the winds sing a long lost song I set on a long walk with your thoughts With fractured desires so dearly sought Scattered clouds keep pace with me A lonely bird sets wings to flee The red yellow leaves screech under feet Iike orphan kids they silently weep

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Tired, I sit on a bench watching the barren trees Wishing for sunny days of September to return But the thoughts return again and again On the dusty road where we once walked On one such silent afternoon, long time back!

SOMEWHERE NEAR ME

Somewhere near me, Yes, near me I feel a stirring An apparition, perhaps Or a shadow A spec of my thoughts Or a whiff of wind Like an undefined wish Something crouches around Can you unfold this mystery? You, whose desire Made me feel this stirring The desire which arose On that foggy December night When a reluctant moon Winked at the pole star With a lazy eye Silently I looked at you Silently you pressed my hand I heard nothing But for the stirring Of your racing breathes

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MY SCRAP BOOK

This is my book, my scrap book Keeper of my life’s stories, In half sentences, some mis spelt words, In synopses, without commas, full stops. The paper has yellowed, dog eared, Some pages are torn. Written on margins are my afterthoughts In jumbled words, illegible Post event chronicle of happening Like post orgasm sighs. The flashback of memories rolls The faded picture on the crumbling wall Comes alive, anew Whirr of the ceiling fan grows louder A tiny bird on my window twitters And flies away Turning pages of my scrap book I see a roll out of memories Like a kaleidoscope A story tumbles From the yellowing pages As I see your name scribbled Above my name On a half folded page From which a dried jasmine flower Slips and falls In my lap!

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Juan Antonio Vazquez Delgadillo (México-USA)

Writer, poet and song writer born in H. Matamoros, Tamps. México in 1979. Actually residing in Texas U.S.A. From a neutral stance, he works hard and altruistically sharing consciential poetry, advocating for gratitude and acceptance of people with respect to life. Bearing in mind that everything that happens abroad, is a reflection of the internal condition of each person and that nothing that happens to the human being is alien to the universal laws themselves. Writer in verse and prose, mainly in his native language Spanish and very often in English, Juan encourages, through his writings, love, consciousness awakening, acceptance and peace.

BELOVED GEM

A gem has been found in the center of the heart, beautiest thing to find in all galaxies around. Could it be its brightness what puts this gem apart? Or could be perhaps its real value is profound?

Precious gem of love, pleasure is to contemplate the wonders you make from a plain and simple day. You're painting my life making this adventure great, the more I share love, the more you delight my way!

I will now conclude you're the title of these lines, will also include in this poem some last touch...

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from you to my pen runs the ink of love that shines... loved gem... I revere your magnificence so much!

BACK TO CHILDHOOD (Sonnet)

Watching the skies in those wonderful days, I still remember being in paradise. I can still feel the fresh breeze on my face, traveling back in time, closing my eyes.

Divine vibration that of childhood, no clock, no schedule, just smiles and toys. The lands of innocence were truth and good. That child still lives inside, just hear his voice!

The here and now is just eternity, if you go high in frequency in your heart. Faithful intention and serenity, are those two keys that put you set apart.

Going back to childhood, oh magic trip, is that what offers heaven's membership.

FRIENDSHIP

That vibrational fusion of love, by decision, more than by blood ties, Is a magic that comes from above, and enhances you, painting your skies!

When a friend cross your way, that's divine, It's an honor to enjoy of his presence. The most valuable treasure, his time, is that personal gift of his essence!

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If you have at least one, you are so rich, I'm not exagerating these verses, you have made an invisible bridge that connects two complete universes!

In each person residing on earth, lives a friend who's awaiting for love. Don't forget, they once came here thru birth, in their hope to enjoy peace as a dove!

Springs Of The Soul

I have bathed in springs of Life, and I have wanted to stop in the waters, but the inertia of this trip makes me keep on, and enjoy the cast in this forge.

The torrents of happiness always soak. My kerchiefs I pleasantly extend, the road I walk offers basil, but, in times of drought it is inclement.

If I see a thirsty walker in my path, my soaked kerchiefs I offer to him, because of the gift I see him go happy, and in my joy my kerchiefs I rewet.

Springs of warm waters of the soul, that, open gap between the rocks of ego, are the threads of the verses that intertweave the absorbing inspiration of my kerchiefs.

198

Kinga Fabó (Hungaria)

Kinga Fabó is a Hungarian poet. Her poetry has been widely published in international literary journals and poetry magazines including Modern Poetry in Translation (translated and introduced by George Szirtes); The Poetry Review, Numéro Cinq, Ink Sweat & Tears, Deep Water Literary Journal, The Screech Owl, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, The Opiate, Levure Litteraire, Pratik, Fixpoetry, Lyrikline.org and elsewhere as well as in anthologies like The Significant Anthology, Women in War, The Colours of Refugee, Poetry Against Racism, World Poetry Yearbook 2015, Anthology of Contemporary Women's Poetry, Anthology of Contemporary World Poetry, World Poetry Almanac and others. Some of her individual poems have been translated into 17 languages altogether: Albanian, Arabic, Bulgarian, English, Esperanto, French, Galego, German, Greek, Indonesian, Italian, Persian, Romanian, Serbian, Slovenian, Spanish, Tamil. One of her poems (The Ears) has among others six different Indonesian translations by six different authors. Her latest book, a bilingual Indonesian-English poetry collection Racun/Poison was published in 2015. Her story Two Sound Fetishists was translated by Paul Olchvary, published in Numéro Cinq. She has written an essay on Sylvia Plath. Fabó lives in Budapest, Hungary.

Isadora Duncan Dancing

Like sculpture at first. Then, as if the sun rose in her, long gesture. A small smile; then very much so.

199

The beauty of the rite shone; whirling.

She whirled and whirled, flaming. Only the body spoke. The body carried her language.

Her dance a spell swirling the air, a spiral she was and her shawl, the half circle around her, the curve of the sea-shore and girl, the dancer and the dance apart…

(Traslated by Cathy Strisik and Veronica Golos)

Ailo and Lajla

He didn’t hold me that night. Hard as it was, he was alone. That moment hard as it was.

As he was in me a spring. As he was in me a flood. As that moment in me was.

Another him died in me. And me with him, not of him. Another who in me renains.

(Translated by Andrew Fentham)

200

Poison

I don't know what it is but very ill- intended. Surely a woman must belong to it. And something like a laughter.

I am rotating the city on me, rotating my beauty. That's that! Many keys, small keyholes whirling.

Gazes cannot be all in vain. And the answer? Merely a jeer. The vase hugs and kills me, can't breathe.

Now my features – even with the best intentions – cannot be called beautiful. And her? The girl? Her trendy perfume is Poison. For me a real poison indeed. And the vase? It hugs and kills me.

But what am I to do without?

Ailo and Lajla

He didn’t hold me that night. Hard as it was, he was alone. That moment hard as it was.

As he was in me a spring. As he was in me a flood. As that moment in me was.

Another him died in me. And me with him, not of him. Another who in me renains.

201

Msc. Klejda Plangarica (Albania)

Msc. Klejda Plangarica was born on 15.8.1980, in Elbasan, Albania. She is a poet, book editor and independent journalist. Klejda graduated with a Master of Science degree in “Literature” and a second Master of Science in "Gender Equality". She has worked for many years as a journalist and broadcast presenter of many programmes, on various Albanian televisions. Klejda has also worked as a Spokesperson, Media Relations Specialist and Specialist for Gender Equality in Albanian State Police. In 2012, she published her first book with poems "Dritëzim ikjesh" (Twinkling of escapes), while her creations, in poetry and prose have been published in various newspapers, magazines and anthologies. Over the years she has been involved in organizing various cultural activities, both as a scriptwriter and presenter. Klejda Plangarica is honored with the title "Ambassador for Peace" by the Universal Peace Federation.

Desire - pain

Desperately, happy tonight! So strange this bed, where desire-pain is conceived and where the end-beginning of love is burning. The first bed for us. Infinitely the last ... The only battlefield of peace, where we love by lynching ourselves Where we die to be loved ... Desperately, happy tonight!

202

Hidden in the dark, I miss the moon of your gaze. The first bed for us, The Eternal... You're driving me crazy!

***

What provokes me in you: -Is you! Without your shell The secret tunic that enlaces you when I sink to the limit of escapes.

-Is you Without the screechy storm of voices, Their dread howl when it crashes to my curls.

-Is you With the moon in your armp at my attic, Where you lock mouths of the voices and lay peacefully the tunic.

What provokes me to you: -Is you In an empty bed...

203

Lek Pervizi (Albania)

Lek Pervizi, born in Albania in 1929, studied in Italy and Rome until 1944. Back in his country, he falls under the communist dictatorship. Painter, poet and writer, forbidden to any free expression, He undergoes persecutions, prisons and camps of deportation during 45 years with all his family Won freedom in Belgium, in 1990, he can devote himself to his intellectual activities. He published his poems conceived as prisoners, and his drawings of deportation camps, which earned him the fame of painter of the death camps. As a poet, he publishes his poems in French, Italian and Albanian, and it remains only to publish them in English. For 25 years he publishes the Albanian magazine, Kuq e Zi (Red and Black). In the meantime he writes and publishes his memoirs as well as other subject books, biographical and historical. He translates from vernacular Italian the oldest book (1480) written on Scanderbeg, national hero. In a poetry contest, in Naxos, Sicily, he received the special prize of best foreign poet. Other poems have been published in Italian and Albanian anthologies. He joined the age of 90, still active as a painter, poet, writer and publicist.

Ballad of the white rose

I caught a beautiful white rose at dawn of a day without light the sun was hidden behind the clouds the sun no longer had heat he no longer had any strength he no longer gave life he no longer shone on the earth how could the white rose bloom?

204

I put it in a crystal vase in my lonely room where sun was love where light was the affection where warmth was the tenderness

I saw the rose bloom in its shining splendor I saw her then wither the white petals fell one after the other snowflakes winter was beating at the window the soul went out wrapped in the dark night of sidereal spaces where they were not there white roses to be picked.

Always

The journey was too long my little presence my life too short one moment perhaps a simple feeling the color of the aurorae always variable the color of the sunsets always inflamed the sea waves always roaring who crash on the rocks to invade the earth

205 foretold of the great universal deluge always sand swirls they devastate the earth they take away sink every expression of nature of life men animals trees flowers all silence silence reigns the waters calm down the earth takes its breath by now wash pure of evils of human degeneration reborn to itself the journey of life it was too long my presence too short just a moment perhaps a simple feeling good or bad a simple feeling always.

206

Luz María López (Puerto Rico)

Luz María López is a writer of poetry, narrative, essays, translator, editor and activist from Puerto Rico. Her poetry books are issued in Spanish and English. Editor in chief of “Voces Poéticas de Nuevo Siglo”, international poetry anthology in Spanish (Kafla, 2016); Assistant editor of “XXI Century Literature Book” (Kafla, 2016). Her poems have been translated to Arabic, Italian, Chinese, Turkish, Polish, Catalan, Bangla. She also contributes with essays about feminine topics which are published in journals, newspapers and magazines. Luz María has participated in Poetry Festivals in Colombia, Mexico, Ghana, Turkey, Spain, India and Bangladesh and Puerto Rico. She is recipient of three literary awards: Kathak Literary Award, Dhaka International Poets Summit, Bangladesh 2017; Shaan-E-Adab “Glory of Literature” by Kafla Intercontinental, Udaipur, India 2016; Universal Inspirational Poet, by Pentasi B, Accra, Ghana, 2016. She is Clustering Executive Director at World Festival of Poetry (WFP) and leads the World Poetic Front Defending Women’s Rights (WM); Board Member of the International Writers Association IWA- BOGDANI; Poets of the World; Director for Spain and Puerto Rico at World Nation Writer's Union; President for Spain and Puerto Rico at Writers Capital Foundation; Board of Directors Member at Soflay Literary Foundation; International Parliament of Writers from Colombia - Ambassador to Puerto Rico; Editor at Galaktika Poetike “ATUNIS” Literary Magazine; International Book Fair “Eugenio María de Hostos” in Puerto Rico - Organizing Committee Member.

207

ONE NIGHT balm my lips with the essence of your words tie me to the wind where your eyes rest in quiet search of the unknown rock me while i sleep and draw over my skin a symphony of palpitations lash me out of own self only to converge in the wild paths that carries you away from my roots sing that song of love that flies free in the dawn hours let me dream that one day you will stay until the waves return to pronounce that time is just a mirage where each heartbeat repeats deep in the chest that holds you as infidel prayer.

A Song for the Wind let’s unnest the idle story write again on the tired wall before time elapses farther, for the nightmare of the afternoon dares to entertain itself on the pulse of eloquent deceits, casting shadows over one eyes only to return blinded calling for true colors unable to grasp the sky.

208

ME my fingers are darts of energy each breaking another expectancy rhizomes popping over and over – flowing upwards – attempting to grasp HARMONY clouds at fingertips kaleidoscopic of dreams emerging flying butterflies – EUPHORIA – where i feel unique scintillating FREE !

Passage heaps of salt scalded all veins in a futile attempt to unclog the hours, blazing memories hurried seeking the passage of time a tunnel of light levitation i don’t recognize my voice anymore neither my hands or my bones but i meet the ground with burning dance hurricane beauty aghast!

209

Lief Vleugels (Belgium)

Lief Vleugels, born in 1953. She is a Flemish poet and writer. She has published five novels and four collections of poetry. Her most recent works, a novel and a collection of poetry, deal with the life of her daughter, who ended her life in 2014. Lief Vleugels taught creative writing at the SchrijversAcademie in Antwerp, Belgium and in Paramaribo, Surinam.

BUTTERFLY STROKE she threw a flower in the water because I am a pond and she a butterfly still doubt hovers feelers on the crust of my lips I brushed her away pinned her to the wall sleep, sleep Mathilde the white women watch count the drops on your lips the cobweb in your hair

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still doubt ticks a time bomb in my chest brushes sobbing the dust off her wings glide, glide Mathilde bow where the wind blows you later when it becomes quiet you'll keep standing tall

WITHOUT BOTTOM thus I became pregnant with what dies in me one morning I'll be just without like the pots in the yard under sweltering cellophane with round belly waiting for summer almost bursting on cold nights the bottom breaks thus I remember the tearing of my belly and that too passed as small as loss I will become as small as what I want it to be as old as tomorrows pain

211

DECAPITATED STATUES

I am a hunch, mother second planet to the sun the house where my children sleep the end and source she who was most like me became Earth, sheltered between Mars and Venus she turns and walks away from me chasing the demon by writing him away helps, a while her head disappears in water when I make waves decapitated statues stay there is no more earth to bury

(translation: Annmarie Sauer)

212

Ljubinko Jelić (Serbia

Ljubinko Jelić was born in 1932 in the village of Šarani, close to Gornji Milanovac. He graduated from the Faculty of Economy in Belgrade. For some time he lived in Munich. He works in construction and design, and ocasionally publishing. So far he published: Letters to my love, Below the burning hammers, Wastefield, Sower’s gentleness, the Shine of the miraculous, Ravager before the door, The Magic ring, Above-Below, Closer to the glacier, Architect’s phonebook, Bitter seed, On the edge of the ash field, Building in, Tea for the neighbor, Around the dreamy nest, On another heaven, Angel in a greenhouse, Architect’s diary, Building and illusions, Graceful monophony, Collected poems in four books, Epistles of love.His works have been translated into German, Romanian, Italian, English, Macedonian, Russian and Check and can be found in several anthologies of Serbian poetry. He has been awarded and is a member of Serbian Literary Society and European Academy for Culture and Art.The awards he received include: Award of Serbian Literary Society for life’s work; “Ivo Andric” Academy’s International award for life’s work; Recognition of Cultural-educational community of Belgrade for exceptional contribution to the city of Belgrade; “Recognition of Morava” for total contribution to creativity in poetry and award of the Society of Playwrights for total contribution to the culture of Serbia, award in Aprilia (Italy) 2017. He lives and works in Belgrade.

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IN THE CLIMES OF VASKO POPA

I This pebble in my hand this enslaved breath from the throat of a river god how could I build it into a murmuring sentence

II This pebble keeps the secret of the past wave and of the wave arriving upwards and downwards at the same time it is the bottom and the top of a minor sky

III This pebble in my hand has no closer kin than a tear on the cheek of a child frozen in Mother's womb

OH MY LOVE

I keep calling your name like an unfinished authentic thought in order to continue life just here where there begins a fabulous sea, discovered amidst high tide when a dreamer kept attacking gray cliffs

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to take away to white expanses your first laughter in our night that was the last one we swam crying.

WITH THE LAST BREATH

What to tell you quietly without fear that you have not heard not making your soul tremble and become disturbed below the vaults high and for ever out of range.

What to tell you that you did not dream in darkened paradise, while I was emptying my spirit on your cheeks in juvenile inconsolability.

215

Lediona Braho (Albania)

Lediona Braho was born in 5 August 1991 in Konispol, Sarandë. She graduated in Psychology as an excellent student in 2012 and completed her Master Degree in Clinical Psychology in 2015. She has published three poetry books: “Ag…” (“Dawn”) in 2008, “Alter Ego” (“Alter Ego”) in 2012 and “Erdhëm nga uji” (“We came from water”) in 2018. Also, she has published a novel titled “Përtej ëndrrës” (“Beyond the dream”) in 2009. Ms. Braho has participated in local and national poetry competitions and was awarded with prizes, such as: “Best poem” in Saranda (2006), Third Prize in a National Essay Competition (2009), “Best poem” in “Young Pen” competition (2016), Second Prize in “Pranvera Letrare” (Literary Spring) organized by “Pelegrin” journal (2017) and Third Prize for the interpretation of a poem of Ali Podrimja in the competition “Fjala gdhend gurin” (Word carves the stone), organized in Kamëz Municipality. Since 2009, Ms. Braho is a member of the “Ionian Writers Club” in Saranda. In 2017, she became a member of the literary club “Pelegrin” and since 2016, she is a coordinator of the “Young Pen” literary club in Tirana.

216

Can we go back?

Can we go back to that place, to that moment, when, for the first time, I saw the ice in your eyes, and I decided to melt it?

Back to the place where I caressed your fingers, touched your nose, your eyebrows, smelled your neck and your hair to feel the evocative smell of moss? In that icy January night you had abandoned the big screen and you were sitting in front if me, with a cup in your shaking hands. They were closing up the display windows, and the people were leaving their chairs to take the journey back home. What about us? Where would we go? It was a long time we had lost the addresses of our houses, we had lost our ways, we didn’t know where to go, so we went nowhere. Now I search for that night’s silhouette, in the streets of this city that is losing its shape. Where will I find you, when this street ceases to exist? Where will I find you? It’s 4:25 in the afternoon, and I don’t know why I am still staying here, in this quicksand, in this cell, even why to my right side the window is half open.

217

My body is a church

My body is a church where you sneak in not to awake the deities.

Even why this is your first time, you seem to know every hideaway, you just need to follow the source of light that falls on me softly and untroubled.

When you reach in front of the Crucified, surprised you see his suffering face, and the people praying in an unexplainable harmony.

Soon you realize that you must pray, and you pray for the moment, pray for the eternity.

In your church, you realize that they tried to convince you that the flash and spirit are divided.

218

Luan Maloku (Presheva)

Luan Maloku was born in 1954 in the village of Miratoc (the municipality of Presheva). He completed primary school in his native country and his high school studies in Presheva and Kamenica. He graduated in Albanian language and literature at the University of Tetova. Interested in writing since primary school, his works have been published in Kosovo and Diaspora magazines. His name appears in Leksikoni i shkrimtarëve shqiptarë (The Leksikon of Albanian writers) by Hasan Hasani (2003); in the first and second volume of Psherëtimë për tokën. Panoramë letrare e krijuesve të Kosovë Juglindore (Sigh for the earth. Literary overview of Kosovo’s Southeastern writers) by Hysen Këqiku (2004); in Pasqyra e shpirtit, Engjëjt e frymëzimit, Jam pjesë e qiellit tënd. Antologji poetike (The mirror of the soul, Angels of inspiration, Being part of your heaven. Anthology of Poetry) edited by Baki Ymeri. He is member of Shoqata e Shkrimtarëve “Feniks”, Preshevë (The "Phoenix" Writers Association in Presheva); member of Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve të Kosovës (Kosovo Writers Association); member of Atunis Lugina (Atunis Valley) in Presheva; member of the Albanian Writers Club in Switzerland; chairman of Galaktika Poetike “Atunis” (Atunis-Poetry Galaxy) in Switzerland and member of the board of directors.

WITHOUT YOU

I do not know where you lost It is time that I ask, but in vain Goods my soul flashes Burns every day

219

Waves of sadness will wildly more My heavens rained The day will be so hard When I will be without you Without your presence, as the sun without light Without your eye olive color Thenight maddening me,leep does not come And burning mornings I do not want to see any human I live cllosed alone Waiting for your retun.

DAMNED

I know the flow of blood through Breathing, eye deportee Number of shoes Smile,groaning spirit Your opinion… Bodi as a white angel All you have perfect For that i love more, more more I recognize your tier that stems pages From happyness By goods when I turne to you The longing , tears merge With your body and soul Better than me nobudyknow featureless Every day alike i love With the same strength and weight Without youI would not be possible To be happy and sotisfied As winged I would be miserable.

220

ET IS NOT EASY

Et is not so easy To say no to the iove Tu escape without turning head back From this sweet sin (sour) And then to afraid from sight In the statement of broken piece- piece But your chappe lips Who will kiss as before Mornings under the sun and nights with the stars Then goods will boil under vains Long months sleepless And mornings come tired in my eyes I do notknow what to do with frustration of my soul And the shivering of my heart Do not leave me in of my silence Now neither nilly birthday to celebrate How much I will mlss you.

221

Lily Swarn (India)

Lily Swarn, multilingual poet, author and columnist is a gold medallist and University colour holder.She has written three books .Her novel The Gypsy Trail, was launched by the Governor of Punjab.She won the Reuel International Prize for Poetry 2016 and was recognised as Global Poet Encomium Of Peace and Universal Love,She was awarded Global Icon of Peace,and the Virtuoso Award . She was conferred with the Elizabeth Barrett Browning International Award at India World Poetry Festival in recognition of her contribution for World Literature and Promotion of World Peace and for her Legendary contributions in the field of Literature and Poetry in 2017 Lily has been honoured with" An Icon "award during the celebrations of 51 years of establishment of Chandigarh,International Diploma by Temirqazyq, the best writer of the world 2017,Poetic Galaxy 2018 award,Sarojini Naidu Award for excellence in Poetic composition and recitation ,Gold Double Cross award for the book ,Complexion Based Discriminations . Lily was awarded the trophy for being Woman Of Substance,Title of Meritorious Poet and Author 2017,The coveted "Frang Bardhi "International Poetry Contest awarded Lily with A Special Award for her exceptional work.Awarded Certificate OF Honour for delivering a disquisition on Metalanguage.World Directory of Literature , History, Art and Culture presented a Certificate that endorses the inclusion of the illustrious Lily Swarn for her recognised merits in the literary and cultural field . World Icon of Literature by International Higher Academic Council of English Literature and International Icon of Literature titles were bestowed upon her . Her poetry has been translated into 13 languages.She has been a radio show host in the US and compered many stage shows.

222

Diamonds !

Men may think it's a woman's last resort Little do they know what stern clay the apparently weaker sex are made of , The essential condensed emotion squeezed out Of those limpid pools of nectar is pure holy water No crocodile is ever acquainted with its potency The first freshly squashed drop of virginal dew Hovering inside the Kohl lined eyelids

The doe timidly fluttering her eyelashes is no simpering baby doll She is trying very hard to keep her liquid gold safely inside Willing desperately to stop it from spilling on terra firma Hearts that are statues of smoking stone Impervious to shows of such wimpish emotional outbursts Men roll their eyes , turn away and exclaim "not again !"

It's not a weapon ,it's not a ruse It's the violated 10 year old's suppressed sobs It's the abused wife's black and blue welts It's the war widow's bucketful It's the grief crazed mother's dead son

It's the end of the tether It's the height of a trauma It's the bursting of a rain suffused cloud It's the crashing of a crescendo It's a woman's tear drop

WHITHERSOEVER

Whithersoever this serpentine road leads me This cobbled street with mangy mongrels slinking away into dank corners

I shall stamp and strut on this catwalk whichever one has come to me as a gift I shall wear a badge of refinement with a sheer veil of Dacca muslin

223

It may not be in my destiny to wear one of French chiffon

Perhaps a musky garland of intoxicating jasmine Will shower its bounty on my bewildered aura

The Nile will paint my sari a brilliant turquoise as I steal a lilac orchid for my throbbing head

The Andes will not know my name as I live far away They will call out to me in velvet voiced endearments Till the valleys blush a coy peach

At coral break of dawn my sweven will nudge me awake with urgency It screeches out the hour of my final reckoning urging me to wind up my earthly business

I have some urgent work to finish ,I beg of you O Yama Let me go and get back my pile of dreams that lie beneath my pillow I have to feed the dog and my roses need watering I promise to follow you then wherever you take me ,docile as a lamb for slaughter .

The sun

A bruised sun Waded across the dismal azure Battered beyond recognition Scarred and disfigured Panting for life Asphyxiated with noxious fumes It's gold raiments tattered It's incandescent glow faded The sun smiled bravely Through the deadly haze He had to live on As the world depended on his Rays.

224

Lee Emmett (Australia)

I'm a 67 y.o. woman, and was born in the wheatfields of the Wimmera, and married a dairy famer cum engineer, Bern, from Gippsland (who died in 2006). We raised a son and a daughter (now adults) near Sherbrooke Forest, lived for a decade in Bayside, and I have returned to the hills of the Dandenong Ranges. I've worked in teaching, management, writing and publishing. I love nature, science, music, literature and contributing to community and political life. Most of all, I enjoy a widening and deepening circle of friendships. In 2011 I met Colin, who, amongst a wide range of interests is also a chef, restauranteur, mussel farmer and businessman from the Mornington Peninsula. We both enjoy the simple pleasures of life such as seeing our families, dining in (or out), walking along the beach, and travelling the world.

WIND AND RAIN (Onomatopoeia) westerly whips up waves sloshes, splashes on shore seagull winging bravely slipstreams, flaps some more rain patters and splatters drops, plops on windscreen meditative silence shatters fresh gust wakes from daydream.

225

INSECTS why am I viewing humans as insects? individuals, or collectives, whatever their sex turning a microscope on selfish behaviour can anyone hope to act as a saviour? large black ant emerges from nest stinging words hurt, worse than a pest in great numbers millions swarm like bees in hives, great cities form cruelty towards asylum seekers shown by our leaders their hearts are harder than any flesh-feeders dividing humanity into 'us' and 'them' creates wars, destruction and total mayhem ignoring all signals of climate change greedy corporates over planet range stripping our forests like ravenous locusts tycoons are driven by profit-lusts more poisonous by far than black widow spiders is desire for dominance of political power-riders compassion's abandoned, pestilence roams devouring our reason, threatening our homes when will we realise some forces are inelastic scorpions need real food, they can't live on plastic look to our future through insects' telescope if we kill natural resources, how will life cope?

GENTLE SOUND OF RAIN (Onomatopoeia) gentle sound of rain in puddles plopping pings metal corrugations dripping and dropping

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swishing and rushing gushing into gutters gurgling in down-pipes running water splutters pushing into crevices washing window-panes dashing down drive-ways flushing out drains splashing onto roads spatters parked cars forms scatter-patterns like pock-marked Mars crashing to crescendo as brassy cymbal's roar cacophony on roof deafening downpour.

RUNNING WATER (Onomatopoeia) water plops into pond splish-splash downhill warbling magpies in tree trilling, melodic thrill whoosh, passing breeze flags flutter and flap frog croaks, bird whistles babbling bubbles from tap.

227

Maram al-Masri (Syria – France)

Maram – a Franco-Syrian contemporary poet and writer, was born in Lattakia-Syria and moved to France in 1982 following the completion of English Literature studies at Damascus University. Today, Maram is completely dedicated to poetry, writing and translation. She considered one of the most renowned, influential and captivating feminine voice of her generation.. Maram’s poetry is appreciated by the critics of the Arab countries and is translated into several languages: French, German, English, Italian, Spanish, Serbian, Corsican, Turkish, … Participated in numerous international poetry festivals in France and abroad. Appointed Ambassador of the Secoure Populaire in France in 2014 Numerous new and old poems have appeared in various journals and were included in several anthologies of Arab & International Poetry

LITERATURE PRIZES AWARDS:

I have been awarded the following prizes: “Adonis Prize” of the Lebanese Cultural Forum for the best creative work in Arabic in 1998 “Premio Citta di Calopezzati” for the section “Poesie de la Mediterranee” “Prix d’Automne 2007” of the Societe des gens de letters

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Poem

-1

On the wall of the school's playground The word freedom was written in white chalk By small children's fingertips

On the walls of history Freedom has penned their names With blood

-2

One old woman came in to the Sultan She complained about his soldiers who stole her cows While she was sleeping The sultan said to her You should have stayed awake and watch over your cows And not to fell asleep She answered him I thought you are watching over us my lord So I have fell asleep

-3

I am a human being Not an animal Shouted citizen Ahmad abdul Wahab He filled television screens With his broken voice Like a captive who has escaped his jail He escapes Having broken the chains of fear and silence The veins in his neck bulge His eyes drown in anger

229

In his lifetime..he never read Belzak or Victor Hugo He knows not Lenis or Karl Marx

In that moment.. The ordinary citizen became Extraordinary.

-4

Selmieh ………………….selmieh They came out in the street while singing for peace With open chest and clean hands They sung peace

Freedom …….. Freedom They came out shouting ……… freedom With nude chest and hand carrying roses They sung freedom

Yes it is singing that makes the depth heart of fear shivers and the craw's mask fell down

-5

Have you seen him? He was carrying his child in his arms Walking in his path quickly His head held high His back straight

How this child could have been happy and proud To be carried thus in his father's arms If only he was alive.

230

Prof. Muhammad Shanazar (Pakistan)

Muhammad Shanazar is a poet from Pakistan, he is recipient of Universal Inspirational poet, World Icon of Peace, The International Best Translator 2012, 1st Four Stars Ambassador in the World, Naji Naaman Literary Laureate Prize 2015, Extraordinary Ambassador for Gratis Culture, Poet of the World, Cross for Peace, Cross for Literature, Pride of Pakistan, Herbert Macaulay Award, World Laureate in Literature 2017, Pride of the Globe, Literaurnost Gold Award, The World Best Poet 2017, Pride of the Globe 2017, Ambassador of Humanity, Poetic Galaxy Award, Ambassador of Justice and Peace, Ambassador De Literature, Connoisseur De Poetry 2018, one of The Best Six Writers of the World, recognized by UNESCO, Noble Star for Literature 2018, Global Literature Guardian Award 2018, The World’s Most Inspirational Award, World Icon of Literature, World Ambassador of Literature, Temirqazyq The Best Poet of The World 2018 and several others. He is life time member of IPTRC China and International Writer Association (IWA), USA, Senator World Parliament of Literature, Dean-Poetry Critic and Assessment at Motivational Strips Academy Of Literary Excellence and Wisdom. He had been the Secretary General of World Institute for Peace Nigeria and he had been 2nd Secretary General of World Union of Poets, Italy and the First Vice President World Nations Writers’ Union Kazakhtan, He has been conferred upon Honourary Doctorate in Peace and Humanitarian Education. He writes against war, his work has been published worldwide in different anthologies.

231

I Cry For You

When in winter, The sun beams come down from its source, Lacerating the heart of cold wind And they warm life of the earth, I cry for you.

When in the evening, the birds Return to their abodes, swarm by swarm, And I see an astray one struggling against the wind To reach others in the caravan. I cry for you.

When the roses bloom And their fragrance sojourns, In lanes and lawns of the village, And I ramble alone intoxicated, I cry for you.

When I stand on the bank of a brook, The birds dive skimming its water, And they craft ripples, The reflection of grass and trees glimmers, I cry for you.

When at the nights the full moon, Plays hide and seek, behind the clouds, And some clouds shape themselves, Into the form of lovers, embracing, clinging, I cry for you.

When at night after the rain, Gentle and soothing wind blows The electric lamps shine the wet green leaves, And they flutter musically, I cry for you.

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When any village girl, having on the head, A load of grass, passes by, Like a vibrant wave, caring least for bystander, I cry for you.

When in the dark moonless sky, Stars in the galaxy twinkle, At the distance of many light years, The distant star beyond the multitude Glimmers with faint dim light, Reminding me, my trivialness, I cry for you.

I the evening, when the sun sets, Tired, glowering, stares at me through the twilight, And I feel myself standing forlorn, On the brim dividing the day and the night, Cry for you.

When the straying wind blows at midnight, The autumn leaves rustle, The gusts of wind knock at my threshold, I get up confused, half hoped to open the door, On finding no one at door. I cry for you.

Adieu Two Thousand Eighteen

The pace of Time can’t not be blocked, It moves on Like an engine whose driver has slept since long, And the gigantic vehicle goes on and on Unhindered by its own accord.

You Two Thousand Eighteen! You came and went by normally, As other years came and went by, Now I ponder on my own role,

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And I am forlorn as I delivered nothing To humanity worth-mentioning, Except a few words of consolation, But I put into bag all that I have had A lot of love of my friends and my family, The real reward worth-relishing.

No enormous event I had to see, Except a few instances like Indonesian Tsunami, I had to lose a few dear ones before you departed, But neither I, nor you do bother the loss, For Death too is callous like you, She works her own, with the bung ears, And our cries do not disturb Her demeanour.

I see your last sun has descended down, The humanity stands In front of the entrance of 2019, Waits in the hush, the hush wrapped in gloam, Aspires for the brilliant dazzles of peace, Now darkness thickens, silences prevails, We hear nothing Except the muffled distant barks of a bitch, Though the sullen sounds reach my ears, Yet we have no time to look behind, The journey we have journeyed Through mountains, deserts and forest green, Adieu Two Thousand Eighteen.

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Margreet Schouwenaar (Netherland)

Since 1992, Margreet Schouwenaar (1955), poet from the Netherlands, has published 13 albums. Her collected works ‘Words put into Senses’ were published in 2016. As city poet, Schouwenaar wrote works inspired by the Dutch city of Alkmaar between 2009 and 2018. Schouwenaar is also a children’s books author. www.margreetschouwenaar.nl

MOTHER

The night when your light disappeared and I did not know where to find myself was the night when I had to write words that had never been said – about roads left behind, roads leading ahead, about that moment when you tore loose, the imprint of your absence. But the curtains were closed, your body was washed, and unseen were your eyes. No smile was left, no crack of light, no promise offering hope. What could I possibly do with words now time was no longer soft and tangible, now, now that every name seemed slaughtered, all encouters meant to be. Now that

235 every movement, every breath had proven to be finite. What would become of me now all was over, all surrendered to time without ado, but I still loved the world, every new birth, every being, every goodbye.

Do you remember the summer when I held your hand, your glance for someone else, your mouth, your moves; you let me go and I, five, slipped away into the ocean. The endless ocean, unknown streams pulling me. You did not notice. The outgoing tide rippling me along. In one flash, one moment in time, you finished my solitude by just one motion.

Can you do it again, now, where we are at a point where all is repeated, everything starts, so that we, we, will end up on the road, the road that leads to the house that no longer is?

NO LONGER AMAZED

As democracy screams no more, and humans are made into models for the eyes of the world, and models into humans, I am no longer amazed when mouths are lost in the stucco of yet another housing project.

People don’t walk alone anymore, hands folded on backs, staying there; happiness scales are stored in a safe and doves flying by, green twigs clasped in beaks. Curtains closed, land paved.

People no longer bloom, nor do they walk down the riverside to meet the only one, and just once in a while does one see a man or woman with hair freshly done, noses up against

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the window, staring, waiting for wings and sometimes thinking …. but then to realize: it is just a garbage bag, dancing to the breath of the wind.

I AM NOT HERE

I’m not alone, I see rummaging sparrows, a woman without a coat. I wonder what man would be without a hand of clothing. Thoughts of cold, no words, loneliness, sticking like band-aid on a wound that fails to heal. I am here in words, before and after; in language tending to the present, to a today, and to the sparrows, maybe closer, feathers meaningfully closed, yet without a coat, somewhat like me with two coats in a closet, one for summer, one for winter, and with some shoes in which I used to be. From how much fear is love created, from how much missing existence? Street calls echo. Sparrows lecture in my absence. What I see is a faded coat over worn shoes, and I am not there. It is my head that prattles, chirping for ground and wishing for hands to spread feathers. I am not there.

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Dr. Maria Miraglia (Italy)

Maria Miraglia was born and lives in Italy. She graduated in Foreign Languages and Literatures at the University of Bari, she got a Master Degree In Valuation from the same university, a Master Degree in "Modular Approach to the Teaching of English Language from the Uni3, Roma; a HLC from the Trinity College, Edinburgh; a Certification from the International House- Piccadilly, London. For long an active member of Amnesty International, member of Ican and of the Human Rights Observatory, she herself founder of World Foundation for Peace. Educationist, poet and translator, she is a founding member and literary director of the Italian Cultural Association P. Neruda, honorary member of Nationes Unidas de las Letras, member of the editorial office of Ourpoetry Archive, member of the Editorial Advisory Board of Sahitya Anand, president of La Organizacion Mundial de Trovadores. Dr Maria Miraglia is the author of several anthologies in Italian English or both languages, she collaborates for poetry with numerous national and international magazines. Her poems have been translated into more than 20 foreign languages and are featured in numerous anthologies. She is a recipient of several national and international awards.

PORCELAIN DOLL

You left one evening in August the rays of the moon tinged with clear reflections

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your long dark hair while from afar my gaze followed your lithe and familiar gait fluttered in the light puffs of the wind your thin dress

You never looked back your slow but sure pace towards your tomorrow and I already felt nostalgia of your black eyes pearls of distant and unknown seas of our nights of love full of vanished promises in the sweet air of a summer evening

Maybe I'll wonder over time whether you ever really loved me why you wanted to be with me just for a short stretch of your life to leave me indifferent to my loneliness

I will never understand your silences

Beautiful as a porcelain doll far and cold in front of the fire that burned me inside that you wanted to stifle without a word turning your back on the rise of new dawns together and like a shadow fade away

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A NIGHTINGALE

I met a little bird one day slowly walking in a meadow his head bent on the grass lazily chirping A strange scene I said to myself and stayed there curious looking at him Both his wings were snapped and sadly often he glanced at the sky where flocks of nightingales were happily flying together forming large circles and spirals on the background of the light blue just dyed of white clouds I approached the bird picked him up in my hands talked to him and said I would have taken care of his broken wings he'd have soon come back to fly and so I did So much time has gone by and I cannot say how or why but he still stays with me sweetly singing among the trees tops of my garden.

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Milica Jeftimijević Lilić (Serbia)

Milica Jeftimijević Lilić has published many collections of poems, a collection of shortv stories, and a book of essyas on literature. Her poems have been translated into many languages, among which into Russian, Italian, English, Arabian, Hungarian, Turkish, Bulgarian, Romany, Slovakian etc. She has won many literary awards both at home and abroad. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia, a member of “Number seven” Association of Writers in Frankfurt. She is an expert adviser to Italian International Council for Diplomacy and Justice.

ONLY YESTERDAY

Only yesterday you could have knocked at the door And it would have opened to you. You could have sent An olive branch through a pigeon And the white flag would have fluttered And the rainbow would have smiled miraculously After the storm. You could have sent the news through a wind In order to wake up the sleeping orchids And everything would have shone with beauty.

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You could have done it if you had known That the moment of hesitation is irretievable When we are turned backwards Captured by yesterday's shadow And that tomorrow's Sun will wipe off Its contours and that nothing dark Will stand in the way Ton the fast river of forgetfulness Out of which everyone comes with a new face Beaming with new dreams And no one will recognize anyone. If only you had been aware of the importance of the moment of hesitation, If only your resolve had not Succumbed to hesitation.

THE VIBRATION OF REMOTE SHADOWS

Within me there is an incomprehensible distance Closer than anything intimate, Antiquity closer than anything of this age That living nerve of eternity Vibrates within me awaken By the sound close to my mind And I am repeatedly met by distant landscapes Filled up with light Intimate shadows dance in them Calling me to their circle And rhythm and sound are close To my heart too, To the miraculous game of spirit attracting me there Perhaps their regions Were my home once.

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ULYSSES' CONFESSION

When I set eyes on you, It was the first rainy day That I experienced as a sunny one. After that on many rainy days That life used to bring (Then I could not know That it was the moment for a dream) I returned that rainy day, Absorbing the Sun's shine from your face In order to be able to proceed.

Aware that I could have you Only in that moment of a short living dream (Like a far-away star that is remembered) I did not dare to extend my arms, To utter anything Fearing my presumptuous wish.

Later on, all suppressed words Suffocated in my throat, Their hush simply killed me While you were more and more remote, And I missed more and more The Sun's shine from your face And never more in my life There flashed generous rains So brilliantly and uniquely.

Translated into English by Lazar Macura

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Michela Zanarella (Italy)

Michela Zanarella was born in Cittadella (PD) in 1980. Since 2007 she lives and works in Rome. She published the following collections of poetry: Credo (2006), Risvegli (2008), Vita, infinito, paradisi (2009), Sensualità (2011), Meditazioni al femminile (2012), L'estetica dell'oltre (2013), Le identità del cielo (2013), Tragicamente rosso (2015), Le parole accanto (2017), L'esigenza del silenzio (2018), Meditations in the feminine (2018). In Romania it came out in a bilingual edition the collection "Coincidenze d'immenso" (2015). She is author of fiction and texts for theater. Her poems have been translated into English, French, Arabic, Spanish, Romanian, Serbian, greek, Portuguese, Hindi and Japanese. She has got the Creativity Prize at the International Prize Naji Naaman's 2016. She is ambassador for culture and represents Italy in Lebanon for the Foundation Naji Naaman. Corresponding member of the Academy Cosentina, founded in 1511 by Aulo Giano Parrasio. She works in international relations for EMUI EuroMed University. She is the President of the Italian Network for the Euro-mediterranean Dialogue.

***

It is the experience of silence that teaches the eyes to talk about love. The gaze on the lips and learn to recognize language of the soul that marches heart-beating under the sun

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climbing on tiptoe towards a time that is going to fall in love of the truths pronounced from the sky.

***

Silences have joined and we have learned to belong to us where the eyes know how to collect the sun. Love revolves around us and his signs they are a passage of light on the forehead a flash that warms the blood the air that has the exact shape of a horizon to breathe.

***

Count the tears in this time where the rights learn to die like fables behind the swings. It clings in silence dignity as a truth that goes out in the fence of a frost which does not go back. The dawns fall, stumble promises and life bleeds in a world already wounded enough which continues to dirty footsteps to deceive days.

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Michael Lee Johnson (USA)

Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1042 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 1 Best of the Net 2018. 171 poetry videos are now on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCNQ4oRHf8Zz0TOc-9zr3Q9w. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: the Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.

Old Men Walk Funny

Old men walk funny with shadows and time eating at their heels. Pediatric walkers, prostate exams, bend over, then most die. They grow poor, leave their grocery list at home, and forget their social security checks bank account numbers, dwell on whether they wear dentures, uppers or lowers; did they put their underwear on? They can’t remember where they put down their glasses, did they drop them on memory lane U.S. Route 66? Was it watermelon wine or drive in movies they forgot their virginity in? Hammered late evenings alone bottle up Mogen David wine madness

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mixed with diet 7-Up, all moving parts squeak and crack in unison. At night, they scream in silent dreams no one else hears, they are flapping jaws sexual exchange with monarch butterfly wings. Old men walk funny to the barbershop with gray hair, no hair; sagging pants to physical therapy. They pray for sunflowers above their graves, a plot that bears their name with a poem. They purchase their burial plots, pennies in a jar for years, beggar’s price for a deceased wife. Proverb: in this end, everything that was long at one time is now passive, or cut short. Ignore us old moonshiners, or poets that walk funny, “they aren’t hurting anyone anymore.”

Just Because, Bad Heart

Just because I am old do not tumble me dry. Toss me away with those unused Wheat pennies, Buffalo nickels, and Mercury dimes in those pickle jars in the basement. Do not bleach my dark memories Salvation Army my clothes to the poor because I died. Do not retire me leave me a factory pension in dust to history alone. Save my unfinished poems refuse to toss them into the unpolished alleyways of exile rusty trash barrows just outside my window, just because I am old. Do not create more spare images, adverbs or adjectives than you need to bury me with. Do not stand over my grave, weep, pouring a bottle of Old Crow bourbon whiskey without asking permission if it can go through your kidney’s first. When under stone sod I shall rise and go out in my soft slippers in cold rain dread no danger, pick yellow daffodils, learn to spit up echoes of words

247 bow fiddle me up a northern Spring storm. Do you bad heart, see in pine box of wood, just because I got old.

Canadian Seasons Exiled Poet

Walking across the seasons in exile in worn out house slippers, summer in Alberta prairies- snowshoes, cross-country skiing winter in Edmonton, Alberta. I’m man captured in Canadian wilderness, North Saskatchewan River. I embrace winters of this north call them mercy killers. Exiled now 10 years here I turn rain into thunder, days into loneliness, recuperate loss relationships into memories. I’m warrior of the trade of isolation, crucifier of seasons hang torment on their limbs. Ever changing words shifting pain to palette fall colors and art. I’m tiring of Gestalt therapy, being In and Out the Garbage Pail. I’m no longer an Aristotelian philosopher seeking catharsis. My Jesus is in a vodka bottle soaked with lime, lemon juice and disco dancing. Pardon amnesty I’m heading south beneath border back to USA- to revise the old poems and the new, create the last anthology, open then close the last chapter, collected works before the big black box. I’m no longer peripatetic, seasons past.

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Maki Starfield (Japan)

Maki Starfield was born in Ehime, 1972. She earned her Master of Arts from Sophia University, and then got the diploma of International business management (post graduate) with Honors from Niagara College and the certificate of TESOL from St.George International College in Canada, and Doctor of Confucianism from Lanzi Confucian Academy in Hong Kong on December of 2018. She has recently been performing as a painter as well as a poet. She participated in Design Festa Vol.40 in Tokyo Big Site in 2014 and recently contemporary art exhibitions. She is a member of Japan Universal Poets Association.

The Phantom's Shadow

The day when shadows are born

I had the question, “I wonder if that shadow affects people.”

Television, magazines, movies, Also photographs, pictures, cartoons, even written characters— Are they all shadows?

Shadows live in a two-dimensional plane

(For human beings in three dimensions, It is funny to say that shadows are culture and civilization)

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I will be surprised Other people laughed and replied, "Our development is the power of science"

To compensate for the shadow culture We are made to live like robots The reality of many people is controlled in the future as well They will fall to the world of things

Civilization and culture are a mirage in history Do not enter into the darkness of the shadow Look at the shadow's light

One thousand frogs

1 Today I saw one thousand frogs They came nearby me I'm falling in my sorrow.

2 They were sure that you would come. Divine journey.

3 They are all sad. Yes, all one thousand of them dressed in mourning.

4 They were happy to baptize you with love, to give you the song.

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5 No! I don't cry But if not, is it their croaking that makes me blue?

6 My sweet frog, my rose petal, ---am I already dead?

7 This is life. But your charm reminds me of my promise.

8 Fate sometimes swallows darkness, too and rejects it.

9 Japan is far away, but your scent lives even in my eyes.

10 It will be autumn when we can meet together. The thousand frogs are all calling to you, to you!

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Mirjana Stakić (Serbia)

Mirjana M. Stakić was born in Vladičin Han (Serbia) in 1973. She graduated from the University of Prištini Faculty of Philology and defended her PhD thesis in didactics and methodology at the Teachers' Training Faculty in Užice. She works as the docent for Serbian Language and Literature and Teaching Methods of Serbian Language and Literature at the Faculty of Pedagogy in Užice (University of Kragujevac). She is engaged in literary and scientific work. She has published more than seventy papers in the field of literature and literary criticism and participated in over forty scientific conferences and meetings, both domestic and international. She writes poetry and prose and has won two valuable literary awards for her poetic efforts. She was a long-time member of the editorial board, as well as the editor-in- chief of the literary magazine Međaj. She is a member of the editorial board of the journal Učitelj and Proceedings of the Faculty of Teacher Education in Prizren – Leposavić. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia, permanent member of the Matica srpska and winner Prize for the contribution of Literature Rosetta world literature – (21. 09. 2017. in Istanbul).

If You Take Me to the River

If you take me to the river, make sure that it’s a rainy day, let the sky be like Penelope’s eye,

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deep blue dreams buried deep inside. If you take me to the river, make sure that not a single ray is spilled, let the azure vault be like a weeping eye of the Ithacan princess whose delicate fingers have outmatched the darkness. Above the water, branches of a timid birch gracefully dance caressing the wave which dies in an instant like a magic cloth stolen by the night. If you take me to the river, I will cast a spell on nature and herbs so I could be your only light. Remember me as such, glistening and naked, wind in my hair while I kiss frothy waves with birches, granddaughter of the Ithacan princess and sister of all poemweavers weaving dreams from threads of imagination.

To Nest

To nest unnested trampled into dust, in vanity defeated,

253 mercy crushed. And implant it into those dormant fatigued hopeless dejected and grief-hardened.

To replant the withered, in flame extinguished, in grief shrunken, and uprooted mercy of man. And embed it into arogant blinded by pride power seekers, lost and vanity-riddled. And to hang golden beads like ducats, or towers of whispers upon their chest, those nameless celestial denizens, beacons of ceturies. To thaw all those frozen, chilled and petrified hermits, bereft of love.

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MESUT ŞENOL (Turkey)

Graduated from the Political Science Faculty of the Ankara University. Earned his Master’s Degree in Public Administration and Public Relations. Served as District Governor, Vice-Governor and Mayor in various regions of Turkey. Worked as an editor at the Directorate General for Press and Information, and produced and presented programs for TRT and some private TV channels. Served as Prime Ministry’s PR Division Head and Prime Ministry Advisor responsible for international Institutions and Organizations. His five poetry collections were published, and many of his poetry and literary translations appeared in many national and foreign literary publications and anthologies. A freelance translator and instructor on public relations, communications, public speaking and voluntarism. Attended in a number of national and international poetry and literary festivals in the country and abroad, and acting as an organizer for some of them. An Honour Prize laureate of Naji Naaman’s Literary Prizes 2011. Mr. Senol is a member of many national and international professional organizations. He sits on the Executive Board of the Three Seas (Baltic Sea, Black Sea and the Mediterranean Sea) Writers and Translators Council headquartered in Rhodes to serve for three years. He teaches at the Communications Faculty of Bahçeşehir University in Istanbul.

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THE MORNING DEW For Maria and Hava

The Morning dew dropped on the hills of poetry The peasant lives of nice words blessed and prolonged The times of inexplicable remarks left behind Heavens opened their gates to the visitors of humanity

Souls of the delicate got shivered for a loving story Dining table turned over on the upper skies Direct link to the branches of an extraordinary life A winter symphony started playing its supernatural tunes

The morning dew fell on the heads of the couples Having wandered in deserts and seen many mirages They were about to cross the motherly fantastic dimensions It seemed as if a drop of the morning dew changed the world.

ALL TIMES NOT FORGOTTEN

It does not come from conventional text books The peasant and the urban dweller feel the same Living close to the land brings out harvest time Cotton crop finds its way to the hands of city folks Though both wipe their tears with the same piece Sorrow bundles together hurt hearts of lovers Life style does not make somebody a total mess It is time to reflect to see what was so awesome Somebody pulled away from a dinner table We were cool on those days weren’t we? Somebody had put their game face sometimes Now puzzle pieces are falling in the right place Isn’t it time to make a move to avoid a disaster? You and I can’t be helped for sure for some time We are not hiding at all from the biting facts Deep in our souls we still wonder about some trails Is it a mirage or you are a shadowy figure haunting me I’ve reflect every now and then on timeless memories In my head all times not forgotten believe me.

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FOR MY CAT

She sits there looking at me like a soft ball Watching for an opportunity to snuggle With her gorgeous eyes in the dark She charts her way via most skilled move Her silk appearance would swell Or is it a genuine silk when I touch her hair? She plunges into the bed the way a small kid does Putting her head on the pillow enviously There you have a kitten with a child’s spirit Lots of pleasure from the coyly and naughty of the house Competing with the most adept acrobats Hunchbacked and carries 7 lives on it Stretches like a rubber band and jumps in the air My cat is nothing but a delight Her temperament and character merged with mine I have a look at her when I get bored And I feel relaxed as I caress her Again my eyes are filled My lovely kitten lived in this world And bid farewell to it My words here tells about her Now I see her image in every cat When I am alone I shed tears for my eternal feline companion.

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Maja Herman-Sekulić (Serbia – USA)

Maja Herman-Sekulić is an internationally published Serbian-American author of 15 books. She is an acclaimed poet, popular novelist, distinguished essayist, bilingual scholar, and a major translator. She is also a Princeton Ph.D. in Comparative Literature who taught at the most prestigious universities such as Princeton, Rutgers, and was a guest lecturer at Harvard, Yale, Columbia and Iowa. Among prestigious awards and recognitions, she most recently received a special award for Affirmation of the Serbian Literature in the World. Her novel Ma Belle, now in English translation, was just nominated for the 2018 internarnational Dublin literary award. It was also nominated in 2016 for the most prestigious Serbian literary award as were her 2 previous novels. Her Tesla biography in English Who was Nikola Tesla? The Genius who gave us Light, and her selected poems in a bilingual English-French e- edition, De La Terre de Desolation/Out of the Waste Land came out in 2015, and along with the long poem Lady of Vincha publishedl in 2017 mark a major return to her origins in poetry. Maja Herman Sekulić is a contributing editor for major magazines and a world traveler. Born in Belgrade, where she studied World literature, she spent last decade of the last century in the Far East and now shares her time between New York and Belgrade. She is a member of the Serbian and American PEN, Serbian Association of Writers and American Poetry Academy.

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Tesla and I

On top of the world I in the poet's tower up up there in the gray sky letting my thought out singing in full voice it is all rock and roll it is all in those blades of grass on the Bryant Park lawn where Nikola Tesla fed his beloved white dove she then flew to him to the stone tower landed on the edge of the New Yorker Hotel window sill up up there in the clouds on the 33rd floor in the garret where they wed among the stone faced griffons as witnesses where I dwell now Among narrow gothic walls Encircling his ascetic bed trying to get into his head to write a sonnet about how he tamed Niagara falls how he lit the first electric city how he discovered magnetic waves and about the earth energy and the eternity he knew writing the great American ode reciting it with gusle as if it were a Serbian epic poem about how he ended up here

259 the wizard isolated and forgotten although he changed the world we live in his world lives in my poem.

The Grand Plan

The train moves on from Penn station it takes me to Princeton over and over again Ivy League that is the plan what is theh plan I knew three American Poet Laureates personally two of them loved me but it is not the grand plan I will write one day as soon as I resolve enigma of the ducks swimming with new ducklings in my fountain every spring every early spring in the city love is the only plan.

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Maria Kobets (Republic of Belarus)

Poet, interpreter, editor, journalist, deputy Chairman of the Minsk Regional Branch of the Writers' Union of Belarus. Author of three poetry collections, participant of a number of collective collections, member of the Writers' Union of Belarus, member of the Union of Writers of the Union State, laureate of the Literature Prize named after Vladimir Kolesnik. Selected poems of Mary have been translated into Azerbaijani, Albanian, English, Balkar, Bashkir, Bengali, Italian, Spanish, Kazakh, Chinese, Malay, German, Dutch, Polish, Romanian, Russian, Serbian, Slovenian, Taiwan, Turkmen, Turkish, Ukrainian, Urdu, Punjabi, Hindi, Croatian, Chechen, Chuvash language.

The Letter To Our Saviour

Saviour! Will I be able to recognize Your silhouette, if Your figure becomes blurred in elusive prospect of the horizon?

Saviour! Will I be able to find Your path, if your steps are swept away by dry winds of ages in the endless desert? Saviour!

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If the witnesses of Your suffering ̶ the bloody prints on the cloth ̶ disappear from the Holy Shroud, will people be able to realize the pain which you overcame for them?

Our Father! My well is dried up, the sandals are worn down, the hands are tired of begging, the shoulders barely hold the burden of my cross and the body is almost not able to follow You on water.

Our Father! My cheeks are burning ̶ victory flags of my offenders are fluttering. Still… Have mercy on them! Have mercy on me and my sons! Have mercy on people who are still betraying You!

Bless my face with salty moisture of repentance, hands are desperately counting the beads of Rosary, and the lips are whispering: “Lord, have mercy! Lord, have mercy! Lord, have mercy!”

... Jesus! I know that You hear me...

The creature

What do you see, a creature, blinded by the yellow and red glitter of gold? Colors of land?.. No!.. Your only color – is yellow-red! Sunrise and sunset?.. Can you see them?

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Your only sun – is cold metal, which has finally ruined your eyesight! ...So, why are you silent? Can you hear?.. And what you hear, a creature, having been stunned by the tinkling of coppers? A beautiful singing of birds in the evenings? No!.. Sacral sounds of the temples in the village? Of course not! How can you hear what you have never heard, the creature, which was born in the cold glare of coppers. Deaf!.. Blind!.. Insensitive!.. Dirty creature which was born to bring death on Earth!..

The Sun

Oh, оnly the Sun knows the pathway to the nest of the Firebird. It hides this way very safe and reliable. It hides this way from spontaneous searchers. Tired from hard way, Only the one from hundreds of thousands finds this way Among millions of false shelters. He finds It and stays at His Holiness, he stays cleared for always. May be I hadn`t enough power in my legs, I hadn`t much eyesight, hearing or much mind to overcome this way. That`s why today I swallow poisonous smell of strange hair. I join in with the crowd the same people as me. I narrowly withstand the clear – I am among the leftover hundreds of thousands.

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Mattie Goedegebuur (Netherland)

Mattie Goedegebuur is teacher/educator, Spakenburg, the Netherlands. She was born in Vlissingen, the Netherlands. Her inspiration is often found in the various emotions people experience. Mattie often recites her work in the Netherlands and in Australia. Her work is published in five poetry books (a sixth is expected to be published in 2019) and Mattie’s poetry is widely published in magazines and anthologies. Three of her short stories have been published in collection books (two other stories will be published in 2019)

A Summer Day wet drops nourish the soggy land which fuzzily resists to the sun they cause a soft frame for my sleepy face red wisps above the horizon indicate early surrender of morning mist in sunshine like my silky hair the delicate morning sun shines on translucent young green colorful and cheerful vulnerable

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like your young doe the languid afternoonsun smells like satisfaction and arranges wild purple chicory and hay as a soft boar nest the sinking red evening glow looks back pleased to a summer day filled with sunshine and love heartfelt warmth between you and me

Pearls the sky is equal to humanity we both consist of 70% of water like all people in the world I look to the sky, it feels safe like gazing into deep blue eyes sometimes it pours on me it weeps on my shoulders so while I look at its clouds let me embrace the sky so heavenly tears meet me when we stand eye in eye and I am partly cloudy too

Open book

If you were a braille book, what I could read, I would feel every letter with my fingertips, I would understand your being, I would know you without stopping. You seem to be more like my writing: full of spots and a stain of the erase through the drift which will cover all your mistakes

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Mbizo Chirasha (Zimbabwe)

MBIZO CHIRASHA is certified as a Global Literary Influencer by Directorio Mundial de Escritores through Academia Mundial de Literatura, Historia, Arte y Cultura. Recipient of PEN Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant (2017) Literary Arts Projects Curator, Writer in Residence, Blogs Publisher, Arts for Human Rights/Peace Activism Catalyst, Social Media Publicist and Internationally Anthologized Writer, 2017 African Partner of the International Human Rights Arts Festival Exiled in Africa Program in New York.2017 Grantee of the EU- Horn of Africa Defend Human Rights Defenders Protection Fund. Resident Curator of 100 Thousand Poets for Peace-Zimbabwe, Originator of Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement. African Contributor to the Table of Words Demer Press International Poetry anthology edited by Hannie Rouweler in Netherlands. Solidarity Member of Global Alliance for Politics and Arts. African Participant to the 2014-2020 World Poetry Almanac Anthologies series in Mongolia edited by Hadaa Sendoo. Co-Editor of German Africa Bilingual Collection with German International Translator Andreas Weiland in 2016 (http://www.street-voice.de/SV7/SVissue7.html). 2003 Zimbabwean Young literary Delegate to the Goteborg International Book Fair Sweden ( presented at Nordic Africa institute, Swedish Writers union , SIDA Diplomatic luncheon , Radio Dialogue , Swedish International library Association , Sweden National Education Summit).2009 Poet in residence of ICACD ,international Conference of Africa Culture and Development courtesy of African Culture Development Institute. Founder of the GIRLCHILDCREATIVITY PROJECT. Curator of MIOMBOPUBLISHING, and PERSONALITIES OF INSPIRATION, personalitiesofinspiration.wordpress.com. www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mbizo_Chirasha

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MAYIBUYE!

Sing Africa. Sing the song of the Sharpeville massacre. Sing mayibuye, sing Uhuru na ujamaah. Sing of fearless Kimathi. Djembe drumming for Sankofa. Sing Tambo, Biko and Madiba’s Nkosi sikelela. The continua struggle is the villagers’ song. Cities belching gutter dreams, daughters clutching, blistered Media, weeping flags, empty bodies trudging through dozing villages. Mothers and fathers restrain their tears, withering hearts bandaged by anthems. Sing your struggle Africa!

CHILDREN OF SANKARA!

Children of sankara! Bathing in the river of salt, poetry and song Beautiful children of a fat revolution, revolution that roasted colonial fungi in the summer song Shadows of sankara and Lumumba sharing rich patriotic coconut in fields of Upper Volta See, juju borrowing your salt to cook the beetroot of another struggle, Gambia singing your song. Abacha, walking naked drunk with booze and blood Sarowiwa dancing with virgins in the Eden of Biafra Son of Uhuru hunting wisdom in the deepest of Timbuktu caves Childen of Sankara, I dreamt of fire burning the social fingers of the state, Sing songs of the country to repent puppies and puppets.

Dimples of freedom sing with me, the song of freedom, Sing Bello, sing azikiwe, sing awolowo, and sing shehu Song of the people, people and their song.

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DIMPLES OF HAITI

Haiti, the stink of sweat smelling millet slavery and the scent of blood revolutions Slapped in the face with sanctions mud by hands under the influence of imperialistic alcohol, a superconcotion of propaganda maize porridge and media yeast Waterfalls of anger washing away your freedom dimples Handmaidens and mental epileptic waiters serving political syphilis in ideological cafes Children smelling stale ideological urine and dirt diplomatic cocaine Identities condomised with donor culture and sexual myopia Baboons eating colors of your flag, munching apples of your freedom Tongues kissing bottom streams of the state under the veil of democracy gospel Haiti, my pen is a weapon of mass instruction, I see the spreading yellow york of the sun , gently falling over the darkness of your skin, yawning off the old skin of dust, Regaining the lost richness of your dimples.

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Milena Vukoje Stamenkovic (Serbia)

Milena Vukoje Stamenkovic is a journalist,writer and translator. She was born in Serbia but she living for more than 25 years in Switzerland. She writes poetry and stories. She published several poetry and story books. She is a member of the Serbian writer`s society ( UKS) and the Swiss writer`s society (AdS). She lives and works in Bern.

RELEVATION

I feel silence Under the window There are steps I open the door to a person unknown I count the twilights Ready to leave I write it down No. I am making a command „ Do not think. Forget your head Happiness needs nothing But- space and freedom.“

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DREAMS

Oh, my love Last night I dreamt that I disappeared While the third eye Pulsates on my forehead The sun and the moon Walk hand in hand Along the edge of our bed I saw Myself floating A yard above the bed All in white Wrapped in white I did not have the time To get scared The time had sipped Through my fingers And there was darkness Darkness My love.

A POET

Waiting for Godot the poet Had forgotten about the word Only his eyes were showing All that depth Inside them

Yearning fort the unknown He went down Into the bank on the other side Of himself The word ( itself) Unspoken

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Is deeper than anything else Cried out the poet

No one heard the scream Only the chosen ones were able to Feel it coming.

SILENCE

I no longer speak with the wind I stopped whispering to him He no longer embraces me He is lying Doesn`t stop by Coldness resonates from his bones A conversation sleeps forgotten Bringing snow

For me and for him Roads covered with snow Our cloud sleeps Behind the moon His shirt fades away I close the window.

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Mountassir Aziz (Morocco)

Mountassir Aziz, born in Casablanca, Morocco on March 30, 1961, is a globally focused poet who has committed his writings to the betterment of humanity and peace. He presently lives in the north of the Kingdom of Morocco with his wife and their son. Aziz has dedicated thirty years of his life teaching about the modern-day renewal of poetry and the transformation of the traditional Arabic language structure. He says that there is traditional poetry, modern poetry and then, precious poetry. The poet has received three honorary doctorates and high honors due to his literary work and service to humanity. The World Federation of Goodwill Ambassadors has recognized his significance with a Certificate of Goodwill Ambassador from Morocco. He passionately devotes his global acclaim to serve as a humanist and humanitarian leader and an ambassador of creativity and peace. Aziz has been an invitee to a large number of cultural conferences and international poetry festivals in Spain, Tunisia and Egypt. Mountassir has 4 poetry collections in Arabic: The Sad Melody, Play Waiting, Double Play and Pain and Scratches on the Waiting Face. As Much as Fancy Comes Reproaching is the title of his new poetry work, which is in print. His poems have been translated into various languages, including Amazigh, French, Spanish, Italian, English and Japanese. Mario Rigli, a renowned Italian poet and painter, has translated some of his poems and sang it as a musical composition together with the well-known Italian composer, Fabio Martoglio. President of international forum of creativity and humanity .

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Talk

The pens of the geniuses Mozart’s melodies Marcel’s solos and Shakespeare’s poems talked to me about love and about the time that has passed about the density of darkness and the vending of peace about the naked shame that has melted the candles caused the flowers to shrivel besieged me with misery sent security to void and let bodies fall victim to the yellowness of autumn and storms of winter They talked to me about the streams of blood to placate evils among the nations of jasmine about oppression and dreams in the age of gallows and punishment

The rustling of my alphabets is a nap for doves virgin parks not yet pollinated living the ecstasy of desires Their eyes see impurities Their tongue talk of beauty.

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FLOWER OF YOUR TIME

I am the flower of your time Don’ t let me In the hand of the sellers Keep me in the vase of your heart My fragrance is your love And my color is your dress My thorns are your guards Don’ t let me In the harsh hands Emprison me In the cage of your chest Water me .. I’ m planting in you My thirst for life You’ re my ancient dream I flirt with you In my nightmares I erase the fog Off your beauty And ,with my thorn bouquet , I make a fort to protect you I bury your sorrow In Automn pools And I transform your tear Into dew For you ‘re A wonderful dream You’ re childhood’ s innocence You ‘re a prayer ‘s purity.

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Mariko Sumikura (Japan)

Poet, Essayist, Translator

Mariko Sumikura born on August 18,1952, in Kyoto, Japan She graduated from Faculty of Humannity, Department of Letters, Ritsumeikan University (1973), obtained BA (Himanitics) She worked in Kyoto University(1973- 2008), International Center for Japanese Studies(1998-2000), and Research Institute for Humanity and Nature (2003-2006), mainly charge for International relashion. After early retirement (2009), she organized Japan Universal Poets Asssociation with Germain Droogenbroodt, Milan Richter, and Takashi Arima as a director. The debute on international magazines is e-journal “Offender” (New York State University, College of Arberta) as “Offender” “Dew””Opal”. #17, 2004, U.S.A.“Wadi,Festoon,Phoenix,Sagara,SpringFestival,Gitarist,Clove, Kaleidoscope, To Sakura, Tsubaki, Ave Maria”anul ⅩⅠⅩ, Revista Apostrof, Romania, 2007 http://www.albany.edu/offcourse/ The debute on publication is “Kokoro Kaoru Hito” (2008)(Chikurinkan Publishing House, Japan) Current Status Chair of Board, Japan Universal Poets Association Publication Prose: “Kokoro Kaoru Hito”(2008), “Yume Tsumugu Hito” (2009), “Hikari Oru Hito”(2009), “Ai Matou Hito (2010), “Tsuchi Daku Masurao”(2011) in Japanese from Chikurinkan Pubishing House, Osaka, Japan “Duet of Flowers” co- authored with Hanane Aad, “Duet of Forests” co-authored with Gabriel Rosenstock, “Duet of Formula” co-authored with Laura Garavaglia, “Duet of Doves” co-authored with Tatjana Debeljaski. Essays: Maria Zambrano (2018, Junpa Books) in Japanese (partially in English)

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Cross Section of the Heart

A big gray stone was displayed in a show window It was cut in half

I saw the section and held my breath That seems to be a warped annular ring Beautiful colors stacked densely and sparsely

The layers are blue-green gradations There are some ivory rings There are also red purple rings

It is the section Which I will not be tired of Forever

And here Walking quietly is An elder poetess

In her heart Thick layers of words Might be piling up

I am sure that I saw the section of The poet’s heart

Love as strange equation

Even a simple equation Must have a solution.

If existence is assumed As being a fixed number When time and the depth of the love are assumed

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A coefficient

The left side is closed by a parenthesis With a transient dream and an inner conflict The right side isn't closed within a parenthesis With strong will and invariable existence

Why are both sides equal?

As I have expected, love is strange equation.

Great Blue

In free diving When descending vertically The legend has a limit

Still, he established a record: Went deeper by a mere millimeter Longer by one second

"It was exquisite that beautiful blue I saw at the moment I almost lose consciousness."

He said It was a great blue

Can I say to somebody that I also saw this great blue in the depth of love?

Sunlight though did not reach The boundary between Life and death.

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Mandour Saleh Hikel (Egypt)

Poet, Mandour Saleh Hikel from Egypt. started as a lyrics writer , in early 80’s , for Egyptian rock band Called , No! ( 1982 : 1984 ) .Later he stopped for quite some time , before resuming his writing in 1999., till now . He gives his highest priority to Anti- war, Anti-violence poems that are always evocative and moving, He published two albums ( Engraving on walls of silence in January 2018 , and Love is like Arabesque with the Polish poetess Alicja Kuberska , in 2017 ) , and many other scattered poems in different international anthologies ( and sites …Such as : International Multilingual Poetry Anthology Amaravati Poetic Prism , atunispoetry, Inner child… Love is like Air ,Poetry Train …..) .

The Inners

I passed the world outer gate… Few years away.. From the children laughs. The first inner of me Was heavyhearted Cocooned inside out Then.. swaying.. In random tracks As if to keep a part .. From the gate .. From the children laughs. Case diagnostic.. UNCHARTED

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While the other me... Still an inner … YET.... Was playing .. To touch the children laughs And praying .. To pass the gates And get back . Safe Alone.. Where no other me No chaffy half. A truce... That’s what I need To bring peace .. For my inners .. My heart My mind A little peace of mind.. YES… A little peace of mind Amen.

Smell Of The Rain

I smell the rain I watch in reverence Its affectionate impulses That takes me far away Away from all my fears Fear of living Among blind hearted humans.

I inhale the smell of the rain I love it…

It overwhelms me with passion

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Reads me a poem That dwells peacefully and safely In your eyes My eyes Without permission From our hearts Keeping my secret In heart of … A single rain drop.

OUR DISTANT HEARTBEATS ( Inspired by HER smile …)

My heart has just started The countdown To the most sentimental distant NON-SPOKEN SENTIMENTAL SIGNALS … The world has ever known Mutual transfer heartbeats Harmonized…

By your SMILING smile Gently flowing… back and forth As Cupid, Meant it to be I need not, to say nothing When our one heart … Started to tweet Like a happy warbling bird Flying high and free Pacifying…

Tenderly and softly The flame… Of our longing’ hearts heat.

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Margaret Kowalewska (Poland)

The poetess of love and the master weaver of soft dreams. She was born in Warsaw, Poland. Now residing in Vancouver, BC. Her poetic creations appear in the following anthology books: Ballads Of Our Lives, In Between Days, The Falling Rain, From The Mountain Top, Immortal Verses, Between Darkness And Light, Poetic Christmas, I Am A Woman, Flame, Flame II, Mosaic Heart, Butterfly Love, New Generation Of Poets. The Inventives Magazine included her poem: “Where Colours Became Music” and Literary Polish Magazine Aha: “Without Farwell”. Vancouver based, The New Agora Magazine published her prayer to “Waters Of Oceans, Rivers And Lakes” after Fukushima’s radioactive spill in Japan. Also printed her “Magnolia Dance”, love poem inspired by spring in Vancouver. Her poem “Open Your Arms To The Universe”, is being used for inspirations in healing circles. She received the Editor’s Choice Award for writing about the battle between the good and the evil. For her poems, she received 53 on-line awards and won the first prize in poetry reciting contest in Toronto for the “Bridge Of Avignon”. .

Veiled in pearls

From the whispers of the wind, memories stream Do you remember the time when we were dancing our first dream?

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Moonlight gleaming in your eyes Pounding hearts, diamond tiaras glistening in a mystical sky, twirling in our sighs

I am drinking champagne of night Can you hold me the same way again? I know that each moment cannot be alike but magic remains alive

The night is playing our song! If we only open ourselves more and sense allure flowing in our veins

Listen closely to the sultry breeze Dance with me blending scent with scent Feelings are not lost yet My pulsation spills on your chest

Let’s be still for a while Glossing in your eyes, the drops of pearls.. I feel you .my beloved.. In your soul, I dwell

Dancing behind your closed eyelids

I am your whisper born in your dreams You can hear my music in the wind

I am your whisper echoing in ocean waves I am the song of longing trees

My whispers brushing your lips burning with kiss of eternity

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When you close your eyes I am dancing behind your eyelids where is dark I am your only light

I am an elusive dream but you can catch me when you touch my soul I will surrender helpless to your vibrations of the cosmic flow

Muse

Her body veiled with the aura of night The beam of celestial stream reaches her with trance

Inspired by divinity of stars Musing in the melting ice of the milky way’s gate Elusive as the blue butterfly, she touches the pen of a poet and lets it bloom with divine spray

***

When blue ice turns to red lava, the flower loses his mind drunk with the scent of a butterfly.

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Miodrag Jakšić Mića (Serbia)

Miodrag Jaksic - Mica was born in 1969 in Belgrade, Serbia. He is the founder and editor-in-chief of the Art Group and publishing house “Arte” which consists of more than 300 artists from around the world. He is the initiator and organiser of the International Art Colony in Krcedin (since 2007), International Belgrade songwriter Festival (since 2014) and International literary festival Indjija PRO POET (since 2017). He is the founder and organiser of the colonies in Temisvar, Bajzas, in Istra, on Pag, on Rtanj. As an architect, he has made more than 200 projects, analyses and studies. As a writer he has published 18 books and is represented in anthologies and textbooks. His works have been translated into more then 20 languages. As a publisher and editor he has published more then 190 books and publications and 16 LPs. As a journalist he has written more then 1000 articles, reportages, travelogues and feuilletons for domestic and foreign magazines, and has run radio shows. As a designer he has designed several logos, packagings, books, publications etc. He was an Assistant and Deputy Minister in the Government of the Republic Serbia and MP in the Serbian Parliament. For his work he has received many awards, both home and abroad. He is a prezident Center for serbian diaspora, board member of the Association of Writers of Serbia, Red Star FC, the Union of Composers, the Independent Association of Journalists of Serbia and Maria Sharapova Fan Club. He lives and works in Belegrade.

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ONE’S OWN POSITION IN THE SKY

With the thought that you accomplish me with a perfect creation you unnoticeably entered my dreams. I’m glad. We connect the incompatible, by a light gesture of hand, invisible thread of the lit dreamology. We sow. By the balance of pleasure and restlessness. By the balance of blossomed will. The harmony from field grasses and urban smog. Like, unstable, this summer is. Originating from as far back as the Old World. Sprung. By dreaming you reinforce you position in the sky. By dreaming you draw away from life. By participation of the spirit, in dreams, you find your goal. You are like all others, truly. Women I love. Even when you don’t recall your dreams, you keep the feeling of dreaminess. You know whether you are warm or cold. You feel dreams, always. In the part between the body and soul, in the inter-step with them, dreams have arranged their volume. They made time easier for you. They filled in the space for you and filled you with themselves. As such. As you don’t normally believe dreams.

SPRING IS COMING AGAIN

Spring is coming again. You will change your perfume and travel to Lisbon or Istanbul, expecting for gold to run over you. New hope brings new feelings and you believe Baudelaire’s poems again and his love for the mulatto Jeanne Duval. You will no longer feel the need for Nescafe. Ever stronger you will face your own prejudices. You will return to your yoga teacher, and you will, convinced that clothes impede meeting one’s self,

285 practice it completely naked. Not really committed, you will persist in doing it, persist... Regardless if you need a partner or not. You will think about piercing you genitalia. By consent you will sleep with several partners to find out what you wish and want. Reasons why relationships have to be kept secret you will not want to know. You will not tweet. You will love yourself. You will not reject feelings of happiness. You will love yourself. You will be dying in dreams, exist in reality, and love yourself. To make your day, you will buy the most ordinary small items. Not really believing him who suggested you to change your looks, you will start wearing even shorter dresses. You will mock those with breast implants and make albums taking your own photos. Spring is coming again. Yes, try with something new!

BY DISTORTED PRIDE

You were thinking for a long time and asking yourself, Gathering answers, unreliable due to hesitation, clothed in self-assurance what to tell him. You are convinced how everyone knows that all you say in multi-layered, woven from numerous dominant speculations, wrapped in lucidity of quantum logics, typical of beautiful women who you never doubt in. You are aware of the power of suggestibility. This way, convincing, you play with male weaknesses, dance with madness on the verge of decomposition. Yet, this time, again, something is not the way it should be, therefore you are asking yourself... When you tell him: I love you. He agrees with you. When you tell him: I’m leaving. He lets you go. When you don’t tell him anything, he takes you to bed. Are words then really necessary

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if you don’t want to have sex with him at all? I have to replace him then, it comes to you, one way or another he isn’t bothered by trivial female flaws. Tears, fake orgasms, gossiping. Remember... you. You are never doubtful, even when you don’t wear make-up. Your beauty feeds you. There is nothing unnatural on you. You are protected by a little carnation, your natural oral antiseptic. Like with all others. You don’t need large black glasses. In such moments you can rely on the clarity of sparkling eye. You can think with the help of experiences. This part of you will never let you down. Find somebody else, then, who will, for this reason, fall on his knees before you. And when you depart, you don’t hesitate. You march along the avenue of woman courage, like a female jaguar, from club to club, you rock, without redundant substances and opiates by effort into whole to unify complex inequalities you will try to find a new answer to an eternal question: Is there conception without sin? Walking is never completely covered by the travelled path. This you are aware of, continuously. By distorted pride, like memories, you will carry the smell of a new man’s sweat on your skin. In your cleavage, between breasts, you will put a goodbye letter for the ex, to be given to him the next day. Don’t finish it by a text message. A curse will fall on you. Illuminated by a torch, a little flame of unrest will be kindled in you. The complexity of what you are experiencing at the moment foretells a turbulent future. Your hormones are raging, due to spring, more than a teenage girl’s. Yet, I only wish you set the things right and broke up with him.

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Mariela Cordero (Venezuela)

Mariela Cordero, Venezuela. A Lawyer, poet, writer and visual artist. Third Prize of Poetry Alejandra Pizarnik Argentina (2014). First Prize at the Second Ibero- American Poetry Contest Euler Granda, Ecuador (2015). Second Prize of Poetry Concorso Letterario Internazionale Bilingüe Tracceperlameta Edizioni, Italy (2015) Micropoemas Prize in Spanish of the III contest TRANSPalabr @RTE 2015, Spain. First Place in International Poetry Contest Hispanic Poets mention of literary quality, Spain 2016.

Your Body Or a Distant Country

The maps as a fragile truce, are made of scattered atoms. To reach your boundaries and touch your skin I must discover The burning zones and the shortcuts of the random.

The lubricious compass will expel me to the center of the anointed war of love.

I will arrive to lose myself between the sacredness and the whirlwind.

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The ancient spiral of desire still devouring pulsations.

The heart is an arrow and a target. Your body is a distant country.

The White Tremor

Today we can tremble we can whisper all the pain of waiting and narrate how we drank the ocean To find us

Before living in this white room Were we just a number on this sleep-walking land?

Now we are a city that vibrates with laughter with the heart in the hands and our breaths very close.

We can not believe that today we can tremble one inside of the other.

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Monsif Beroual (Morocco)

He was born in Rabat, Morocco, on October 19th, 1994. He studied a Licence in Public Law at Sidi Mohammed Ben Adlallah University in Taza, Morocco. Multi awarded and renowned poet. A star of Peace by Poetry Canada 2018. Winner of the prize – Pablo Neruda medal award 2017. Recipient of the Pentasi B. World International Poetry Award in Africa, Ghana 2016 and Pentasi B. World Hyderabad Poetry Award, India 2017. Director of Morocco at the International Writers Capital Literature Foundation established in India. He has been appointed Director of Youth in Morocco. Co - Organizer in the International Festival of Cultural Diplomacy and Humanitarian Poetry, fifth edition at Rabat, Salé, Morocco 2018. Editor of the Anthology: Feelings International Artists Society, Vol. II. His poems have been translated into Spanish, French, Chinese, Polish and Arabic; read them on radio programs in: Canada, Chicago, Argentina and Mexico. His poems have been published in different international journals and anthologies around the world.

My holly muse

Our life is like a song Writing by gold In every word Filled of joy We are in love Like spring's season Fully of beauty She is my muse The ink of love fills my heart Word after word Made by gold Carried by wind Whispers in my ears

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Rock my heart Shaking my soul Burns, burns, with the fire of love Burning us Dancing under the moon’s light Reaching the skies The seven skies There's no limit For our love Is infinity love As the space and time Endless Cause she is My holly muse My living poem And my heaven gift.

COUNTING THE WORDS

We fill the poem With so much words Love, hope and God And we close the book after We inspire them through our words Our poetic lines and sometimes is normal.

A letter for humanity For generation But after we close the book And we turn the page to fill other page With words and nothing else just words Without deeds or change Only to count the books we wrote.

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VERY TIME

Every breath from my soul Every dream can be real, Love makes us feel better Even we are sad or feeling low. From the first sight of her angel's face Upon her face a sweet smile I'm in deep love I wanna keep her reflection in my mind, In my dreams without touching her. I wanna keep her in my sight forever Like the soul in my body. She's my drug She makes me feel high, So high without limits Without endless. She's my drug Like the happiness in my blood She's my cure of the pains. My eyes addicted to her eyes She is the love… Without a temple!

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Margaret O'Driscoll (Irland)

Margaret O'Driscoll is an Irish poet who has been published widely internationally. Many of her pieces have been translated into several languages. Her first collection of poetry was published in 2016, titled, 'The Best Things In Life Are Free'.

Ice Storm

Severe weather warning on the news Sagging power lines, repair crews Glazed branches on the trees Icicles hang from the balconies Traffic slows down to a crawl Shoppers edge along the wall Cold wind blows, the sky is dark Branches strewn across the park A child is pulled along in a sled Hurrying home, early to bed

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Locked In a Lovers Bond

She felt the sway of the bridge the second highest one in the land She wasn't fazed by sway or height because he held her hand

He clasped a lock onto the rail as a bond of everlasting love Tossed the key in the river as they looked down from high above

Together they crossed to the forest in Gagarin Park beyond Floating in zero gravity locked in a lover's bond

On A Cliff Top

Pink tufts of thrift on the cliff face A razorbill sits on it's nest Below waves crash in a cave I sit down for a rest

A balmy sea breeze on the cliff top Rock doves nest in the scree Fulmers fly overhead It's great to feel happy and free.

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Muhammad Azram ( Pakistan)

Poet and Author Muhammad Azram hails from Pakistan. He is Professionally a IT Pogrammer and Web Developer. He has emerged in the world of literature with no formal institutional background in literature, yet he stands firm on the ground of art and literature. He cultivates his zest throughout his flowing ideas into ever fertile soils of poetry, seeking to feel so deeply to connect within life’s inner dialogues and monologues. His literary work and books continue to be published widely and his poems reside in numerous international anthologies and magazines. His selected work has been translated into Albanian, Spanish, French, Serbian, Italian, Arabic and other international languages. He is member of Number of literary organizations and representing Pakistan. He is conferred with international Awards and literary honors by various International Literary Organizations.

THE CURIOSITY

What will happen? And when will that happen? It will not be new and unknown To me, to you and to nature Life is packed with Philosophy of emanation And irrepressible radiation A series of process

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Before the every beginning There is an inimitable beginning And After every ending There is another exclusive end Life is miraculously bonded With broken chains Beginning after beginning Termination of termination; There to be broken and busted There is nothing alike Yet there is nothing different Same process and identical creation There is a difference Yet there is no alikeness And unmatchable difference in alikeness Nothing is new to know Yet the entire is unknown and undiscovered.

SPELLBOUND

Spruced in time Amid and surrounded By net of moments

Shirking a moment For a moment or covet Fleeing from jaws of time

And marvel on the trend Death of moment results Death rendezvous with time Take life into vastness

What will happen? Will it be a pleasure or treasure? When I will break a net of these moments And flee myself from nets of time

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Succession will surely Take me out of the existence Of reason and wobbly presence, and Take me into vast lands of cosmic fortitude

And failure will honor me The unchanged divine mortality That relentlessly honors me philosophy Of transformation to a undying eternity.

THE WHOLENESS

Aside me or escape me And endow your incidence Devoid of my presence

Neither I am complete Nor you: O my addressees And neither what is Living Within and around me

Nothing is complete Neither the face of nature Complete without you Nor world is perfect without me

[I] neither completes Without [You] as bystander And without having a witness of me You are completely blind sighted Without having me as spottiness

Completeness is not wholeness Wholeness is relative; not absoluteness Completeness is in richness; and opulence The fullness, the entireness, the wholeness.

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Miranda Shehu-Xhilaga (Albania)

Miranda Xhilaga is a physician (Tirana University), a scientist (PhD, Monash University) and an Adjunct Associate Professor (Deakin University), living in Melbourne, Australia, since 1995. She has a passion for writing and translating poetry form Albanian in English and vice versa and is a strong believer that translation, as an art between tongues, has the capacity to raise awareness about another culture, its people, their perception of life and beauty. She is the author of (This Pain is Mine), a collection of original poems published in Albanian (Albas Publishing, 2019) and translator of Bantam, an anthology of Albanian verse, published by Austin Macauley Publishers, London. Her original and translated poetry has appeared in many periodicals such as Illz and dedicated on line literary websites such as Atunis and FEKT (Fund for Cultural education and Heritage).

ON REFLECTION

The little girl skating on ice With her chin up and head too high And the fear of tripping deep in her heart In her snow-white dress and her perfect moves Eager to please and scared to lose the life game? She's me. The mother with a baby in her arms

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With tears of joy down her face And the fear of failing to love well With her dripping breasts and her uncombed hair Scared of becoming less (for him) She's me. The woman with silver hair Looking ahead where the road ends Dreading the chilly and lonely nights In her little nighty, with shaking hands Knitting a pair of woollen gloves? She's me. But see that porch with two brown chairs With a little table and half-filled goblets A yellow book and a nightingale that sings and often stays a while? That's where I sit with you and smile…

LOVE IN MY TERMS

The day has come... There is coffee on the kitchen table Toast and honey on the plate And half of an orange. And then, then comes that kiss on my forehead... The day has come Just like that...

TIME

You want to stay. Then stay.

You want to go Then go.

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You want to stay now and go later. Stay a while and then go.

You want to go and perhaps come back. Tulip season ends They won’t breathe then…

INSOMNIA

People don’t sleep for different reasons:

The hungry, from pain The overfed, from pain Lovers, from pain The jealous, from pain The ignored, from pain The sick, from pain The wounded, from pain The mad, from pain Losers from pain. The displaced, from pain The pained, from pain…and it just goes on.

People don’t sleep for different reasons.

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Miroslava Ramírez (Mexico)

Is a Mexican poetess from Xalapa Veracruz, a biologist and teacher of upper secondary education. Her first poetry book "Transmutation", edited by Chiado at Spain is part of a Brief History of the concrete Literature of Iberoamerican Authors, Chiado Spain publishing house. She collaborates in different literary and cultural publications. Participated in different forums and presentations throughout the country.

WHAT I WANT TO BE

I want to be the wind To rocks the stems whispering Soft and silent murmurs In your slight abyss. A night of a full moon, Leaning on the balcony of the stars While love sleeps confident, Unaware to the spell of the stars. But my dark side wakes up Like a wolf subjugated by the moon Attacking the calm harmony Of the serene night Where my lips find A beautiful case that keep them.

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The notion of being the missing piece To your destination, The howling of the wolf in our determined Arena of combat. I want to be that case To your exact measurement. The promise that when it is found It becomes wild joy. That wolf dwelling within you.

AROMAS OF NORTHERN LIGHTS

Sometimes the atmosphere fills us With aromas of hope as rhymes of new whispers. Air filling our lungs of fantasy And magnolias waving their corollas in the breeze.

Saturated night with perfumes, a distant song It nests in the soul as the cradle of swallows.

This night taken by assault, among stitches Of stars sewed to the mantle of emptiness. Darkness absorbs your fingerprints In the immense cold of nothing. Space without moon.

I regret the stars and the moons Spent in vain with your words without time.

The music of the cosmos resounds in the air. Comets in the firmament of time Flows of my flickering love, not dirty ice. Luminous energy transcends To your deep and frozen abyss.

And the harmony of the universe, cadence Rhythm, the laws of stellar dances Accompany my luminous and vast flow. To the beat of Kepler dancing with the stars.

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It was not a mistake Have lived at the edge of sidereal fragments. You, like antimatter in your empty life, You will never know the immensity You did not even perceive.

But the nightly ballad rocks my heart Amid flashes of lunar dust and rain of stars.

Incipient bursts, barely premonitions of reason. Perfumes of silent and beautiful flowers Under the absorbed mantle, so far out from reach... A song emerges from the depths of the shadows As omens of northern lights,

In polar waves of sidereal lights and currents, Safe on land... Daughter of the cosmos and comets.

Translated by: Alicia Minjarez

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Ndue Ukaj (Kosova)

Ndue Ukaj (1977) is an Albanian writer, publicist and literary critic. His poems has been included in several anthologies of poetry, in Albanian, and other languages. He has published several books, including “Godo is not coming”, which won the national award for best book of poetry published in 2010 in Kosovo. He has also won the award for best poems in the International Poetry Festival in Macedonia and another prize. His poems and texts are translated into English, Spanish, Italian, Romanian, Finnish, Swedish, Turkish and Chinese. Ukaj is member of Swedish PEN.

Laura’s Sunday

In her city there is a ruined cathedral in the midst of ruins its choir is missing and there is an “Ave Maria” song. On the road edges, stones relieve pain only the choir traces are together with dry flower bouquets There are many dogs, and trash.

There is a large piano without its proper place. In her city there is a ruined cathedral longing for bells’ sounds to awaken her she wears a beautiful dress, whispers Ave Maria in solitude.

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She has a sweet voice, every Sunday she goes into the ruins, talks with stones, with flowers that do not blossom, she goes easy through ruins and wipes her happy eyes without trying the voice in a choir.

It is Sunday and her delighted eye is resting. She sings Ave Maria in solitude. With an eraser of love she erases the invoice which time has left behind while gathering her hands over her pretty breasts, in silence she opens up a new page and writes a senseless verse.

It is Sunday she is awakened while dreaming a love temple and song sounds. Ave Maria is alive! and waits for nature to become prettier, the same as a flower, prettier with all its beauty, waits to join the choir of life. She walks over the ruins of the cathedral and lights a candle. Her pretty knees touch the solid stone.

Godo Is Here

It is night, the storm is going mad Your wet body is shaking from the heavy rain Under the tree of life while waiting for Godo. The reception has transformed you into a modern statue. Where the lonely birds and night crows have their life nests. Your solitude is crouching as a tied sneak Between which the poisonous tongue is vitalized. Suddenly is heard an energetic beating, you did not hear it. Your ears are closed from the warms climbing over your body. Climbing just as the old man in front of the law on Kafka’s story. Waiting to enter in the mysteries of law, I am sorry, I meant mysteries of Godo.

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To understand the mystery of absurdity in equal level With those of dehumanization. My God, Godo is here, with his confusing look and his torn sack, With lost desires during the long road of return Under the tree of life where you waited endlessly. You did not recognize him, He returned with a different face which you never imagined. With the tired voice you had never heard, With the turbulent vision you had seen. Sadness astounded your body. The warms are falling down from your body which is transformed into waiting. Sadly you grabbed the spoiled head, and run through his sack While searching your dried dreams just as the autumn leafs Through which the drunk feet are walking And your tears started falling in your neck and cheek You felt in the arms of sadness Welcomed him just as the bride waiting for the groom in the abandoned bed, While dreaming with open arms to have nearby the sack full of dreams Where softly you place your hands, just as in the lovely hair…relaxing there And begging for your dream, intertwined in your long fingers. And while wiping your forehead you understand Tthat Godo arrived and your wait remained an endless wait.

Translated from Albanian by Peter Tase

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Neşe Yaşın (Cyprus – Turkey)

Neşe Yaşın was born in 1959 in Cyprus. She is a poet well known and read on both sides of divided Cyprus. She studied Sociology at Middle East Technical University in Ankara. She is currently teaching language and literature at the Turkish Studies department of University of Cyprus, writing weekly columns for Yenidüzen newspaper (Cyprus). She has published eight volumes of poetry Hyacinth and Narcissus (1979), Tears of Wars (1980), Doors (1992), The Moon is Made of Love (2000), Chambers of Memory (2005 ) Selected poems (2008), Chilling Birds (2016), Rose Falling Into Night (2017) one novel ‚Secret History of Sad Girls (2002) and a research book, Remembering through Poetry (2013). Selections from her poetry has been translated to more than 30 languages, published in literary magazines and anthologies in several countries. She has participated in poetry festivals and readings around the world. Among others she has received the Anthias Pierides Award in 1998.

MEMORY OF THE ROSE

The winds of forgetfulness erase the footprints of time a person is at most a gaze and a secret held in that gaze

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A great memory is a great forgetting the sorrow of the candle melting at night the lie that lives till evening prayers the soul in flames

Was that us were we there or not

I search your eyes for the ghosts of memory

You’re silent silence is thirst among the gardens of the heart every story is untrue when told by another

I wrote a history our history the withered rose only remembers the moment it was cut from the branch.

PENELOPE

The footprints of the visible are traced in the gaze of others from the gates of grief to the eyes of time

In memory’s secret room forbidden hours kiss the clouds the early autumn of tiny pleasures

How tattered now the words moaning in the well of the soul

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However tight your embrace so much it pinches the flesh however far you burn so much is the ash however warm the room of love so much the cold outside

There is no Ithaca don’t come back

The woman in waiting vanished long ago in the silence of other women.

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Nikollë Loka (Albania)

Nikolla Loka was born in Sang of Mirdita on March 25, 1960. After graduating for the teacher at the High Education Institute "Luigj Gurakuqi" Shkodër in 1983, he started working as a as a teacher, education inspector and school principal in Mirdita and in Tirana, where he deals also with journalism: editor in the “Politika” newspaper, political analyst in national dailies: "Albania", "Express", "Balkan" etc. Currently he is the Executive Director of the Institute of Albanian Studies "Gjon Gazulli" based in Tirana. Nikollë has published poetic cycles in various newspapers and in electronic portals in Albanian, Italian, English, French, Romanian, Swedish etc. He is author of six poetic volumes: “People who grow old in the crossroads”, 1998; “Violated time” 1999; “Far from the Homeland”, 2001; “A Rainbow Arch”, 2013; “Next Time" 2015; “Overnight pass without permission” 2017, winner of the "Din Mehmeti" award for the best poetry book in the XXXIV poetical rally, organized by the Literary Club "Gjon Nikolla Kazazi" Gjakova. Nikollë Loka has been a Jury member at the International Poetical Festival "Veliero", held at Cirò Marine - Calabria of Italy in 2017. He is a member of several associations and clubs of Albanian writers.

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Beyond time... beyond this time that flows and vanishes, beyond today that becomes yesterday, beyond tomorrow that ages under our very eyes, beyond this hour that releases a pollen of sentiments, beyond this minute that vibrates dreamy waltzes, beyond the sky-blue seconds of our hearts, beyond this attraction that descends into our arteries and dissolves, it is subjective time that stops at point zero. A dream that repeats itself punctually, day after day.

My feelings

My feelings, a rush of air that suffocates in your time. A nomadic morning vision. a rose spoiled by sin.

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my feelings are recluses behind castles of words, they come out of your mirror to go away… And in distant shady areas behind empty skies, a muse is wounded in her soul.

My memories

My memories, like orphaned doves in eternal flight. Like nocturnal dust that is sprinkled on fountains of thought, lost moments carried away by waves, so my subconscious flows like a river…

The past, reduced to little, becomes foam. In a scream that returns to me, into my ageless heart, and it says… You will not dare forget me!

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Nassira Nezzar (Algeria)

Nassira Nezzar, a writer & poetess from Guelma –Algeria- She taught English language at the university of May 8th 1945 Guelma and at the National Institute For Vocational Training...She adores writing since young age. Nassira Nezzar has a published work, a book entitled: FAMILIAR STRANGERS , which is a collaboration work with the American author Rob McBride, it’s dedicated to all who believe possible the impossible She participated in different international anthologies, Love is like air-USA-, The Other Side Of The Screen-Poland-, Women Poets -within and beyond shores Vol 1-2 &3-India-, Whispers of Soflay, Verses on Racism, Resistance and Refugee Crisis –India-, Metafora Współczesności –Poland-Thousand poems to the peace and happiness of humanity –Chile- , Family -Chile-, Antholgy of Contemporary world poetry –Belgium-, participation in an international anthology against Racism.-international anthology-Love Postcards, ..Qué pasa contigo Venzuela? –Chile. Nassira Nezzar has her own poems on Youtube and has collaborative poems with the American author John WordSlinger .She recited different poems in different languages: Arabic, English, French, Spanish, Italian, Turkish. Her website: www.wordsocean.wordpress.com

A Sudden Call

Hello! Hello! Who is with me ? I'm the yearning that drives people into madness.

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I'm the cheeks on which you drew happiness I'm the dreams that without you become senseless.

OMG! How could I behave with this call! Should I look at the light outside Or keep contemplating the room's walls!

Oh Man! I'm the heart that carries hapless love Try to be my salvation.. I'm the eyes that carry tears Try to be my consolation I'm the wings that carry half freedom Try to be my destination..

I'm silent, I don't dare to breathe I'm trembled, I don't dare to tell how I feel My soul held captive in grief So why are you calling? What has made you so compelling?

Hello, Hello... Do you hear me? Oh yeah! I do.. I'm just listening to you.. thinking how the blissful dreams come true.. Thinking.. how the contradictions in one heart grew.. Thinking in the moment when Angels come to play A time of peace..of love..of blessing A time of closing eyes and praying..

I know that they utter your name as “A call” But I say You’re a thought in very beautiful way.. You kissed my heart with :”the lips of remembrance”.

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The Farsthest I’ve Gone

My ears were fixed on the sound made by your heartbeats. My eyes were fixed on the pride built on your eyelids My feeling climbed with blissful heights of love Looking above.. Searching the pinnacle of your heart..

The farthest I’ve gone with you Your love delved into my soul deeply You were whispering: I’m the joy that covers your sadness.. I’m the peace that covers your frightfulness I’m the small embrace in which you find vastness I’m you and the farthest you’ve gone to my heart You’ll discover many things and « ME »

The farthest I've gone with you had shown me things I can't construe.. The farthest I've gone with you the sweetest bridge I've walked through .. The farthest I've gone with you I would like to redo it and start new.. The farthest I've gone with you time flies in it by fast.. We lived the moment without care of the future or the past.

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Nasim Basiri (Iran)

Nasim Basiri is an Iranian poet and activist from Borazjan in the south of Iran. She currently lives in the United States where she studies Women, Gender and Sexuality Studies at Oregon State University. Nasim’s poetry and other literary works depict the suffering of humans, political and gendered violence and address the injustices associated with marginalization and global apartheid experienced by people in the Third World and the Middle East in particular. She has received several international awards for her literary and human rights activism in different countries across the globe. Nasim is currently working on her research work as well as preparing a poetry collection for publication.

She’s a Dangerous Feminist

Dismiss her Fail her Hide her Silence her Suffocate her

She knows what we did to them She knows all about their sufferings She’s a dangerous feminist.

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A Tsunami of Anger rising waves of violence and indignation moved us by great forces to sail in an ocean of sorrow and despair

The sharp edges of our grief waves will bloom one day to cause a tsunami of anger and write wondrous stories of liberation.

Throwing Up she brings her sick body to the hospital and throws up the school and a gloomy teacher buried under his pimping books and throws up the philosophy of being and throws up the philosophy of dying dear doctors ! dear nurses ! there’s a medical need that needs to be addressed right now She throws up things never written.

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Middle East is bleeding Bleeding Bleeding Middle East is an ocean of blood Middle East is bleeding Middle East is bleeding Middle East is bleeding.

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Osman Öztürk (Turkey)

Osman Öztürk was born in 1957 in Giresun. He served for long years at various departments of the Directorate General of Security of the Turkish Interior Ministry holding high level positions. He also worked at the Turkish embassies in the Washington D.C. and Paris. In Turkey Osman Öztürk held the Office of Provincial Security Director in Rize, Tunceli and Kırşehir. In 2007 he published his poetry collection called “BAKRAÇ-THE BUCKET”, and it was followed respectively by the publications of “TAFLAN MEVSİMİ-THE SEASON OF CHERRY LAUREL“, “EKSİK SAYFA-THE MISSING PAGE“,“GÜZ YALNIZLIĞI-THE AUTUMN LONELINESS“and “O KADAR YEŞİLDİN O KADAR MAVİ- YOU WERE MUCH OF THE GREEN AS WELL AS THE BLUE”. In his boks of “SOMMERBLAU (YAZ MAVİSİ)” published in Hamburg, Germany in 5 languages and “ISLAND (ADA) published in Belgrade, Serbia in Serbian language, Osman Öztürk expresses his feelings ranging from love to loneliness, from joy to sorrow and the different circumstances of a human being. He is able to reflect the genuineness of the folk culture via his lines in a pure and clear fashion. Osman Öztürk published by now 20 books in different subjects.

Did You Hide it at Your Heart

Did you hide this flame of love at your heart Why didn’t you tell me anything, look the years passed without you Did you assume that this September sun would not set All seasons come and gone full with sorrow

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Don’t you have any dreams in your misty eyes How much was my soul suffering in those deserted nights Tell me whose last kiss was on your lips Did you hide this flame of love at your heart

Nothing is Endless

Nothing is endless, there would be time Everything ends Every wound heals, one day every pain is alleviated Whomever loses in this life does walk out There is much time until tomorrow, let us live the moment

Nothing is the same as it appears in this life I lived through so many things, nobody knows about it I love you so much but reunion is not up to me There is much time until tomorrow, let us live the moment

Remember Me One Day

Remember me one day by the solitary coast Like a cedar tree holding on to a rock I mark time all alone under the stars The gulls cry in the night like the rain pours

We used to daydream as we watch the sunset We would have embraced the night like a love-struck lover Now what we have is just a sprinkle of nostalgia The gulls cry in the night like the rain pours

Every life has got a spring and a September Like the falling leaves departing from you What is life being nothing but a moment you lived The gulls cry in the night like the rain pours

English Translation by Mesut Şenol

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Olta Totoni (Albania)

Olta Totoni is a British Studies Researcher. She studied British and American Studies at the University of Tirana. She specialized in Intercultural Language and Communication. She has published three cycles of poetry. She is also a writer of short stories. Some of her short stories are “Spider Letters” , “The Raven”, “The Storm”, “Dear Centaur”, “The House of the Artist”, “Stockholm’s Syndrome” published in different literary newspapers. She has written many articles related to culture, politics, English language and most of them have to do with British and American studies. Her articles are published in the Balkans, the US, Canada, Mexico, Belgium, France etc. She is the author of the book “Diary of the Time” (a collection of articles published in newspapers and magazines). She has translated excerpts from British literature and gives a good contribution in this field.

A farewell to the tramp

The sun is wearing the gray costume, It is chasing the tramp, full darkness, only a thread of light.

He raises his head up, looking at the sky,

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While the people down, walk and run. Doing gestures in vain, without sense, just chasing the sun.

Walking together in the same streets, stepping in the same stones, broken pieces of words, broken pieces of worlds.

Mirage of the earthly dessert, where the dust arises from the ground. It takes forward everything, it finds. No breathing, no light.

Today, the town is dead. Silently, the moon hurts the darkness. In the corner of the street, the tramp is passing away.. He is seeing around himself, the fog prevents his sway.

Now, his past is just a vague memory. The tramp is not wandering through the streets. He is not going anywhere. Down the cathedral, he was in his world. He was staying there.

Today, I did not see him, he passed away, Death in the dead town, the tramp is far away.

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Dante’s Paradise

Purgatory, people are waiting in the doorsteps, trembling hearts in the search of the unknown.

The big, front gate opens. Can you hear that noise? The knock on that wooden gate, it’s definitely God’s choice.

An old man was standing by like an hermetic statue, Observing the light, coming from that déjà vu.

Through light and darkness, suffering and happiness, unmerciful old man, waiting there, hopeless.

After the gate, People were dancing and laughing, happy people of the eternal life. It was worth their fighting.

In the Inferno, people were in the flames Suffering their sins, cursing the days they were born. Painful screams of Dante’s bliss.

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Pushmaotee Fowdur Subrun (Mauritius)

Pushmaotee Fowdur Subrun was born in 1949 in Mauritius. She pursued higher studies in Delhi University where she graduated in English. For the past forty-five years she has worked in secondary schools, seven years of which she spent in Masvingo, Zimbabwe, teaching English in an army school. She completed her PGCE at the Mauritius Institute of Education. After her retirement, she was a member of the Council of the University of Mauritius for three years. She is currently a reader and editor in the Ministry of Arts and Culture. She is the author of: ‘Ella’- a novel, ‘Who is Your Best Friend?’- a play and ‘Short Stories and Fables’- a compilation of stories and Fables Her poems have featured in prestigious online literary magazines such as ‘Setu e zine’, ‘Poetry and Creativity’, ‘Atunis Poetry’ and ‘Destiny Poets’. Her poems have featured in prestigious online literary magazines such as ‘Setu e zine’, ‘Poetry and Creativity’, ‘Atunis Poetry’ and ‘Destiny Poets’. In November 2018, she was invited as a poet delegate from Mauritius at the 4th International Multilingual Poets Meet in Vijayawada, Andhra Pradesh, India. Her poem now features in Multilingual Poetry Anthology of Amaravati Poetic Prism 2018.

When Life is not Coming up Roses

When life is not coming up roses Why not find beauty in the weeds? Why not find the hidden beauty in the meads? Why not give yourself another chance?

Why not cast just another glance? Plenty of opportunities might be ahead,

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To try instead Of wasting your energy in being discouraged,

And looking crestfallen and dejected. If nothing comes up, realize That the rose plants, thorns materialize To protect them from any invader Bent to be their destroyer.

Youth and Old Age

Youth is light-footed, Light spirited, Springs up with health, And spontaneous happiness, Like the brilliant sun in weather cloudless.

Age means having to bear a heavy weight And walk with slower steps, with countless ailments, Age is planned or organised happiness, And even though on vacation, ever serious, The mind wrought by a thousand uncertainties.

Age does not simply provide for children, But can contribute more to society, Can support charitable institutions, Financially, morally And intellectually.

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Roger Nupie (Belgium)

"Roger Nupie's poetry works as a tonic", J. Omblets wrote concerning “Ivoren Weemoed”, his poetry debut. Other publications: “Niets is aanweziger dan”, “Zo verander je van lichaam” “Abrikozen voor Ali”, “Lichthaus/Lighthouse” (a trilingual edition: Dutch, English, German) & “Versteend, verstild”. He prefers to cooperate with visual artists and perform live with other partners in crime. He was included in the 2018 edition of “World Poetry Almanac”, published in Mongolia. www.hetstillepand.be/nupie_roger.html

KILLING US

A postcard: palm trees, bright-coloured houses, sun & sea. On the back: my father has received the last rites and we are just waiting for his final moment/breath. The waiting is killing us.

An e-mail: father has departed this life. After a protracted illness he passed away yesterday

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at the nursing home. He will be interred around next Saturday, etc.

I only knew him from a photo with your mother where I tried to recognize your features in him. We had him framed in a shop where we got a discount.

When you returned to the land of your birth I got completely stoned. Now language leaves me in the lurch. Where are you, comforting word?

Translation: John Irons

THE FEMALE BATHER inspired by Toni Mafia’s painting “The Female Bather”

Am I here, bare room, iron bedstead, window that opens onto nothing & nowhere? Am I the beast (from your daydream, nightmare, twilight fear) that dives, washes a miserable mystery away at the sight, the chill of the cold blue, hesitates before diving into a barren pool, sees the world with that eye, that dismal, hesitating one?

Am I the one who, in the wall by the bed in a vague past carved the figure ten, the hour or number of days past or still to come,

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I or someone before & just as isolated: magic sign, underlying sheet, obscure symbolism? No, no! I’ve just been indicated, intimated by the artist with the fastest brushstroke in the West.

I am here, bare room, iron bedstead, window that opens onto nothing & nowhere, a shadow, a memory of a woman bathing, the female bather, dreaming of le grand bleu. Your vision is your daydream, nightmare, twilight fear. but how suspicious, how misleading the world looks seen with your eye.

Translation: John Irons

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Love looses its tides.

This ebbing away stays with us petrified on the shore.

Never we'll make it to tomorrow.

Translation: Annmarie Sauer

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Rose Terranova Cirigliano ( USA)

I am a retired teacher; 17 years in the classroom, (Junior High), and then 8 years on TV. I wrote, hosted, and produced educational programs for the Catholic Diocese of Brooklyn and Queens. On the side I was the director of a parish theater group mounting two productions each year, one a musical play, and the other a Cabaret. I am a classically trained singer, and did recitals from 1983 through 2000. I met Lewis Crystal in 1979 when I worked at HBJ Bookstore with him and Brigitte. I’ve always written poetry, from when I was in my teens. Lewis enabled me to make some of my private writing public. And I have been grateful ever since. I currently edit a seasonal anthology for and online group FM, and other works from an international group of authors through a small publishing company, ROSE BOOKS, an affiliate of AVENUE U PUBLISHERS, [Lewis Crystal (owner)].

Thanksgiving 2017

Two angels appeared at my front door Bathed in the light of the street lamp Bearing gifts The first presented me with a box Laden with all the makings of a Thanksgiving feast surrounding a frozen turkey, and crowned with A homemade apple pie.

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The second angel stepped forward her face bathed in radiance; a halo of shining silver She giggling, presented me with A basket FILLED with everything else for a gathering All the hostess might need to prepare the meal Serve the meal Decorate the table And fruit and nuts for coffee Which was also provided

They laughed and their embrace was felt And they vanished down the road to Bless another family As they have blessed mine.

And it comes out here

And the music goes round and round, oh- oh- oh oh… and it comes out here!…. What to do what to do what to do… Oh boo hoo oh boo hoo oh boo hoo… What can they do to me what can they do to me Oh, dear, what can the matter be, Oh, dear. what can the matter be, Johnny so long at the fair….. How all events do inform against me Rage rage against the dying of the light Do not go gently Mentally Sentimentally Yet, defiantly The only part of me moving is my brain All else is dead!

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Rakhim Karim (Kyrgyzstan)

Rakhim Karim (Karimov) is an Uzbek-Russian-Kyrgyz poet, writer, publicist, translator. He was born in 1960 in the city of Osh (Kyrgyzstan). Graduate of the Moscow Gorky Literary Institute (1986). Member of the National Union of Writers of the Kyrgyz Republic, member of the Russian Writers’ Union, official representative of the International Federation of Russian-Speaking Writers in Kyrgyzstan (London-Budapest), member of the Board of the IFRW, laureate of the Republican Literary Prize named after. Moldo Niyaz. The author of the national bestseller “Kamila”, the winner of the second prize of the International Book Forum Open Central Asia Book Forum & Literature Festival – 2012 (Great Britain), the nominee for the Russian national literary awards Poet of the “Year -2013”, “Poet of the Year 2014”, “Writer of the Year -2014 “,” Poet of the Year 2015 “,” Heritage- 2015 “,” Heritage – 2016 “, the Prize for them. S. Yesenin (2016). In 2017 he was awarded the silver medal of the Eurasian literary contest LiFFт in the nomination of a Eurasian poet. Co-chairman of the Council of Writers and Readers of the Assembly of Peoples of Eurasia. Author of about 30 books published in Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Great Britain, Canada, Romania, Greece, in Uzbek, Russian, Kyrgyz, Tajik, English, Romanian, Greek.

Love is like a bomb

When you hear one name, It’s like a bomb explodes inside of you. Hence, the former love is still alive, And somewhere it is hidden like a mine.

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And he waits, he will not wait for that day, when you step back on it. Love wants to blow your heart again, How is the atomic bomb – Nagasaki ?! How can you live now, being afraid of that name ?! Staying away from the mine in your own soul ?! Love as to destroy, neutralize, How to save a gallant sapper ?! After all, her name is now like a button, like a cap from a grenade? !!!

Native poems

My poems are my relatives, There is no one nearer anyone in the world with me. How do I believe all your secrets, And I can talk to you heart to heart. I grew up with you, matured together, Mine you are faithful reliable friends. You are crying with me, and rejoice, sorry, You were not happy: I was sad. I do not know how life wasted without you, I am not separated from you, God sent me to you. You – day and night with me: slept in verse, Poems woke up: He became a man! You replaced your mother, you were a sister, You replaced father, brother to me. You are my angels, sent by fate, The candles were always in the dark for me. Hope, support, strength – Saving my spirit like a magic amulet. I will call you relatives today, – Dear, close, I will say thank you! Do not leave my winged spirit … Please live with me until the last days. Without you it’s as if I have no legs, no arms, Beating heart you, my breath.

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Dr. Ranjana Sharan Sinha (India)

Former professor in English at S.B. City College, Nagpur (MH), Dr. Ranjana Sharan Sinha is a well- known voice in lndian Poetry in English.She received accolade from the former President of lndia A.P.J. Abdul Kalam for her poem ‘Mother Nature’. She has published 06 books in different genres and 50 research papers.The books are :1.Spring Zone ( Collection of Poems and Haiku);2.Midnight Sun ( Collection of Poems); 3.Nature in the Poetry of William Wordsworth and Sumitra Nandan Pant (Criticism);4. Feminism: Times and Tides (A historiographical and theoretical commentary of Feminism); 5.Different Dimensions ( Compilation of research papers presented in various National and international Conferences and Seminars); 6.Scents and Shadows ( Collection of Poems); Honoured with many prestigious awards from different institutions at different places for her humble contribution to literature: Best Poet Award by Poets International, Bangalore; Rashtriya Pratibha Samman (Kavya Kalanidhi) by Akhil Bhartiya Sahitya Parishad,Udaipur;Best Citizens of lndia by lnternational Publishing House,New Delhi; T.G. Deshmukh Best Teacher Award, Nagpur Shikshan Mandal, Nagpur; Brijsahityamani Award by Brajlok Sahitya Kaka Sanskriti Akademi, Agra and many more.Completed and published UGC-sponsored MRP on comparative literature.Poems, short stories, research papers and articles published in reputed dailies, magazines, e-zines, archives etc at national and international levels. Poems,Research Supervisor, RTM Nagpur University, Nagpur. Associated with many literary organizations and Groups.

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Once Again!

1. A long sleepless night! Agonising over the lost self I look through my window -- The withered trees with black snake-like branches have morphed into timeless truths: Hollowed out, disconnected from life!

2. Midnight peeks through endless silhouettes; The waning crescent moon- A boat in the still waters of the distant dark lake, stays anchored. The full moon of yesteryear with its soft shimmering glow, Limps along the memory lane: The silky feelings becomes an ache!

3. The inexorable march of time unleashes fear in strong spasms-- Once again I feel scared of futile erosive years With decling powers; Oh, who can escape the natural process of aging? No one...No one!

4. Sad about my fleeting 'moments of glad grace', I look deep into your eyes-- Yes, love has no limit:

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I know dear, you'll love ' The sorrows of my changing face'!

5. Under the cool canopy of your assurance, I lose my outline and melt into your fold-- My anxiety melts away: I close my eyes and feel The fragrance of your love with the beauty stealing inwards!

Black-Eyed Susan

Helpless suffocated childhood, buried in the dark trenches of uncertainty-- anaesthetized by hunger.

My eyes are are locked on the face of the hungry, half-naked boy playing in the dirt shirring sandy soil; hunger runs in his rib cage like a ghost!

Maybe he's waiting for his mother-- Her random appearances delight him with leftovers or two small plastic cups filled with tea.

The mother's bond with her son, rests on a precarious thin thread:

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Wedged under constant cravings for bread, her cuddles and kisses remain aborted.

They say starvation may turn him into a swindler, a ganster or a big crook; who knows?

To me he is an angel-- Dark and beautiful like a grey evening awaiting the arrival of a jasmine-white moon

I try to connect The blue-grey figure sitting under the flyover-- He seems to be a replica of Lord Krishna: An idol of Laddoo Gopal With fixed and bright eyes enshrined in a small neglected temple of Vrindavan!

Representations of religion are redefined, cult images recreted-- The boy becomes a neologism added to the encyclopedia of religion!

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Rochelle Potkar (India)

An alumna of Iowa’s International Writing Program (2015), and Charles Wallace Writer’s fellowship (2017), Rochelle Potkar is the author of The Arithmetic of breasts and other stories, Four Degrees of Separation, Paper Asylum. Her poems The girl from Lal Bazaar was shortlisted for the Gregory O' Donoghue International Poetry Prize, 2018; Place won an honorable mention at Asian Cha’s Auditory Cortex; Skirt was made into a poetry film by Philippa Collie Cousins for the Visible Poetry Project; To Daraza won the 2018 Norton Girault Literary Prize in poetry; War Specials won 1st Runner up at The Great Indian Poetry Contest 2018; Amber won a place in Hongkong's Proverse Poetry Prize 2018 Anthology. Winner of the 2016 Open Road Review contest for The leaves of the deodar, her story Chit Mahal (The Enclave) appeared in The Best of Asian Short Stories, Kitaab International. Rochelle has read her poetry in India, Bali, Iowa, Stirling, Glasgow, Hongkong, Ukraine, Hungary, and the Gold Coast. Her reviews have appeared in Wasafiri, Sahitya Akademi’s Indian Literature, Asian Cha, and Chandrabhaga. https://rochellepotkar.com.

Prey

When the girl of 13 got obsessed with the perfume of victory, she waited outside an eagle’s nest before its chicklet flew into the daring empyrean.

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Her imagination etched against barb-wired flesh wounds in a family of nomads, where only men, for generations, hunted eagles - the parade of sameness against the triumph of doyenne.

She now stands atop an unsound mountain training her golden eaglet for the Ulgii festival to the tremulous gasps of traditions.

And after the breaking of records, winning of competitions, travels with her father into Mongolia's harsh winter for her eaglet to kill its first fox, so they can all return like raven, rocky mountains against the amaranthine skyline seen after a deep night’s dream.

Solitary

Like light leaves after years, iterating the static of spheres, the orangutan exhales warmth monographing embrace into winter’s foliage, as time loses scope.

Young as a blank square, nurtured for years at its mother’s teat, beat, emerging from dark art growing from snugness, luxurious as a shaft, it goes deep into the forest: light into cave to live alone for a thousand years.

No ruffle, or safety of spring meets its spirit yet as strong as an inflorescent flame it cinders, while winter speaks in autumn’s barbed tongue.

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Raed Anis Al-Jishi (Saudi Arabia)

Raed Anis Al-Jishi is an author and teacher living in Qateef. Bleeding Gull: Look, Feel, Fly (2014) is Al-Jishi’s first collection of poetry published in English. His work explores the spectrum of emotional experiences from love to grief and touches upon challenging topics such as autism, cancer, and sexuality. While suitable for myriad audiences, I recommend this book to readers who enjoy close-reading or reading a poem or two in the morning and ruminating on it throughout the day. This book of poems, while it may be read in one sitting, demands time and patience to allow for the words to be consumed and immerse the reader into the stories encapsulated in each poem. Al-Jishi’s work is loaded with meaning and I see his poetry well-situated in a literature class. Those who enjoy straightforward or form poetry may be less inclined to purchase this book, though lovers of lyric poems will greatly enjoy Bleeding Gull. I give Bleeding Gull: Look, Feel, Fly 4 out of 4 stars. Each poem is wrought with stunning language and imagery that lingers long after being read. The minor shortcomings this book contains are far outweighed by the complex range of emotion that is so thoughtfully and beautifully demonstrated in his collection. Raed Anis Al-Jishi’s book deserves every star it has received.

Smiling

And I smile Not because of a joy I usually sip at morning

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But to deceive The wrinkle lines Cheating on my memory.

Transfiguration

When the distance with stillness Becomes a ticket for the passengers And there is no other trip, The transfiguration’s port Gets caught by Desertification. The sound waves Seduce dreams And sow the holiday bread And the flavor of new cotton While awaiting the holy Eid On the banks of silence on the absenteeism’s side.

Upside-Down Creature

As wide as patience could be, I played an anchor’s melody Hanged by its placenta, Warping my fetus’s wishes. The upside-down creature In my body Extends his fingers toward The reflection of light, Scratching the mirrors Of my abdomen. The refraction of silence Forsakes him In the ringing’s womb.

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Sasja Janssen ( Netherland)

Sasja Janssen is a poet, novelist and short story writer. Her novel De kamerling (The eunuch) was published by Querido in 2001, followed by Teresa zegt (Teresa says) in 2005. From 2006 she primarily has written poetry, which has been published in the collections Papaver (2007); Wie wij schuilen (Whom we shield; 2010), Ik trek mijn species aan (I put on my species; 2014), nominated for the prestigious VSB Poetry Prize, followed in 2017 by Happy. Her poetry got brilliant reviews. Janssen performs at several national and international poetry festivals. She teaches poetry writing, and is a teacher of Dutch as a second language. Poetry: Papaver (Poppy), Querido, Amsterdam, 2007; Wie wij schuilen (Whom we shield), Querido, Amsterdam, 2010; Ik trek mijn species aan (I put on my species), Querido, Amsterdam, 2014;Happy (Happy), Querido, Amsterdam, 2017 Prose: De kamerling (The eunuch), Querido, Amsterdam, 2001; Teresa zegt (Teresa says), Querido, Amsterdam, 2005

Links: http://www.sasjajanssen.nl http://www.poetry.nl

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Just used words until today, but were forced to stop that, the windows steaming up with our yeast

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through the grabbling, the falling, the tender, the nauseous the sweet, the fleshly, bluish dangling round each other’s neck.

We have sung us. We have us for the very first time.

Putting on my species

1. I was born from a dot at nine one morning the first morning possible because it didn’t come out of night, it coloured from a bright fuchsia to a sulphurous yellow I still remember that. The right one, the right sharpness and size, made by someone handed a 9H, briefly transfixed they called her God apart from me.

A horrible first, but I finally stopped being no one.

2. I wore a swaddling cloth that would become a shroud it’s impossible, yet it is so. Not far from here I became a dot again, the only one but a weaker one, perhaps made by a 9B by that same person, she corked me back into myself, the cottons continuing to give off scent in my wardrobe.

3. I believed things happened simultaneously. Could be the species I had to put on, could be the movement could be the happiness or craziness or both, rain with sunshine.

I believed it had to snow, thought behind it and I grew into my own test card deceptively identical, like any other’s.

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4. I was instantly good at living and predicted what would happen next. When love came not even in the guise of a young angel I forgot my dot and caught fire, yellow a fuchsia heart.

Then I forgot about forgetting, naked like a single rose.

5. After that I took off my species, to see if I was empty to see if I dared to, drained of blood I dared.

The others stared at the way I was, that there was nothing left of me, should there be a remnant of me or something

6. I was instantly less good at living, you shouldn’t take off what you can hardly get on, back into the cast became shapeless.

The ballad of the home help 1

I close the curtains like a body bag, swipe the slender cigarette tubes off the bed, cut-flower green the covers that spark up easily, it has to be done at once.

It has to be done, the slowness, my childish hand between her legs and I laugh along with her because it’s worse for me, I’ve been hired to help, I won’t be dead in a day or two.

In the afternoon she gets me back when the tubes come flowing out of me and I see to the man whose daughters emerge from the sea because he is dying.

Again them lamenting their mother who shares her bed with others, the sisters married to strangers, I hide in the hall with the hoover.

From Happy (Querido, 2017), translation Michele Hutchinson

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Sunita Paul (India)

A poet, novelist, short story writer, editor Sunita Paul resides in Kolkata, India. She is widely published and anthologized author from USA and India. She is blessed with multidimensional personality.Mother of two sons,Sunita lives wifh her husband in Kolkata. An avid reader,she dedicates her free time to her family.Fond of cooking and gardening , Sunita finds bliss in nature. Sunita had been working in Holy Home school and was a dedicated teacher. For the passion of writing she left her job and took up writing as a full time writer. Sunita is the recipient of the prestigious NAZI NAMAN prize,in the year 2017 . Recipient of the Literary Laureate of the year 2017 conferred by the World Nations Writer's Organization , Kazakhstan.Sunita recently received the IndianAwaz Award in Kolkata.She is the administrative persona in the World Institute Of Peace, Nigeria. Recently she is selected as the board of directors of the most prestigious European site Atunispoetry.com . Sunita has been awarded as the PEACE AMBASSADOR in the HUMAN RIGHTS COUNCIL AND CRIME INTELLIGENCE FORCE. She is interviewed by some great interviewers across the globe.Keynotes International Poetry Society of India presented her poetry in the prestigious Sterling Studios, Sacramento, California, USA. website:- www.aabs publishing house.com

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Maybe

Maybe you failed or I Maybe you did not give a serious try But don't worry ,this time I will not cry ,I will not cry .

You wanted to touch the success sky I wanted only my that loving guy But don't worry , I will not make you cry ,I too won't cry .

This was the last time you lied This was the first time my love died But don't worry , enough I have cried , enough I have cried .

Why Me???

Why always me ? When I was just learning to walk They had already started to stalk Touching the unwanted places How dirty were their sinned faces They could never see a child's innocence For they had already killed their conscience. Why always me? Crumpling a flower in it's budding stage They tried to put me in a cage Little me still fluttered her wings Many songs in my soul to sing So I started making my way For I am here to stay. But then why always me? As a teen girl, With beautiful curls Each and everyone waiting in queue to propose But I was always eager to dispose Even then those invisible hands and eyes grabbed me I could never be as a normal girl should be

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It was always me. For the teacher who came to teach Or the temple priest who faked in saint's disguise tried to preach None left any stone unturned to molest and crush a young girl's belief Not a single person she found could give her heart relief Even the next door uncle or cousin brother All tried to touch her unwanted parts without any least bother Why it had to be only me? As I reached the matured age Learnt that the world is an acting stage Here a man proposes indecent to you But to his wife/girlfriend he promises his fake love is true My lost mother protected me so well Otherwise the planet is more dangerous than hell I too would have been torn to pieces by now Here women are raped but they worship a cow Why it happens with me Is it a curse to be Big or Beautiful Why such adjectives are used to appreciate a woman like hot or cool? Why cannot a man love or appreciate the heart Why is it lust from the very start? Still I am searching for the answer All the questions which have made a deep scar But then I realise that all those people/incidents Made me so strong that my life's canvas only I can paint Now I can easily distinguish between good and evil And can fight against all devils Lastly I wanna thank the almighty for showering blessings on me Empowering me as I always dreamt to be.

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Susana Roberts (Argentina)

Susana Roberts- Argentinian poet-writer-translator-peacemaker. Resides in Trelew- Chubut-Patagonian, Argentina, dedicated to the Culture of Peace Dr. Litt Honoris Causa-WAAC-2009.Vital Member WAAC.Ca.EEUU. Ambassador of Peace by Mil Milennia.org- Pea.org-(Senate of Argentine Nation (Unesco-Unicef). Vice. Dir. IFLAC- Argentina and Latin America/ Honorary Member Global Harmony Association-Russia/ Member SELAE: European Society of Writers and Artists/ Universal Ambassador of Peace n 537-Circle of Ambassadors-Geneva-Switzerland. Member of Noosphera Ethical Ecological World Assembly-Russia.(NEEWA) Member Presidium WFSC (World Forum of Spiritual Culture) -Kazakhstan. International Cultural Ambassador - SIPEA. Ambassador "The Love Foundation" -Tampa-Florida-USA. Participated in Spanish and English world Anthologies. Finalist in the Medal of Peace Prize by Foundation Salvador Allende.org-Chile 2010-. Prize to the Trajectory by Asolapo Arg. International Award. Publications in newspapers: In Spain-Greece, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Belgium, Albany, India…Etc. Co-author of many books and anthologies. Prologuist. Bilingual Books: Rostros / Faces. El vuelo del Ave / the flight's bird. Arte y virtud en la evolución humana/Art and Virtue in human evolution - in French. Epub-France- Alter Editions).

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In the waters of life

From the beginning we are dwellers of time when descended particles from the sky crossed the threshold of centennial ashes and turned into the breath of thousand shapes not ages no time in the space of each age love was our friend surrendered in the flames of incomprehension of others flames the constant cure is love in the waters of life with hearts trapped into the beauty of the city of no rules many echoes were pushed into the purification waters never mind when naked feet crossed the empty wall by the place where honeysuckles used to climb inside mystic gardens past brilliant echoes on the road let's us to walk under the moonlight let’s sail away ,brother, where talented artists live where Peace is emerging from the fountain of the true knowledge Never mind when echoes return They belong to the individual time with the belt of service to the future culture we will cross the never end time of echoes with love.

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TAI CHI

Attentive mind, in harmony the breath that flows covers the light The elements in a serene dance Of the spirit Start and end of the inner balance Everything is simple, everything is complex In the internal rhythm the profound challenge of the senses In a the meditative estate From an ancestral discipline.

The whole Blue

You spilt the whole blue Over my eyes Like honey sweetness Intoxicates jasmines Humidity is penitent of love the verb is meeting down the infinite ocean

I write Peace as I write sorrow with fire and air pressed in my fist the light is growing Like a strong fight Inside the hollow of the skin Right now that I am a flame of your body.

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Siti Ruqaiyah Hashim (Malaysia)

Rokiah Hashim a Malaysian born writes using the name of Siti Ruqaiyah Hashim.Starting from 1987 her poems and short stories were published by mainstream literature magazines and newspapers. She is also prolific in film and theatre critics and wrote since 2007 in her column in national daily in Malaysia and published a film critic book in 2015. A bi-lingual anthology of her poems titled Catharsis in English and Bahasa Melayu was published in 2015 and in Spanish in 2016. Her bi-lingual anthology together with 12 other world peace poets titled News from Strasbourg was published in 2017.All translation into Bahasa Melayu was done by Siti Ruqaiyah herself. Her works also appeared in numerous other anthologies together with other poets from all over the world and in foreign magazines and newspaper. Her poems were translated into Mandarin, Serbo-Croats, Uzbekistan, Arabic, Monggolian, Spanish, Japanese and French.She attended numerous poems festival in Malaysia and all over the world. The Poem Anthology Peace Be Upon You Davos is the second in World Peace Poem Serie.

PEACE BE UPON YOU DAVOS

Peace be upon you Davos Thank you For wanting to make This world A better place A happier place But for whom?

Peace be upon you Davos

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Yes! I know American fighter jets need to be sold Sophisticated Israeli drones need to be researched and produced So that more could be killed By pushing buttons Arms factories in England have to operate So that your people have jobs And they could go for holidays To Third World countries every year Etc… Etc… Etc… Peace be upon you Davos Don’t forget Osama from Baghdad did not choose to be refugee forever Mohamed from Hebron didn’t want to lose his identity Dunya from Aleppo didn’t want to live uncomfortably Shaif wants to go back to his beloved Sanaa Wounds on Ibrahim’s soul are still there traumatised by NATO bombs in Kosovo Rahman doesn’t want to have children and grand children in Cox’s Bazaar

Peace be upon you Davos All my friends Also want this planet to be better To be happier To be peaceful Forever.

SCETCHES OF LOVE

Haaretz.Com reported an Israeli doctor wept when his patient, a Syrian teenager from Golan Heights whom he treated for the second time said ‘Doctor, thank you for treating me again

351 your children have playstation, Ipad and Iphone but we only have grenades and bullets to play with’.

It also reported suicide rate in the Israeli army is also high especially amongst the younger personell Ah! Trained armies with sophisticated weapons are also human beings surely there are some who can’t sleep coming back from demolishing the inherited Palestinian farmer’s houses built since100 years ago or breaking arms of the stone throwing adolescents or shooting dead a scarf- clad female student for not stopping at check points because she didn’t understand Hebrew.

DO YOU ALL KNOW?

Do you all know? when a leader is dragged to court with heaps of corruptions charges there is an old leader whose corruptions and abuses are worst his descendents are filthy rich and his friends swept hundreds of billions the country’s wealth and they go scot free.

This circus is getting worse and I am nauseatic witnessing it

Do you all know that old leader is foxy and his friends saw it as brilliance and not something sickening?

Do you all know? an old friend once told me during a state election in that old leader’s time he was flown in a helicopter accompanying a plane load of money to buy votes and buy their partisan’s loyalty who traded their dignity for money.

Do you all know? he is busy pointing fingers to other people so that his corruptions and abuses are not being talked about ?

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Serpil Devrim (Turkey)

Born in 1960 in İstanbul. Many of her poems and short stories were published in different antologies and literature magazines in Turkey, translated different languages and published literature magazines in different countries.

Poetry Books: At the Birth of day / Çıngı Publishing / 2012 One half is half done / Artshop Publishing/ 2017 The road was ending / Kaynak Publishing/ 2014 Pain of the Earth/ Artshop Publishing/ 2018

Short Stories: Purple alphabet women / Artshop Publishing/2017

Novel: Like water / Mühür Publishing/ 2015

Serpil Devrim has won the Muammer Hacıoğlu Literary Award for her book One Half is Half Done in April 2018. She is a member of the PEN İnternational Writers Association in Turkey. She is member of the The Universum Academy in Switzerland.

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Herat

Herat, the red roof of my wheat house the big gap in the middle of my solitude surrounder by an endless cliff a foggy cloud passes it through and then women submissive voiceless with their moan attached to their shells whose tulle-curtained eyes are owl nets so far from love, close to god then chıldren monotone and motionless their passıve bodies are hung on death wooden legs unable to run at times in which time stops so far from life, close to god

Herat : the red roof of my wheat house they dig holes out of pinpricks in the fifty two savage teeth of the dragon the tears the whole into bits the big gap in the middle of its solitude so far from bread, close to god.

Love Never Kills

''I've seen harness-free horses, they swept sad songs before them.'' if only you wish to become a river we'll go back to the begining , float from the top the hosting of dyer's woad watercress dutchman's breeches like two old friends at the farthest pillion on the seas rising from the last glacial age in the morning fog and dew downpour

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don't pass by the castle of your absence playing an instrument the endless space bleeds hungry againts the sky the women with sealed lip burns like kindling and cry from red to purple exiled to outside the heart don't always watch from the side,come, love never kills.

Who İs İt?

Making their sacred one the bas efor their wand Humans were tangent to being human Taking the lie out of their bosoms They attached it to coffins Held by its edges and corners

Breaking the settings of the conscious scales We well knew the chorus of the dead Unable to look at the face of the next Netx to one another with one voice they cried Out of shame the heavens and the earth cracked

İf neither the dead nor the living are bad Who is it that turns the World into hell?

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Sviatlana Bykava ( Belarus)

Sviatlana Bykava – poet, prose writer, member of the “Union of Writers of Belarus” and the “Union of Writers of the United State of Belarus and Russia”. Born on 05 February 1962 in Zaslavl, Minsk region (Republic of Belarus). S. Bykava got higher economic education (graduated from the Belarus Economic University), used to work as an economic specialist at the enterprises and institutions of her hometown. Currently she is the head of the Minsk regional branch of the public association “Union of Writers of Belarus”. S. Bykava has started writing in adulthood. She currently writes in Belarusian and Russian languages. S. Bykava is the author of ten personal collections of poetry, four books for children and family reading. Svetlana Bykova`s poems have been published in many almanacs and collective anthologies of poetry, as well as her poetry has been published in the well- known Belarusian and foreign periodicals such as Belarusian journals: “Polymia”, “Nioman”, “Vozhyk”, “Biariozka”; journal “Berega” and newspaper “Literaturnyi Kavkaz” (Russia). She is an active participant of the Belarusian republican and international literary festivals and forums such as Eurasian cultures festival, The XXIX International Congress of poets and translators at the Piast Castle (Poland) and others. S. Bykava is the winner of the Belarusian Republican literary contest “The best ¬writing of 2013” (2014), laureate of literary award of the Minsk Regional Executive Committee in the field of poetry (2015), laureate of regional stage of the Belarusian Republican contest “Woman of the Year 2017”, prize-winner of the International literature contest “Constellation of Spirituality” (2018).

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I Love …

“I Love …” – these are two miracle words, When being said aloud One starts living again, As though one takes the first breath Of a newborn Who has secretly Lived until this time under the motherʼs heart. “I Love …” – as though one takes a brave step forward Out of the eternal waiting Into the place, where there`s a pure well Of life, earthly existence. I wish I could drink it sip by sip This drink of tenderness and love.

“To love” sounds as “to live”. If I get tired, Or have to keep my path through the emptiness, I`ll go to that well, Which has inexhaustibly existed through ages, To drink the water of life again, And quench the thirst of my heart.

The Meeting

Time is spinning Its unstoppable circles again and again: When a star falls down The time of separation is gone away. Among the age-old truths On the scrolls of the time There will come a minute of meeting In the gray gloom of years: When the night and the morning Will be fighting in the cruel duel I`ll come to the meeting With a stranger – myself.

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Sabrina Young (USA)

Sabrina Young, 51 years old, hails from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma in the United States. She is the founding administrator for Motivational Strips and handles the overall responsibility of Global network . She additionally handles the portfolio of Chief Administrator for USA and Canada in Motivational Strips. She is the Vice Chancellor for the world respected academy for writers MSALEW- Motivational Strips Academy of Literary Excellence and Wisdom. She is the founder of Soul Thoughts Poetry, a fast growing and qualitative writers forum affiliated with Motivational Strips. She has been writing poetry since 30 years and she touches upon wisdom, emotions and life related incidents in her poetry. She has a unique form of writing which is easily comprehensible as well legible to mind and soul., She was recently awarded the GLOBAL LITERATURE GUARDIAN by Motivational Strips. The award was endorsed by World Nations Writers Union as well Union Hispanomundial De Escritores (UHE) She finds time to write on her first book each day, " Quiet Chaos " . It is a book about her life. Her dream is to help others overcome and to find their light , no matter how dim.

NOWHERE

When I was young I had dreams dreams of a grown me, up on stage oh, how I loved to sing ... shot down at a tender age, there goes my hope and everything

You ain't goin nowhere

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her voice was so stern and true , I'd be something if it wasn't for you, I missed my chance just to give you life.... you ain't goin nowhere, so don't think twice

Her voice haunted me as the reality settled in, I'd sit in in my room with my paper and pen, this is who I am, I knew it all along, as the words from my heart came alive in song

Banging on the door woke me from the sweet daydream... I opened it and I saw those brown eyes screaming , the dishes needed to be done.

She glanced at the paper that I had poured my heart onto, laughing and ripping it up like a madwoman, calling me a fool... she works hard to buy that paper for school.....

As the tears rolled down my face, she reminded me......

You ain't goin nowhere her voice was so stern and true I'd be something if it wasn't for you, I missed my chance just to give you life, you ain't goin nowhere, so don't think twice.

Now Im in the spotlight , being true to my soul, up here on this stage and I did it on my own. Mama, can you hear me singin this to you, to my heart I must be true, forever standing tall , mama I'm goin somewhere, ohhhh mama, I'm goin somewhere, I'm goin somewhere after all.

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Conversations In The Dark

As the day fades and darkness calms the night tranquility bathes my soul in the peace and gentle quiet . I search for you in the shadows of my mind no one else could ever mend this broken heart of mine . Popping memories leave me giddy like a teen I flush with thoughts grazing my cheeks when you smile at me. Sprinkling from above tiny musings allowing my heart to release the gentle sparks igniting the flames that keep my soul at ease. Skipping through my mind as the rain burns my eyes fading into the smoky abyss as you turn to say goodbye.

***

The love , so strong between the skies and I, a certain respect when the rumble ignites the electricity inside of me . A sense of calm, a feeling of home when the heavens cry it's tears , comes alive my spirit in rhythm of my answered pleas. I see the signs in the clouds as sparks light up the night, he's watching me as my blood begins to flow. It will soon disappear and blue is all there will be, I'll be patient in the stillness of your eyes , diligently loyal waiting for the wind to blow.

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Sophy Chen (China)

Sophy Chen, Lihua Chen, is the Chinese contemporary poet, translator, and American English “Legendary Poet”. She is the founder of “Sophy Poetry & Translation Website”, “Sophy Poetry & Translation”(C-E) Magazine and “Sophy International Translation Publishing House”. She won the annual “International Best Translator” Award 2012, the Chinese Contemporary Poetry (2013-2014) Translation Award, PENTASI B WORLD FEATURED POET 2018 and PENTASI B WORLD INSPIRATIONAL POET 2018 and “MEWADEV LAUREL AWARD – 2018. She is the Host-Organizer & Sponsor of PENTASI B CHINA WORLD POETREE FESTIVAL 2019. She translated six Chinese poetry collections into English.

Tuberose

As I was young my mom planted some flowers In front of our old wooden house in springs In my memory they were peony, China rose… But what I loved the most was the tuberose

In summer night it’s a nice time to me You could sit in yard to listen the night birds Singing on cliffs, insects singing in bushes And look at the moon moving in night skies

However, while your heart was beating at pace With insects singing and in the sudden From nowhere floating the rays of fragrance In the moon a bunch of tuberose blossoms

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As these flowers always bloom in moon nights Your great poem may be living in its fragrance.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

The night wind woke you up from your sleep, after the rain With the air filled with the fragrance of soil, grass and trees You suspect that flashing fireflies are stars falling into the mortal world from heaven There’re also the ticking of the clock and the shallow singing of the summer insects They are nice to hear like the hands of wind plucking the strings of summer It plucked a joyful Midsummer Night’s Dream At this time in the darkness in this secular world the earth is a paradise All beings indulge in it without melancholy or sadness The pain in a person’s heart has become more and more light Light as a small insect with a blow of wind disappearing in the night You are flowers blossoming alone in the night and nobody cares You begin to fall in love in the night with those beautiful things You did not expect that the dewdrops are also so charming on the grass With a gentle touch, rolling down the depths of earth as crystals.

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Tarana Turan Rahimli (Azerbaijan)

Dr. Tarana Turan Rahimli is an Azerbaijani poet, writer, journalist, translator, literary critic, teacher, academic, is an active member of the International Literary Agency in Turkey and Azerbaijan. She is a PhD in Philology, Associate Professor of Azerbaijan and World Literature Chair of Azerbaijan State Pedagogical University, author of 7 books and more than 400 articles. She is the editor and reviewer of 20 monographs and poetry books.The work has been published in more than 25 Western and Eastern countries. She is works were published in Azerbaijan, Italy, Spain, USA, Germany, England, Belgium, Chile, Turkey, Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tatarstan, Uzbekistan, Kocova, Romania, Bosna-Hersogovina, Mexico, India, Poland and other countries. Poems and articles have been published in many international sites around the world, on periodicals and in anthologies.

The lonely man

Don’t think that you caught fire, But this life makes you be tired. Even a spider on the ceiling of your room. Is setting a web for your thoughts, Lonely man!

Don’t think that you will be peaceful Inside of a quiet, dim, dusk room.

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The dumb walls that you earned Are your youth that left you before, Lonely man!

The wishes pass away after being choked, The feelings are blowing in your heart, Look around all what surround you, Even in the lake drakes swim in pairs, Lonely man!

Open the door and let the freshness of spring enter your room, Look around! Even the flowers compete with one another. Don’t insist, don’t be stubborn, Loneliness belongs only the God, Lonely man!

Praising of stone

Don’t hurt feelings of stone calling a cruel man as “ stone”, There is a such stone centuries beat it, don’t touch that stone! If you work for the stone, it will appreciate you, There is such word if told to a stone, it will melt, heart won’t care it!

Those what a human being forgets, the memory of stone doesn’t forget, There are those who throw stones unfairly, the unfair stone isn’t thrown. Tell your dreams to the flowing waters and tell your secret to a black stone, Stone- is your friend at the end of life and it is brother of your grave.

The locked doors were opened after we knocked them with stones, The stones built our houses, stones run off from our ways. My friend, strange man can’t bear to listen to our grief, but stones listen to, Stones shed tears for the motion of life, stones whines for grief of life.

Some people earn money by cutting stones, At the end we harden like stones, at times stones disgust us. The leaves, flowers fade away and stones are left on the hearth The stone of thousand years makes the history remember us.

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Each evening a hope passed away inside of you To the married women who feel themselves lonely

Each evening a hope passed away inside of you Each evening a new grief was born there. You shed tears to empty your heart, But you were drown in of your own tears.

Only in your dreams your husband caressed you, Only in dreams your wishes took wings. They spoke about your false devotion, But you never were satisfied with your destiny.

You turned to a statue at the window, Like the gravestone of the dead love. Neither spring, nor summer warmed your heart, Like that autumn and winter of the life.

You kept the fragrant memories, Only they are left from that love. It is an add destiny, after marriage, You are called married, but you feel lonely.

Translated from Azerbaijani into English by Sevil Gulten

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Trandafir Sîmpetru (Romania)

Trandafir Sîmpetru, was born on 19 April 1962 in the commune of Jirlău, Brăila County. He is president of the World Union of Poets in Romania. President of the World poets Association. Director of Lyrical Publishing Graph Romania. It has over 50 international awards. Has so far published 34 volumes of poetry. It is proposed for the Nobel Prize of World Poets Associațion Magazine. He is the first writer in the world to stage a global festival of poetry.

Signs

For you, my beloved, one blank page has remained, like a boundless desert where tropical winds write its own signs, not being able to comprehend howwe are fleeing away from the suffering, how we are looking for the momentum without its contour, shapelessly while on the edge of the world I cannot hear itsfootsteps.

Is the woman who cannot come?

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Could be the night which is waiting for me?

One blank page has remained for me, large as an ocean shore… on which an anxious flash vision has just passed.

I Am Telling You…

Honey, I am telling you, My days are wasted on the roads, I have been looking for you among words, the solstice comes and spreads out its snows between our loves…

And you…. You keep waiting for me… But I am not coming back… The night carries coldness and silences. How the wind is blowing on the shore on which I have remained!...

Closer and closer, thesea’s somber bell has been tossing and you are calling me with your earth’s words to the place where you can ask me to arrive, andthe moment I am able to reach, I shall kneel again inside your blue eyes.

Ohhh… how the wind blows on the cold coast!

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Tatiana Terebinova (Russia)

Terebinova Tatiana is a poet she lives in Otradny Samara Region and Moscow. She uses the technique of sillabic-tonic, free verse, haiku and tanka. Tatiana graduated from the Moscow Cultural and Arts Acadimy in 1989. The poet is a winner of the Moscow International Free Verse Festival (1996). Her poems were pablished in the Anthology of Russian free verse (Moscow “PROMETEI” 1991), Almanac “Arion” (Moscow) , “Journal POetri” (2018, № 1–3 ), journal “Mos-cow Sto-litsa” (2018, №3) etc… Her name is mentioned in the Samara Historical and Culturen encyclopedia (1995)

The Tree

The sky prays on you with the bottom of the abyss. The ways of roadlessness run away to you. Numbers and letters complain to you and growl, as well as future shouts and angry looks of tongues, so as manners of an adverbial mob. Thoughts of words flow in streams of fire. They exclaim to you, the free cornflowers and giving birth rye, descending into your heart with their umbilical roots. You are above all – the Tree of Life!

They fly to me

As colorful birds, they fly to me the other houses and rivers, parks and museums; other

369 steps run away from fading long minutes.

Where you are – herbs wake up and the dome of tree rings, full of bumblebees and wasps. The moon dips in your eyes its golden roots.

The dawn is almost exsanguinated. Branches of stars still embrace the sky which is woven from blue flax flowers. I’m lulling on my knees baby-separation.

The inverted sound of cricket

A cricket sings in the leaves of strawberries with an inverted sound. Draft enters into a conversation with me.

Toasted bread with wine and wild honey of the moon are on the table.

And somewhere a coral seller laughs and pets the fragile nape of a turtle.

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Tyran Prizren Spahiu ( Kosova)

Tyran Prizren SPAHIU was born in 1954, Kosovo-Europe and graduated with a degree in English Language and Literature . He was awarded Poet of the year by Pegasus Albania. He authored two novels, Never Back Again and thirteen Poetic Verses book in addition to Dream Language English Grammar-Visual English Dictionary. He builds fairly clear phrases and gives them freedom with plenty of art, creative craftsmanship and obviously many vital types of nectar. He comes among us as a prominent and innovative novelist, where his creative artwork combines with plenty of proficiency with reality of time and people. His novel Never Back Again, is undoubtedly a valuable and serious contribution to modern Albanian and Worldwide prose. The author proves to be a creative, demanding and highly skilled artist. His prose is a new achievement, which gives the author the right to be ranked among the most renowned and capable of the new modern literary names

aristocrat of the CITY!

You, seeking justice man writing verses of poetry you, dreams perpetuating sawing the seed of freedom love in the paper requiring again. You, wandering the city boulevards dressed as in the Middle Ages you, who never ever bow

371 against office storms stand proud. You, never allowing pride to be defeated again using the broken pen every morning I do see you drinking coffee in front cigarettes and yesterday's press jacket on the chair slightly torn with sheets of poems. You, coming out of a bookstore with bought books fondling beautiful letters continuing with the empty half cup the last gulp relishes as the nature nectar ignite the cigar, smoke attacks coughing afflictions, stand again upright you do not surrender to the deciding offices You, always bypass governors do not give attention to political parties you, the one who bows to the War Martyrs day and night soul cries for the Missing you, being all the time with needy accompanying homeless you, The Poet Honor of the Nation , Vanguard itself the last Mohican, you ,The Albanian Bohemian ...

I AM IN LOVE!

Hopefully you see, my soul smiling is confessing the joy of generosity ah… so passionately knows to love literally written glassy words leading into imagination being excited amazing are the feelings please do, just listen they are whispering one should dream with the Bohemian wander the beauty spots continuing in two fabulous seas by beauty

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in this paradise where the day arises I'm rich, take a look the seabed accompanies me to the waterfall at the brink of grandeur the tears of joy are being poured into the immensity of feelings following me medieval rhymed verses shaking as earthquake sensitivity melted we live together ecstasy the symphony of the Fountain sounds magical are the most beautiful words for the virgin intertwined in ART Lady at the everlasting spring wife, poetess, my friend the miracles of the divine world, heart feels gratitude for poets with the sincere feathers their spiritual secrets hidden in the world of poetry I do wish ETERNITY of POEMS, POETS world of ART masterpieces !

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Türkan Ergör ( Turkey)

Türkan Ergör, Philosopher, Writer, Poet, Ambassador for Peace, Professor Honour of Philosophy and Peace, Professor Honour of Sociology, Professor Honour of Psychology, Professor Honour of Human Rights, Doctor Honour of Law, World Peace Icon. Türkan Ergör was born in 19 March 1975 in Çanakkale, Turkey. She is from city İzmir, Turkey . Her father name is Sait Halim Ergör. She graduated from the Department of Business Management, Philosophy and Home Management. She is İnternational Ambassador for Peace in some countries. She has won many international awards. World Peace Icon was elected by World Institute of Peace in 2017. The World Poets Union was awarded the medal for world peace from Italy. Her poems were published in international antologhies named " Temirqazyq - Best Poet / Writer 2017 World Anthologhy by World Nations Writers' Union Kazakhstan, COMPLEXION BASED DISCRIMINATIONS, LET THERE BE PEACE ". World Royal Family His Royal Highness Majesty of the World Prof. Dr. Dato'Raja Arifin Bin Raja Haji Ali was awarded the Royal document. Royal Society HRH Prince Sultan Mohammad I. Tianero was awarded the Royal document. She was awarded honorary professor and doctorate by various countries. Her message: Our children are crying for peace and love, please abandon hatred and make this world beautiful for our children.

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ONE DAY

Do not be arrogant, love people Life passes, goes one day Crushing no one’s heart When evil will return to you one day What you have done will not profit you Everything you do is to live one day Life is like that something here When people will find worthy one day Do not persecute innocent The innocent’s curse becomes real one day Human beings are amazed Who will find the punishment of who evil one day Always be respectful do not give up Who respectful winner one day.

TRUE – FALSE

What we find meaningful, It was meaningless. What we find meaningless, It was meaningful. True false, Wrong was the true way. Beauty is ugly, Ugly is beauty say, It was a pleasure. Negative is positive, Positive is negative say, It was a nice look. Good is bad, Bad is good see, How was wrong, position. Consepts was mixed together, We got lost inside. Some things broken, This is a dream,

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Even a bad nightmare. To find the truth, How hard it was.

FAR OUT

What is this darkness I do not know A sable cloud canopy around I can not laugh evil I can not laugh I want to help but I can not touch Winter is here, even if l see my way I can not go There is happiness Far out There is hope but I know.

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Tareq Samin (Bangladesh)

Tareq Samin is a Bangladeshi Poet, Author and Editor, born in Tangail, in 1977. He is the Editor and Publisher of Bengali Literary Magazine ‘Sahitto’. He also wrote short stories and Novel. He is the author of the poetry collections ‘The Lost Poet’, a collection of 49 poems, ‘Nonviolent Revolutionaries’ is a collection of 14 Short Stories and Novel ‘Shahrin-Suja’. Some of his poems are translated in English, German, Slovak, Turkish and Hungarian Languages.

Message Of the Soul

You’re a human, The whole world is your homeland, Regardless of race, religion and ethnicity All human are relatives, Your religion is humanity.

Thou human, God’s representative Throughout the world is your temples You are the worshipper of love.

Love compassion affection are where be there. Hatred, pride and pollution spreading thoughts those are in your heart too; However, do not cherish those (You) reign them.

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Better Days will Come

Do not give up, in temporary uncertainty Better days are coming in silent peace. The long lasting mountain peak suddenly opened itself, give birth of many islands to settled new life. Water breaking the boundaries of bound waves will wash out garbage indeed, silt soil will fertile land . April cyclone rain will remove debris, dust plant new buds in trees. air whisper with sky change is near by sin of birth after rebirth, and the pollution of mind will be lost in love of creative people; Do not leave the helm, confusion is temporary. What is wrong will be removed lies burn to ashes truth, rightness, creativity like friend’s hand will give you excellence.

Those who know how to die, will live

The dilapidated old wants to stick in false, they have to go out of the way assaulted or voluntarily. People around the world to fly the flag high wants to build the truth, the time is coming willingly or unwillingly. Those who know how to break, they will build Those who know how to die, they will live Why to fear the change? If you like to live like human science is all you need to know.

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The dilapidated old wants to cling false, they have to go out of the way assaulted or willingly.

In memory of Poet Allen Ginsberg

Beside the ‘Jessore road’ under the trees Broken camp; humen covered with polythene, Thin naked body, hollow eyes Near Bangaon border in September’ 1971. Allen Ginsberg angered in grieves; insulting his almighty government He wrote the immortal poem, “September on Jessore Road”. Millions of East Pakistani refugees Mourning, anguished and tremble of grief afraid of torture , inhuman horror of war. Hyena-like Kissinger-Bhutto’s atrocities Yahya’s bayonet-bullet-bombs and bloody wounds Howl of Bengal, silent in Western world. Allen Ginsberg seen in small scale Yet the poet’s heart has felt countless Sorrows of Human-soul.

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Yvon Né (Netherland)

Yvon Né (1958) is a Dutch poet and visual artist. She studied at the Academy for Visual Art, St. Joost and works as art professional in Breda. She is the author of 17 books of poems. A number of them came out with the Amsterdam publishing houses De Bezige Bij and De Geus. Her collected poems (1990-2005) and her novel ‘Het scheve meisje’ (2016) were published by De Geus. Her poems appeared in more than 40 anthologies, poetry accompagied by her drawings appeared in special editions. She also designed poetry lines in commission for bridges and public buildings. From a jury report: ‘The poetry of Yvon Né, who is also known as designer and painter, balances between two elementary realities: the reality of life and its projection. The everpresent theme in her verse is transition in which new reality is tentatively emerging before separation from past reality has been achieved. The result is continual movement which infuses her poetry with dynamic character.’ More information: www.yne.nl

Airport control

What a wonderful day! We‘re not afraid. In no place a fuze.

I can shut out well the world. At times I’m afraid I can’t bring it in again.

At the gate the detector shrills. The officer checks my body

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and hits upon the iron clothespin on my bra.

When I give an explanation for a rarity, usually just something welling from a happy kind of disregard, trouble takes off. Unfortunately I utter some trifles that cause agitation. I hear myself naming the burning scent that enters my nose from an eating court close by.

Now so many sliding contacts start running, full many a brain is sparked up, which also puts into unmeant spotlight the manifold functions on the control panels, all bets are off for a fair final say.

After more to-and-fro of question and answer lacking thread all of a sudden they let us through.

The cellist’s patent leather shoes

In the front. Below the edge of stage. The string quartet plays. Centuries are enclosed within these tones. Reunited they instantly awake.

Time inciting us denying time.

If desired, it can be unfolded. A wrinckled germ to sprout. No. Not to be touched.

A foldable seemingly nothing. ‘I offer you something out of this world.’ A nativity scene.

The lights go out. An eyewink.

Out of nowhere I’m overcome

381 by fragrance of shoeshine. A spaceship scents like this delinking from soil.

The cellist’s patent leather shoes, unprompted, mirror the whole world as ascending.

In heaven

Do masses of paper still come to your ears or do they kiss earth? I heard you wear white sheets up there. That daily to you is passed a paper eye mask ripped off from fairest canopies. You may tear the old one into shreds and make it snow to earth. As for the rest, is it quite void and white as well? I guess not one One City song is heard for summoning the crowds for centuries. We living should glorify the other way around all soils, folks, as manifoldness is not over-top.

Perhaps you saw that to my camera’s added a remoteness lense, in few steps only walkers nudge the horizon. No field is cut out from the show. And they still can’t look over.

For you it will be an old little stogie or the child’s sandal box (‘a coin a show’), verily, I’m aware, just let you know, I’m on the edge, afloat from speech, that kind of aphasy, well, thereof to you I’ll fly these lines, it might express my childish faith enclosing heaven, earth, and you and all white space, thereof not a thing is cut out, no, nothing yet, no thing’s out –

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Yuleisy Cruz Lezcano ( Cuba – Italy)

Published works “Pensieri trasognati per un sogno”, 2013. “Fra distruzione e rinascita: la vita” , 2014. “Diario di una ipocrita”, 2014. “Vita su un ponte di legno”, 2014. “Cuori Attorno a una favola”, 2014. “Tracce di semi sonori con i colori della vita”, 2014. “Sensi da sfogliare”, 2014. “Piccoli fermioni d’amore”, 2015; “ Due amanti noi”, 2015, “Credibili incertezze, 2016” “Frammenti di sole e nebbia sull’Appennino, 2016”, “Soffio di anime erranti”, 2017.

Smile of Life

Do not drink to the sake of the world if you are alone. Love is not saint’s work, it’s not pitiful getaway of an occasional form of mystery, it is not the victory of accepting the lament of another one. Love is made of light that feeds the ominous chasms of the soul, it is not the caressing of trophies, but it is the arrived chant that becomes orchestra when the thirst at that time it goes off in the throat

383 with a life’s smile that on the lips sings.

THE ROSE’ S NAME

Take this cloud blind of petals, hug her in your hand, love this piece of sleeping lymph that can not cry, while losing her life Kiss the flower, seal the love, at dawn, and when the sun rises up, drink as a butterfly the last sigh of the floating flower. Over small barques, an anonymous body of itinerant rose, already distant, it hurts in the throat, where the silence sings in the name of the rose that dies.

I gift you a tear

I gift you a tear hardened by time that rolls between old words that reverberates very deep inside. I gift you a tear that narrows in grief, that it shatters in the memory of a poor dream. I gift you a tear in a blow of pollen, in a gallop of birds

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that does not contain the madness that it remembers. I gift you a tear in an imperfect drop that cries for the universal hunger from the hollow orbits of the eyes. I gift you a tear that goes through the memory prisoner in a drop it slides away.

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Violeta Allmuça (Albania)

Violeta Allmuça was born in 1965 in Bulqiza, Dibër. She graduated in Albanian language - Literature in Tirana. The passion for literature has been to her as a human face that appeared at early age, as one sign that would give a complete form to her life. The author is poetess, prose, essayist, publicist, literary scholar and human rights activist. Her prose is related to the realstories of today's universal society. The spiritual world of characters leads her to essays works. An author of 4 novels, 3 books of poetry and one book of journalism. Her poems are published in varied languages such as in Italian, Croatian, English, Spanish etc. The author's hobby is reading and classical music.

LIFE'S JOY

We in our lives always remember the past As a circle coming around since the day we were born Birds are singing without recognizing freedom Their wings in the sky are the joy of life.

We are living the present longingly Right were our purple memory is born And the fire sparks are breaking the winter's darkness Over the snow where the stars drink a red wine.

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We are still at the center of the future Time is pouring over our shoulders and is rising up Years are passing by and nothing is lost Even though we remained free crusaders on a storm.

I love my dreams that encompass myself and depart in the morning When the sun flower is opening up its head and sitting next to the table With a warm bread from the oven and a white milk In this world we are the architecture of life...

BLESS THE WORD

The word was born on a heart just like an epical stone Here and there traces are appearing The scars are through a body path This is why my word is kept under my skin.

The day is relying on the wings of freedom Midnight is shining and dressed by thunderstorms The Post Master is loading words on a handbag Unloads them every morning on the world's doors

Men, between life and death bless the word The word is crowned on a fire and connects two shores We are birds of memory under a grey dome And have become screaming pilgrims of darkness.

When the dawn is depending on the children's eyes their veins connect the words with the sky Rain is falling, the words are wet on a window glass The horns of thunderstorms are shaking the skie's clowds.

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Vjollca Ajasllari – Koni (Albania – Austria)

Vjollca Ajasllari - Koni was born in July 17th, 1964 in Grevë of Skrapar. She’s been writing poems since in her elementary school banks. The passion for the art of writing would accompany her for lifetime, one passion that would crystallize later, like footprints on sand, her varied poetic volumes. “Time departed me from fatherland, but never spiritually” – Author Kony often says. She always lives with fatherland feeling, with poetry and prose wherever it goes, whenever wind blows her. She’s a member of the Writers' Association “Alexander Moisiu”. Its creativity is dominated by lyricism, but without excluding social and patriotic treatment, inspired by everything that surrounds her. Currently she lives in Austria and is an active part of Albanian societies there. She published: The poetic volume "Bio" – 2013, "Poseidon, this longing of mine", Poetry volume: “Thousands of years, You”

Mask

Bring sin as a burden to the heart, you who kill and steal smiles, burns an old wound more when it is masked with the veil of silence …

UNDERSTAND ME

Like a fairy, I will come to you one day or like the Cinderella in the fairy tale.

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I will leave my smile like a relic, to remember if you miss me.

Without speaking, I would like to understand me with you Looking into your eyes and look at me you too, drops of tears turned into a necklace, tell more than one novel …

In four seasons

You are my nostalgia, how many times have I said it? In four seasons your absence hurts, on moonlit nights, the void becomes cry.

The soul speaks with tears, not with empty words …. Tell me…

DIMMI

How to create the verse When the heart hurts, how to find the expression without calling you by name.

I’m totally lost, a tear goes down … How to heal the wound In this burning fire.

I accompany the autumn nostalgic about you, the wait tires me when I do not see you …

Traslated by Dr. Maria Miraglia

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Zorin Diaconescu (Romania)

Born 1948 in Timișoara, Romania. Graduate of the English Language Department of the Faculty of Letters – Babes-Bolyai University, Cluj, Romania. Building a bridge between Romanian and English – a job for a lifetime. Occasional poet. Translator into English and German, among other books “The Microwave Oven” (Der Mikrowellenherd”) - a novel by Radu Țuculescu, a book well received and reprinted in Germany. I also published two documentary books about the year 1989, “Transfiguration” and “1989, Somewhere, Sometime...”.

IN MY MIND grows a forest no bridge leads to people are playing between trees and bushes people born in another century ready to face a new millenium, they think there are hills in my mind and there is rain lots of blind priests watering what they believe to be flowers snakes are crawling in my mind

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only the dead reach the end of war meanwhile people are busy counting casualties over casualties, for the sake of statistics bets are on are they going to kill my mind or myself first?

LOSING GROUND

I woke up a stranger in a strange land speaking a strange language nobody understands any more busy with crimes, gossip and bullying people came a long way and tired they wonder how short the voyage how brief our lives the ground beneath our feet who took it away?

ONCE UPON A TIME

Once upon a time I thought that our earth will follow the sky Once upon a time I thought that all the birds will return to their homes Once upon a time I thought I used to watch the stars sitting in my native woods and a somehow magic chrystal were about to reveal the waves of the sea breaking nearby

Now my head is all but aches, thinking may be a wish never to become a fact

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A white lance is directed at my head while my nostalgia wanders and wonders just like Once upon a time.

Knocking At the Doors of Silence

The strangest library in the world still unexplored; expecting no battles fought no prisoners taken no kings crowned deep waters of surprise, restrained by a dam

Who wants to actually open that door? … fear, anxiety, routine? Imagination hanging from a board voives whisper, the key is a fake and we have to be out of here by sunrise

Can’t we just pretend? Translate a few lines from the language of silence.

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Dr. Zejnepe Alili – Rexhepi (Macedonia)

Dr. Zejnepe Alili – Rexhepi born on 16th janary 1973 in Tetovo, where she finished her primary school and gymnasium high school. In 1997 she finishes her studies on the branch of the Albanian language and literature in Philological faculty at “ST.Ciril & Methody” University in Skopje. In 2008 she assesses successfuly the theme of the magistrate: “The woman’s figure on the Sterjo Spasse’s novel”, at the Philolgical Faculty – Departament of Philological Faculty in University of Pristina, and gets the title – Magistrate of Philolgical Science. On Decembre of 2009, she enroles the doctorate in the University “ St.Cirili & Methody”, in Skopje, on the theme: “The woman’s characteristics on the characters of Migjeni & G. Flober’s work” and successfuly well defends the Doctorate Disertacion on 14th June 2010.

She published poetical and scientics-literature works: Peng loti (poetry), ”Konica”, Tetovo, 1998; Ëndërr shtegtuese (poetry), “Flaka”, Skopje, 2000; Ujëvara e syrit (poezi), “Ars”, Tetovo, 2007; Ëndërr shtegtuese (poetry,II edition), Tringa-desing, Tetovo, 2007; The woman’s Figure at Sterjo Spasse’s work (literature study), “Ars”, Tetovo, 2009; Under Eros’ power (poeetry), “Ars”, Tetovo, 2011; The woman at Migjeni and Flober ( liter stu.),”Ars”, Tetovo, 2011; Poetics of the narrative literature (stud.and analyse), ArbëriaDesing, Tetovo, 2014.

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Springtime and rain

Ha! You say to shut up?! After that overflow rainfall of Tirana, words evanesce in duskiness. Tirana wants peace and friendship when the rain rinsed ’97 traces of day before, dolor and teardrop remained therein.

But, should we quiet more?! when rainfall of Prishtina denuded, with ’99 cureless wounds among years. Winking to the spring, daystar to take place (to rise) after downfall and screed to fold in quenchless flame.

How to be quiet, when spring still brings rain?! Over the Sun Hill in Tetova, screed for a hand of wet mold increases, where will sprout 2001 amatory hopes for life afterlife, it wouldn’t moan Albanism And the summer again would come to the door!

Mornings of the life

In the mornings of our days, as a squab rose with blood’s color staring, as a lustery love flame. You are hope, image of bliss, you are my life! In retarded afternoons you became late quietness, teardrop as a heat strikes your soul grudging the awry sadness. You are forgotten icon from the time

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that carries back the madness of solitude!

But one day again you will be my amain lived life, one day after the afternoons will digest, to reappear smily morns thee, o my life I will live you with amain!

Verses for the rain

This rebellious rainfall is not resting! Gushing the soul with nostalgy, when I miss you.

Once I hoped, that I won’t write poetry anymore for the rain… not for your yearning.

Impossible… it was a bummer offhand, that grabed me in that time.

The rain didn’t cease, nor with you I didn’t screed! In the eye…rain for a verse, a poetry.

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Zhaneta Barxhaj (Albania)

Zhaneta Barxhaj comes from the city of Tepelena. She is graduated for Albanian Literature at University Of Tirana Albania and then she studied for finance- accounting at the same university. Poetry and writings have accompanied her in the early years . Poems written since adolescence are selected in the poet's first book "The dancer without foot" published in Tirana 2016. In her manuscripts there are other poems and prose which are waiting to be published. Currently lives in Tirana and works in the public administration, dividing life between economics and literature.

***

You' re sleeping. You closed your eyes to your dreams, and I do not know what you see! The sleep robs you from me and makes my night gray.

My light goes off, my eyesight fades, in the waiting hoards. And I wait for the sunrise,

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with eyes swollen by tears of longing, with a fainted smile from the devil's quarrels.

Do you know what he told me while you were asleep? He said that he had peeked in your dreams. That you played and laughed with a silhouette, that you made love with a turtledove. That there, on sunflower of verses you sent me, you embraced...

Now, the sun is rising, you with return to me, it's my turn to sleep now. But, don't listen to the devil, he cannot peek my drem. Yet, if he ever does, just listen to your heart.

***

Sunlight fell on my girth. It singed the glassy skin. My womb bulged and to the sunset's offspring I gave birth.

A suddent outporing over the iodine air. The placenta and the dark cord entailed in a loop the nex day. The sun bursted before my feet and it kissed my shadow.

Translated by Sait Saiti

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Williamsji Mavlei (India)

Williamsji Mavlei is a member of WORLD NATIONS WRITERS UNION as well as a honorary member of one of its World Higher Literary Academic Council (WHLAC ). Also, he is the Regional Chairman of UHE, Peru and the Chief Administrator of Motivational Strips, the world’s best writer’s web and one of it’s Academic Deans. He had won the prestigious Honorary Author award for his literary excellence. A Freelance Journalist from Kerala, Williamsji Maveli, wears his many featured caps with elegance. He has created a place for himself in the world of poetry and literary review writing and contributes regularly to many poetry web sites and groups. Poetry writing for him is a deep passion, and his poetry depicts realities in life, coupled with spirituality in love and longings. Williamsji is currently working as a Freelance web content writer and designer at Bangalore and Cochin in India. Earlier, he had worked for ETISLALAT, THURAYA SATELLITE Corporations, ME PUBLISHERS, KHALEEJ TIMES, GULF NEWS & GULF TODAY – All News Agencies in United Arab Emirates.

BODY IS A TEMPLE

Our body is a temple of temptations, Built – in with sinful deeds and ventures; The aftermath is for purity; This comes only On an accomplishment of life. The soul is a shrine Of affections,

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Made of powerful Pillars and frames; Bones and breasts; The ceremony is for purity This comes only On your entertainment of Love All are Near All are Far In between the dawn mist and the dusk cloud, A cold Windy day ended and had vanished. In the strong Arms of the blue ocean, An innocent low tide wave embraced the shore, In a lovely mood and in its own rhythms,

GIVE ME FEW DROPS

Keep my regards and adore high up, Pour more tears into my poetry cup, Give me few drops from your twilight, This life burns without much a delight, Building fantasies very cavernous inside, Grounded and guarded by debris outside, Still the flames of love stay further alive, Though nothing else left over to believe, This light is so vague and more elusive, As long as you fill light of joy exclusive, Kissing the yellow flames without any timidity, Life is flowing smooth like a river in serenity.

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LOVE IN LIFE

Sweet and lovely memories of you still reside, when it reflects, I cannot keep my thoughts aside, A sense of the vibe in my life, ahead of a pride, And a flavor of those nostalgia in me abide.

Of a long time in my life, years transferred, Taking a wise turn of brilliant days retrieved, Relieving gift of sweet memories redeemed, An innocence of adoration, a love blossomed.

Remembering syrupy words spoken earlier days, Promises were broken by each in many ways, Where we both managed to inflame smiles, Amidst of our long boring days, like snails.

Body vibrates for a long awaited embrace, We both trance of crossing life bound race, in a plea to come nearby and just to touch, A kiss to go on board; and my love to vouch.

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