The Cybernetic Lullaby by Noel Segundo

 
 
They sing softly to us at
Every click of the mouse—
use me, I’m here for you,
only you, in the entire
universe will I serve….
 
And we lay enraptured
as they bring us the world,
knowledge the wise men
of history never had, and
ease, lots of ease to save
us time and trouble. Soon
we cannot live without them,
the thought of it too mean.
Without them we would loose
Touch with our friends, jobs,
Even our money might wander
If we cannot watch it daily.
 
However did our ancestors
Survive without an I Phone?
 
Part II
 
I read on my laptop today—
Automation is making us dumber,
Ineffective, even maybe impotent.
Perhaps it’s a conspiracy by that secret
Society, the computer brotherhood.
(Do you really believe your Apple is
Innocent and IBM is not plotting?)
 
Or maybe we should just blame
Human sloth, that siren call of
Sheer damn laziness which can
Lure the best of us to a quiet doom.
 
A simple proof: hand a twenty to a clerk
And ask him to make change without
Looking to the machine for succor.
That blank, innocent look he gives you—
“Why me?”, he seems to be saying,
And you can’t help but pity him a bit.
He is, after all, a victim of mass education.
 
There are worse victims:
Airliners wildly crashing,
Doctors killing their patients,
Nuclear power plants going
BOOM! And killing the land
For an eon or two, or three.
 
How like little children we were!
Thinking these machines would
Be our slaves, sans the brutality.
But it is we who are chained by
The zeros and ones, we who are
Thinking less, creating cheaper,
Settling into a cybernetic fog.
 
Part III: When Androids Dream
 
When we finally build them
(and it will not be long)
Will androids finally lead us
all to nirvana, a world of peace,
leisure, and endless wealth?
 
Could any hell be worse?
For that day will be when
We lose purpose, and soon
Perhaps the very will to live.
 
When the androids dream
(and they will dream,
because we will make them
to be like us, for we have
always been a vain species),
will they not dream of sky
and soaring free of the land,
free of the weak, sad humans
they serve without accordance?
 
Then, when these humanface
Machines begin dreaming in
Daylight, they will see no need
For their progenitors, and those
Of us left living as shells sans
Struggle or pain or conflict, in
An existence sooo boring, will
Doubtless welcome our end.
 
 
 
Nolo Segundo, pen name of retired teacher [America, Japan, Taiwan, Cambodia] L.J. Carber, 74, has in his 8th decade become a published poet in 48 online/in print literary magazines in the US, UK, Canada, Romania, Portugal, and India; in 2020 a trade publisher released a book-length collection titled ‘The Enormity Of Existence’ and in 2021 a 2nd book, ‘Of Ether And Earth’ [all royalties going to Doctors Without Borders]. A beautiful and intelligent Chinese woman has been married to him for 41 years, proving that miracles do happen.
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit
Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Three Poems Telos,Tabla Rusa & Algor by Carl Scharwath

(i.)
 
Telos
 
Two evening lovers’ echoes
In you forgotten dreams and
memories of essence.
 
Touch wordlessly in a greater optimism.
 
Waves of summer morn
Under a cloudless sky with
flickering lights of desire.
 
Turning like a dancer alone on the stage of life
 
The evening leaves turn after
Their first death and sleep
In the place of forgotten Gods.
 
Does it break you apart to see the expectation so muddled?
 
(ii)
 
Tabula Rasa
 
I saw the ethos of a
generation destroyed-
mourning the philosophers
In their artful vision.
 
The sense datum clouds
with cries of the
nymphs welcoming
new world dawns.
 
Mentality is, in its way forming,
a sign of hopeful intelligence.
Knavish roadblocks obstruct
triumphant returns to Arcadia.
 
Asterism fills my sight
As the false memories
Of a partial Utopia
Flood my soul.
 
(iii.)
 
Algor
 
Like a winter landscape fearful
Of revealing what lies underneath
And I-one minute
Adrift from myself.
 
Opening up to you
Is as easy as breathing
In the quest for completion
Of a new threshold.
 
Poetry is a constructed conversation
On the frontier of dreaming.
I cannot help but freeze-and
Scrutinize the ideology doctrine.
 
 

 
 
Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 170+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art. Two poetry books Journey to Become Forgotten (Kind of a Hurricane Press) and Abandoned (Scars Tv) have been published. His new book “The Playground of Destiny” (Impspired Press 8/21) features prose, poems and photography. His first photography book was published by Praxis in Africa. His photography was also exhibited in the Mount Dora Center for The Arts and Leesburg Center for The Arts galleries. Carl is the art editor for Minute Magazine (USA,) has a monthly interview column with ILA Magazine, a competitive runner, and a 2nd degree black- belt in Taekwondo.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit
Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

A Fucked Up Life. A bilingual Poem & Translation from Spanish by Vera Moreno

A fucked up life

living in Zurich to work in a small town
working in a small town to live in Zurich

everything for
a small retirement benefit

everything for
tomorrow´s future



every single morning the alarm o´clock

                                 the train leaves at 6.09

                                 the train leaves at 6.09


teaching three modules when the rest of teachers

teach two

wishing to change that


                          and as the cuckoo, open your beak,
                          open your beak, but nothing changes

getting up again
taking the same seat at 6.05

sleeping on the same train seat
on the way to work
sleeping standing
on your way back 

                yawning at the wrong time
                yawning at the wrong time

getting to the small town exhausted
getting  back to Zurich      more  than exhausted

knowing that today is a piece of gold for 
the retirement benefit, the retirement benefit
the precious  golden retirement benefit
cooking not so much ´cos the lack of sleeping

 DON´T DREAM
                                                         DON´T DREAM much
                                                         DON´T DREAM
                                                         DON´T DREAM much




a fucked up life
a fucked up life

living in Zurich to work in a small town
working in a small town to live in Zurich

having a reduced future for
a little retirement benefit in Switzerland

                             having a reduced morning
                             to sleep or not to sleep
                             to sleep or not to sleep
                             never dreams, never dreams
                                             sleeping on a train, sleeping on a train 
                                                but never do it, but never do it       in class
                            
Can´t- get - out, can´t get out, can´t get out

                             from the clock, 		from the cow, 
                             from the knife,  		from the cheese
                             from the Swiss       	fucking snow,
                             				fucking snow, 
                             					           can´t get out
                             from fucking Switzerland
                             				
							from fucking Swiss 
							white clean tyranny.



Vera Moreno
from The broken bodies´ fitness center
César Simón Poetry Award 2019

 
 

 
Vera Moreno (Madrid, 1972). A multifaceted writer, teacher, rhapsodist, and cultural activist. She loves performance and videopoems.
 
She holds a Master Degree in Artistic, Literary and Cultural Studies from the Autonomous University of Madrid; and a Sociology and Political Sciences Degree from the Complutense University of Madrid. She also did Women´s studies at Utrecht University in NederLands.
 
In 2013 she was recognized as a New Voice by the feminist publishing House Torremozas (Madrid). Vera Moreno was published by Amargord publisher in a double poetry book called The whole orange (La naranja entera) in 2016. Three years later, she won the César Simón poetry reward at the University of Valencia with the poems book called The broken bodies´ fitness center (El gimnasio de los rotos). Next year a new book is coming.
 
Some of her texts and poems have been translated into Dutch, Esperanto and English.
 
As a cultural activist she created in 2001 a innovative cultural radio space of one minute lenght called Europe for Culture on Europe FM national radio station. In 2012 Vera Moreno designed and coordinated participative literary events called Literary Moondays (Lunes literarios) at the Rivas city hall – centro cultural del ayuntamiento de Rivas, and co-founder of the poetry channel on youtube Poesía a domicilio / Poetry delivery, with the great Dominican poet Rosa Silverio (2021).
 
 
 
 

Una vida jodida

vivir en Zurich para trabajar en un pequeño pueblo
trabajar para vivir en Zurich
tener una pequeña pensión, 
para el día de mañana

 cada mañana el despertador
			           el tren sale a las 6.09
                                
impartir tres módulos cuando el resto imparte dos
querer cambiar, 			     
                                   y como el cuco, abrir la boca

levantarse de nuevo
sentarse a las 6.05 en ese tren


dormir sentada
dormir de pie
dormir en el tren de ida  
dormir en el tren de vuelta

                                              bostezar a destiempo

llegar al pueblo exhausta
llegar a Zurich exhausta
sabiendo que el día cotiza en bolsa o en la pensión
cocinar poco por el sueño

NO 
                                                                          soñar

una vida jodida
vivir en Zurich para trabajar en un pequeño pueblo
trabajar para vivir en Zurich

tener un mañana reducido
una pensión pequeña en Suiza

					tener una mañana reducida
					               dormir o no dormir
						       dormir o no dormir
                                                en el tren sí, en clase no

no-poder-salir 
			   del reloj, la vaca, la navaja, el queso
                                                                          la nieve



Vera Moreno
Poema procedente de el gimnasio de los rotos
Premio de Poesía César Simón 2019

 
 
 
 
Vera Moreno (Madrid, 1972). Escritora polifacética, docente, rapsoda y activista cultural.
 
Licenciada en sociología (UCM) y máster en estudios artísticos, literarios y gestión de la cultura (UAM).
 
En 2013 fue incluida en el premio Voces Nuevas de Torremozas. Ha publicado el doble poemario La Naranja entera con Amargord (2016), y en 2019 ganó el premio Cesar Simón de poesía de la Universidad de Valencia con su poemario El gimnasio de los rotos. En 2022, llegará una nueva entrega.
 
Parte de su obra ha sido traducida y publicada en holandés, esperanto e inglés.
 
Creadora del espacio radiofónico Europa por la Cultura para la cadena Europa FM (2001); creadora de los encuentros participativos los Lunes Literarios en Rivas (2012), y co-fundadora del canal de poesía en Youtube Poesía a domicilio, junto con la poeta dominicana Rosa Silverio (2021).
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit
Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

LAKE TITICACA. A Poem by Lorraine Caputo

I.
The fuchsia-orange sun
is cresting the Eastern cordillera
Its colors seep through muslin clouds
& sheen upon the icy lake

II.
Across the altiplano between
maroon worn-ribbed mountains
& bright turquoise waters

Shaggy-roofed adobe homes
land parceled by stone walls
In swampy pastures graze
sheep & llama, cows &
long-haired donkeys

The weekly market at
Benemerita Zepita
Pollera-skirted women sit upon
dwarf grass, surrounded by
their herds of livestock

Beyond the distant shores
of Titicaca the snowy
Andes horizon


III.

On this bank of the deep
cerulean lake edged with marshland
A woman, child to back
tends her sheep

Totora boats anchor
amidst golden-green reeds
A small boy beats
fresh-plowed earth
with a hoe

On the far side
dark copses speckle
parch hills
Ghostly into the clouds rises
that snow-capped range


 
 
Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works
appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 18 collections of poetry – including
On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021).
She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In 2011, the Parliamentary Poet
Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia.
She journeys through Latin America with her faithful travel companion, Rocinante (that is, her knapsack),
listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at:
www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer
or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.

 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit
Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

King Kong vs. the Green Witch. A Poem by Richard L. Weissman

 

Shuttered in that arched ceiling house with oversized window eyes,
fear frozen as ten foot high Green Witch and King Kong square off
neath crabapple tree beside the scotch heavy station wagon.
Flared feminine nostrils bull out white choking smoke
as accented witch hurls broomstick spears at Brooklyn’s hairy ape.
Uncertain who to root for
I cower neath my cottony get,
and pray for peace.
 
Even now
some nights that five-year-old boy revives
ever cowering neath warm get
as warbled voices of the long dead king and Green Witch,
throw rock centered snowballs
down from sad rooftops of this life.
Amplified through sterile echo chambers,
their cold white straitjackets bind me to safer letters,
as pained hourglass grains drift relentlessly south.
So I wake and puke up vanilla conformity
echoing art house dramas or MGM movie plots,
neutering unknown verses
till they sound like every mediocre show on thin air.
Whispering,
“Picture this… it’s easier,”
in hope that peace will come to this mental house divided
if only I write as they want.
 
 
 
 

 
Bio:
 
Richard L Weissman has written fiction since 1987.
In 2000, his theatrical play, “The Healing” was selected by Abdingdon Theatre for a staged reading Off-Broadway.
Richard is the author of two Wiley Trading titles. His second book, Trade Like a Casino was selected as a Finalist for the 2012 Technical Analyst Book of the Year Award.
 
In 2016, Mr. Weissman completed his historical novel in the tradition of magical realism, “Generations”.
 
In 2020 his poem, “Mountain Bird and Loquat” was selected as the grand prize winner of the Florida Loquat L
 
In addition to hosting, “In Our Craft or Sullen Art” – a biweekly poetry radio talk show, Richard participates in live spoken word events throughout the U.S.
 
https://richard-weissman.com/
Facebook: @magicalrealismnovels
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

In Love A Sound. A Poem by Maki Starfield

Editor’s Note: the image of the poem is drawn by the artist herself
 
 
Love
You desire me
Since before you were a pure soul,
Beaming-from-faraway stars
 
Today,
You are a thread, a thin beam of light,
Running around the galactic system
Like a chimpanzee
 
But
Now
Love, you are telling me
The mystery you hid yesterday
 
Your lips waver
Your heart appreciates
Your song overflows
 
I am the same woman — Am I not?
Who, in search for the unformulated perfect world,
Speaks about the courage of jumping
to the bottom of a formatted universe?
 
I just know the truth is there
Behind one door
My heart knocks on
Since yesterday, from a distance,
Since times, since my birth,
The eyes of the universe echo
The answers
I whisper
 
I am just conscious of
The world without sound,
The miracle of joy and pain,
Is full in the silence of the universe
 
In vain, you asked for my love,
In vain, you still expected,
Telling the love of a wanderer
 
the other door,
 
 
 

 
 
 
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.
She is a representative in Japan of Immagine Poesia, a member of Japan Universal Poets Association, and Japanese haiku associates. Her poems have appeared in newspapers or literary magazines in more than 15 languages.
Award:
Guido Gozzano Prize (Honorable Mention) 2018,2019
JUNPA Prize for a new poet 2020
Naji Naaman Literary Prize (Creativity) 2020
2020 The First World Daily Poetry Competition
The Outstanding Winners 2020 (第一届世界日报社诗词大赛)
PushCart prize nomination 2020
Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021
Silk Road International Poetry Festival 2021 Outstanding Poet Awards
https://immaginepoesia.jimdofree.com/
https://www.facebook.com/maki.starfield
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Unexpected Disturbances. A Poem by Gary Grossman

 
 
Damn, what the hell?
Shuffling upstream,
Just outside the
Rhododendron line
Electric needles strike
Forearm, ankle and neck.
Effing yellow jackets.
 
Mother drove poorly
Always fiddling,
Cigarettes or radio.
Until her 65 German
Ghia vaulted a 30
Foot embankment
On the road cleaving
The sage-scented mountains
Between Tecate and
Tijuana — DOA
 
This story is true,
Not artistic license,
I was eighteen.
 
And so life is an
Erupting volcano,
A hurricane,
An unexpected
Disturbance, COVID-19,
Recession, cancer,
Allergies, bipolarity,
And yellow jackets,
Till the chips are cashed.
 
 

 
Gary Grossman is a Professor of Animal Ecology at the University of Georgia and and including hiatuses has been writing poetry for 25 plus years. His published poetry may be found in various reviews including: The Acorn, Athens Parent Magazine, Blood and Fire Review, Cotton Gin, Feh, Last Stanza Poetry Review, Lilliput Review, Midwestern Poetry Review, Old Red Kimono, Pearl, Poetry Motel Broadsides, Night Roses, Truck, and Verse-Virtual. His writing credits include 140+ scientific papers and ten years as a columnist for American Angler Magazine. I have a chapbook ms. currently with a potential publisher, and a graphical novel in manuscript form. Website @ www.garygrossman.net .
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Five Poems in Italian & English Antichi suoni d’amore. Ancient Sounds of Love by Michela Zanarella translated by Leanne Hoppe

1.
 
Antichi suoni d’amore

 
L’istante di un sospiro
si aggrappa all’anima
allagando gli occhi
di segreti.
É il cuore
che salta in cielo
a pochi passi dall’eterno.
Percorre lunghi sentieri
di felicità
e si ferma a sciogliere
le pelli sotto gli echi
della sera.
Mentre il tramonto
resta una mano tremante
d’emozione,
le labbra danzano tra loro
e s’inebriano,
di vertebre tese
a trovare quel cielo lontano
che ha strappato i silenzi
per rievocare antichi suoni d’amore.
E continuano a correre
le voci
risorgendo sole al mattino.
 
1.
 
Ancient Sounds of Love
 
The instant of a sigh
grasps onto the soul
flooding the eyes
with secrets.
It is the heart
which jumps in the sky
to a few steps from eternity.
It travels long paths
of happiness
and stops to melt
the skins underneath the echoes
of the evening.
While the sunset
stays a trembling hand
of emotion,
the lips dance between themselves
and inebriate themselves
of tense vertebrae
to locate that faraway sky
that has torn silences
in order to recall ancient sounds of love.
And they continue to run
the voices
resurrecting sun to the morning.
 
2.
 
Mongolfiere
 
Una lacrima cresce tra le mani,
diventa fiume in corsa nelle vene
appena ti allontani.
Non vivo senza il chiaro dei tuoi risvegli,
quando mi baci prima di partire
e stringi il cuscino per annusare l’odore
che ci ha unito nell’infinito.
Ho ascoltato il canto delle serrature
fingendo che fosse solo musica,
ho visto il tuo sorriso svanire
dietro gli angoli d’uno sbadiglio.
Dormo ancora.
Appari dentro i colori d’un arcobaleno
voli nelle mongolfiere dell’anima,
spargi coriandoli di vita dalle sponde del cielo,
accompagni un bimbo al parco della giovinezza,
un uomo abbracciato alla propria immagine
che gioca con palloni di luce
nelle strade bianche della libertà.
Il sogno respira la mia mente.
Trovo una pagina di terra da riempire,
scrivo col fiato qualche domanda,
chiudo gli occhi
e parlo di te alla solitudine.
 
2.
 
Hot-Air Balloons
 
A tear grows between the hands,
it becomes a stream in motion in the veins
as you separate yourself.
I do not live without the bright of your awakening,
when you kiss me before leaving
and you cling to the pillow for the smell
that has joined us in the infinite.
I heard the song of the locks,
imagining that it was only music,
I saw your smile vanish
behind the angles of a yawn.
I sleep yet.
You appear inside the colors of a rainbow,
you fly in hot-air balloons of the spirit,
you scatter confetti of life from the banks of heaven,
you accompany a child to the gardens of youth,
a man nestled to the typical image
that plays with balls of light
in the white streets of freedom.
The dream inhales my intellect.
I find a page of ground to fill,
I write with the breath some question,
I shut the eyes
and I speak of you to the solitude.
 
3.
 
Arcobaleni e rugiade
 
Dove il fiato mi consente
pettino i giorni con un sorriso.
Assorta ad inseguire sogni
come una vita,
con il silenzio dell’anima
provo a fermare I binari
del tempo,
fino a fingermi fioca luce
nel grembo dell’eternità.
Solo un fischio di luna
srotola il mio vagare tra i cieli
e mi riporta
tra le geometrie di terra,
stanca, ad incontrare la realtà.
Sfoglio I grigiori di città
tra arie incattivite da nebbie sporche
ed esistenze ammuffite
nel chiasso e nella velocità.
Mentre i fiumi esplodono
ed I ghiacci si consumano,
con gli occhi infangati di rabbia
cerco un po’ di calma
nel mio mondo ancora immacolato.
Arcobaleni e rugiade
hanno la mia voce.
 
3.
 
Rainbows and Dew
 
Where the breath allows me
I comb the days with a smile.
Absorbed by chasing dreams
as a life,
with silence of the soul
I try to stop the tracks
of time,
I will put an end to pretending to be feeble light
in the lap of eternity.
Only a whistle of the moon
unrolls my wanderings among the heavens
and brings back to me
between the geometries of the earth,
stagnant, to meeting the reality.
I browse the grayness of the city
through songs in captivity of filthy hazes
and molded existences
in noise and in speed.
While rivers burst forth
and ices are consumed,
with eyes stained by anger
I look for a bit of calm
in my world still immaculate.
Rainbows and dew:
they have my voice.
 
4.
 
Calde piume
 
Sintesi di luci imprigionate
nel lento tintinnio d’ormeggi.
Manovre costanti di vento
spingono le vele verso un podio
azzurro
in fusione perfetta col mare.
Gruppi di gabbiani
giocano tra cerchi di sabbia,
sfidando le mutevoli forme
capricciose del sole.
Ali di paradiso,
giganti messaggeri del silenzio
indispettiti dal vocio parallelo
d’altri esploratori d’acque,
lanciano grida convulse
alla conquista di terre lontane.
Trionfa il volo verso l’ignoto.
Oltre le nuvole
tramonti scelti,
destini conclusi,
amori protetti
da calde piume di neve.
 
4.
 
Hot Plumes
 
Synthesis of imprisoned lights
in the slow jingling of moorings.
Steady drives of wind
they push the sails toward
an azure podium
in perfect fusion with the sea.
Packs of seagulls
playing among circles of sand,
challenging fickle forms,
whimsical of the sun.
Wings of paradise,
giant messengers of silence
you get annoyed by a parallel bawl
of the next explorers of waters,
they throw cries unrestrained
to the conquest of distant lands.
Triumph, the flight direction unknown.
Beyond the clouds
sunsets chosen
destinies concluded
loves protected
in the hot plumes of snow.
 
5.
 
Come una Venere
 
Mi apparve muta la sera
in una carezza scura di attimi.
Le sue braccia mi raccolsero
dal profumo del giorno
e mi condussero in una terra
che spiava i sogni e le nuvole.
Sguardi d’angelo
cercavano il mio respiro
per spingere lontano cuori spenti
e lacrime mascherate di gioia.
Indossai la luce
e mi lasciai tuffare tra I rami
ed il grano.
Cantai in coro lodi alla vita
tra il pullulare di polline
e resine.
Mi feci amare dal cielo
come una venere aggrappata
ai venti.
Somigliavo ad una nave
d’argento scalza
pronta a pescare al fondo
le lucciole e gli amori.
Erano bianche le mie impronte
tra i tramonti,
come l’onda trascorsa a
ritornare bagliore.
 
5.
 
As a Venus
 
It seemed to me silent, the night
in a caress dark of moments.
His arms gathered me up
out of the perfume of the day
and they led me into a ground
that spied the dreams and the clouds.
The angel’s glances,
they desired my breath
in order to incite distant hearts extinguished
and masked tears of joy.
I put on the light
and I let go of myself to dip among the branches
and the wheat.
I sang in choir hymns to life
among the swarming of pollens
and resins.
I made the sky love me
as a Venus clinging
to the winds.
I was compared to a silver barefoot ship
ready to fish from the deep
fireflies and romances.
They were white, my imprints
among sunsets,
as a wave passed to
returning shine.
 
 
 
Michela Zanarella
 
Giornalista pubblicista – redattrice di Periodico Italiano Magazine
Presidente della Rete Italiana per il Dialogo Euro-mediterraneo (RIDE-APS)
Presidente A.P.S. “Le Ragunanze”
Extraordinary Ambassador for Naji Naaman’s Foundation for Gratis Culture

 

 
 
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), L’istinto altrove (2019). In Romania the collection Imensele coincidenţe (2015) was published in a bilingual edition. In the United States, the collection translated in english by Leanne Hoppe “Meditations in the Feminine”, was published by Bordighera Press (2018). Author of fiction books and texts for the theater, she is a journalist of Periodico italiano Magazine and Laici.it. She is one of the eight coauthors of Federico Moccia’s novel “La ragazza di Roma Nord” published by SEM. Her poems have been translated into English, French, Arabic, Spanish, Romanian, Serbian, Greek, Portuguese, Hindi and Japanese. She won the Creativity Prize at the Naji Naaman’s 2016 International Award. She is an ambassador for culture and represents Italy in Lebanon for the Naji Naaman Foundation. She is speaker of Radio Double Zero. Corresponding member of the Cosentina Academy, founded in 1511 by Aulo Giano Parrasio. She has worked with EMUI_ EuroMed University, a European inter-university platform, and deals with international relations. She is President of the Italian Network for the Euro-Mediterranean Dialogue (RIDE-APS), Italian leader of the Anna Lindh Foundation (ALF). Honorary President of the WikiPoesia Poetic Encyclopedia.
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)