ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - Each individual poem is copyrighted - Tous droits réservés
TUTTI I DIRITTI RISERVATI. Il copyright di ogni poesia appartiene ad ogni singolo autore
The poems are published in order of arrival
Poesie pubblicate in ordine di arrivo
Les poèmes sont publiés par ordre d'arrivée
Poetry & Light
Huguette Bertrand, Canada
LA VILLE JOYEUSE
Par un beau soir d'été
les étoiles n'ont pas brillé
au-dessus de la ville
comme à l'accoutumée
personne n'osait sortir
dans la nuit profonde
de peur d'être pourchassé
par des ombres mal intentionnés
pour chasser toutes les frayeurs
un génie sortit de sa lampe
dans cette ville en détresse
pour d'une rue à l'autre
allumer tous les réverbères
en multiples jets de couleurs
les fontaines étaient heureuses
les étoile jalouses sont réapparues
au-dessus de cette ville joyeuse
d'avoir eu un tel génie survenu
maintenant disparu dans la nuit
avec pour nom Guido Chiarelli
Huguette Bertrand, Canada
THE HAPPY CITY
On a beautiful summer evening
the stars did not shine
over the city
as usual
no one dared to go out
in the depth of the night
for fear of being chased
by ill-intentioned shadows
to chase away all fears
a genie came out of his lamp
in this city in distress
and from one street to another
lighted up all the street lamps
in multiple spurts of colours
the fountains were happy
the jealous stars reappeared
over this joyous city
to have had such a genie
who appeared in that night
and now remembered
as Guido Chiarelli
traduit le 18 octobre 2022 par H. Bertrand
#lightsforthecity
French-Canadian poet and editor, Huguette Bertrand has published 39 poetry books. Her poems were published in printed and online international journals and anthologies and translated in many languages.
http://www.espacepoetique.com https://www.facebook.com/huguette.bertrand.9
Gabriel Rosenstock, Ireland
Stanley H. Barkan, U.S.A.
STREETLAMPS
Her marquee smiles—
Streetlamps gawking
in the alleyways
where blind cats
rummage in the dark.
Mirror eyes
reflect the souls
of passers-by
flashing in the neon smoke,
green cigarettes
in their glowing mouths.
Only the mannequin windows
mock her painted lips.
#lightsforthecity
_____________
UNDER THE STREETLAMP
Bird on a streetlamp
lit over the sidewalk
where a man—
no longer young—
sits on the edge,
feet spread out,
laces untied,
face full of gray & yellow,
eyes downcast
into the black asphalt,
wearing an open shirt,
a vest, a sweater, and a jacket
although the sun is out
and it is late summer.
He waits for the sunrays
to hide behind the red-brick walk-ups
with their frontal fire escapes
over the graffitied storefronts
and ailanthus palms
on East 13th Street
between Avenues A & B.
The bird flies off,
but the man remains,
waiting, still waiting
for the sundown shade
to cover him completely.
#lightsforthecity
SICILIAN LIGHT
Even when
the summer sun
hides behind
a black cloud
or falls into the sea
between the Egadi isles
of Levanzo & Favignana,
large & red,
as if it were the end
of the first day,
the birth of the earth.
Even after,
the light seems to linger,
as if the Sicilian earth
were a source of light itself,
competing with moon & stars.
Even when
the mouth is parched
the stomach empty,
the sheer exquisite beauty
of Sicilian light
suffuses the spirit.
For a time
no candle, lamp,
or hearthfire
is needed
in or outside
the casuzze
of the people
of the sun.
They themselves
are lucence
emitting rays
that light the way
between them,
the olive groves,
the neat rows
of vineyards,
the fields of melons,
the almond trees,
branches heavy
with green pods
bursting with
the seeds
of Sicilian light.
casuzze —huts where the farmers would
rest during the harvesting.
(28 May 2000, Gibellina)
—Stanley H. Barkan
LUCI DI SICILIA
Puru quannu
lu suli, di staciuni
s’ammuccia darré
na furana niura
o tracodda
tra Levanzu e Favignana
granni e russu
comu siddu fussi la fini
di lu primu jornu,
chiddu di la nascita di la vita …
puru tannu,
la luci pari addimurari
comu si la Sicilia, idda stissa
fussi surgiva di luci
paraggia di la luna e di li stiddi.
Puru quannu
lu balataru è siccu
e la panza vacanti,
la grazia chi sgridda
di la luci di Sicilia
arricria l’anima.
Nudda stiarica, allura
nudda lampa
nuddu cufularu,
dintra o fora
li casuzzi
di li figghi
di lu suli.
Chì iddi, iddi stissi
su’ luci
- chi abbrisci
cu vrazza gravusi
li pedi di mennulu e di alivu
li filari di zucchi
li chiani di miluni -
e simenza
di la luci, di Sicilia.
—Translated by Marco Scalabrino
from Raisins with Almonds / Pàssuli cu mènnuli)
____
THE CHARM OF THE URBAN LANDSCAPE
CLOTHESLINES
Out back
behind the restaurant
the black wrought-iron stairwell
winding way up to the second and third stories
all the way to the rooftop overlooking the yards
in the middle of the block of Caroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
Ailanthus trees, like palms, are oases in the desert
of asphalt, ashcans, cement, concrete, and steel.
Climbing up, up, like rising out of the lower depths of passion,
the circles spiraling to the height of thought and vision.
Beyond the cyclone fence separating this yard from the others,
the clothesline poles, rows and rows of them, a metal forest.
The past creaks with pulleys turning in the present wind.
Flashes of white sheets waving in the infrequent breeze,
respite in the hot wet summers of our childhood.
Faces out the windows calling to neighbors across the yards,
“Buon giorno, Signora Levy! Come stai?”
“Gut morgen, Mrs. Capello. How’s by you?”
Clothespins dangle on the ropes covered with sparrows,
darting down through the weeds of the little gardens.
Tiger lilies high above the dandelions seeking a patch of sky.
A baby cries. A Spalding flies over the rooftops.
Out back, just behind the eyes, you can still see the neighbors
gulping beer, drinking wine, sipping lemonade.
The clotheslines are gone. And the pulleys are still.
But the poles remain, remnant of time not technical,
full of faces and voices and hungers and hopes.
Listen carefully, you can still hear the creaking of the wheels.
(September 17, 1994)
___
TO A BROOKLYN POET
for Menke Katz
Build me no monuments in Borough Park, Statues for wild pigeons to decorate.
Let no one scurry through my attic
Nibbling bits and pieces of my life
Over the inkwells and the broken cups.
Just let my words live freely in the
Land of Manna, the third heaven,
Where only children play, delighting in honey milk Of the stars and mooncakes of the angels. O Lord, let the insects sing my lyrics,
The worms feast on the flesh of my soul,
The furry beasts make selahs for each dawn.
___
UNDER THE WILIAMSBURG BRIDGE
for Menke Katz and Yussel Greenspan
“People died not so much from hunger as despair.”
—About the Great Depression
Barging under
the Williamsburg Bridge
—over the river of forgetfulness—
the stacks of bodies
of the faceless dead
on the way to potter’s field.
Who knows them—
these strugglers against
days without work
nights without hope?
Even the masters
of the sky-pricking towers
are stretched out
nameless
picked from the waters
of Babylon.
We sit and wonder
under the Williamsburg Bridge,
hatless, coatless,
shivering in the wind and spray,
mouth agape for apples
and hard rolls purchased
five for a nickel.
Between bites
of bread and apple,
we shout out poems
for these passing piles
laid out like heaps for dumps.
After the slashed-white wake,
we startle at ourselves
reflected in the glass-black waves.
------
Stanley H. Barkan, (USA), publisher of Cross-Cultural Communications 50th Anniversary in 2020. As an original poet, published in 29 languages. Latest: More Mishpocheh (TSQ, Wales: 2018).
Andrea Cacopardo, Italy
LAMPIONI
Di seta filigrana volta,
Bambagia sagoma, al chiaror condensa,
In folgore albor caligine di fioco inverno,
Filar lampioni arteria,
In scarna nebbia trama
Voltaico pergolar barbaglio a vigna
Rigida,lenta lanterna oliar di caglio e bruma
Bruta solstizia tenebra d' esausta veglia,
Di ferma mestizia incanto al volto federa
Torpor d' uggioso cuor trasale abisso,
Filar lampioni arteria, ardor felpato passo...
Andrea Cacopardo
#lightsforthecity
Andrea Cacopardo (Italia). Classe 1977, per diversi anni chitarrista attivo all'interno di diverse rock band, attualmente si dedica alla scrittura con
passione e attingendo a una musicalità irriverente e giocosa.
Ha pubblicato con l'editore Libereria le raccolte: "Filastrofe Musifoniche", "Filamenti Metaforici", "Anamnesi d'enfasi".
Nishi Chawla, U.S.A.
Lights Around Their Exiled Lives
Each session, a master class in perfection,
Endless rituals of manicuring, as if seeking
Refuge in the fragile laws of artifice, overturning
Their exile in the pink breath of their beauty trade.
Lost in thought, they scrub and recoil from their
Memories, acetone heavy nets hung from the sky,
As if a pedicure’s manifold repetitions could soak
And soften, rub away the dragging feet of past.
Gently prepare a basin full of coconut milk
Push back the dead skin cells, life’s ugly truths
Reshaped, clean up the cuticles, where desire
Exists. Rinse, pat dry, a Vietnamese street name.
They dabble with all colors, greens, blues, pinks,
Or even those of bloodshed. Wrap each foot in wet
Towels, massage the calves, slaughter those angry
Thoughts, paint over the base ones of a no return.
French tips, shellac polish, acrylic plastic, gel,
A few lifestyle choices mixed into the oils and
Lotions, rinse thoroughly lest those mangled
Thoughts, like the fading colors, chip down.
Between the cutting and shaping, between
The mixing and matching, between the crossing
Of paths, in wacky color combinations,
Another liberation would follow them.
So they lean up, glitter manicuring,
Mapping the trimmed cuticles, insert the slick
Nails in indifferent waters, of irony, a gritty kind
Of short cut to beauty’s other shore. Beaver like.
---
The Lights Switch on
As in a game ordered by someone, shade or star,
As in a fine oblivion of dates and names,
We wait, in the shadow of the tall grass,
For a trick of appearing, of disappearing.
As in a card game, the king dominates, breaking
All illusions of belonging, though we try to
Break through the walls, push them aside,
Strive for clear, stable and firm ground.
As in a game of waiting, stop or start,
As in a game of uncertainty, diamonds and jacks,
Unscrewed from their shining, smooth structures,
We toss fistfuls of them into the air.
As in a ball game, there is soft precision,
If not of wandering, then a flustered painful
Glimpse, as messengers run back and forth,
The hope contained in a darkening sky.
As in a game of cops and robbers, there is
Always a finite dodge, capture time, random graph,
Connected undirected paths, planar graphs,
Repeated positions, grids, hypercubes, until.
---
The Light Falls on the Select
They had wanted to be the true blue blood type,
So money came; lots of it even destroyed their
Confrontational logic. The rage devil possessed,
In a new land of fat abundance, richly disorienting.
Brick by brick, they laid the loud foundation
Buying the most expensive house, to haunt
Their luxurious whims, glass candy walls, pools,
And nothing left for scope of the metadata.
Turfs, themed home theater, bath fixtures, crystal
Chandeliers, private walkway, jaw dropping, nor
Bohemian in its audacity, and lived in it as
Complete strangers, lost in their own haughty look.
Never crude or boorish, they yearned for
Upper crusted attention; only their family back
Home wondered, squirmed with doubt and loathing,
Seeing them with fewer friends, driving Bentleys.
They even joked about themselves as beltway
Robbers, sub-contracting, squeezing their guts,
Obsessive, about government; neither wear
flashy jewelry, nor brand item clothing.
They vaunt their new minted success
With quiet glory, egos larger than their grand
And plush carpets, or buy paintings that can
Feed a village for a year, double edged drive.
Build class, not by haughty looks, but those that
Calm, mix race with a bit of whiteness, complicit
With power, like flamingoes passing for cranes,
Mute witness underneath their false dreaming.
---
Southalls All Over the West
The Sikhs, the Hindus, the Muslims, sleep together in
Rented sheds, built against civic laws, rogue landlords;
An incredible divinity needs no tongued troubles here,
A Christian spirit flourishes, do not expect applause. Brilliant.
A safe haven in housing projects, like a cultural nirvana,
Brown skinned miracles arise every day in the main drag,
Punjabi lassi, spicy tandoori chicken, samosas stuffed with
Ginger spiced potatoes, evoke aroma of a past. Chandni Chowk.
Finding their own individual song here, the noisy eloquence
Of Bollywood evoked, bhangra music plays, brash, loud, along
With aaloo poori, garlic infused curries meld. Mirch Masala.
Hold on to roots, with tandoori lamb ribs, dressed with mint
chutney, all downed with frothy desi beer; wear colorful sexy
sarees, make a strong statement, resist, fight back. Shehnshah.
Held by the past, brown culture thriving in its colors, a lively
Village fete, a mela with desi ghee laden curry fans and health
Conscious, destroy a genteel European way of living. Watan.
Hard pressed to find fragrant spices, meated grills, Indian fruits
And vegetables, a rang birangi outpost, Punjabi culture glowing
Warrior spirit dipped in stuffed hot paranthas. Desi Dragon.
Bonded and glued to community, struggling with local ties,
Some move out, as if ‘Made It’ is a snakes and ladder game,
Leave behind Spice Village, Asia Kabob House, Delhi Wala.
A ghetto is a ghetto, loving and warm, embracing life;
Hands that clasp you around your chest, Embrace this
human heart, beating, aching to move over, climb higher.
Food smells authentic, hot, with human smells, crafted
In holes in the walls that breathe, live, warmly so. Broadway,
Lahore Karachi, Shravan Bhavan, brown wealth defined.
---
The Lights in Chinatown
The last time I saw that ornamental Paifang,
The old woman sat at the herbal shop with fresh sliced ginseng,
Hanging her head over her loose herbs, roots, and barks,
Hypnotized by her apothecary help, his survivor tales sung
Under the ceremonial arched gateway, raucous, lively.
Elixirs that helped the hours fly by, endless, uncounted.
My story unfolding as a strange old song, an endlessly
Lonely and strange song, a stranger, an estranged city,
Its narrow alleys, dim sum teahouses, Chinese temples
promising protection, dark descending in fairy blue neon
lights, Guan Yu stroking my cheek, those imagined horrors
buried under Confucian control, the gold line balanced.
Dragon Gate, those hidden stories of a vanishing era,
The firecrackers dazzling the Chinese new year, gateway
To a new score, flowing from the source, the wooden carvings,
Roasted duck, pork buns, dried fish, homemade noodles,
Dim sum; nothing appeased the Gods nor me, walking under
The strung lanterns, the pagoda roofs, un-homed, disheveled.
The kitsch shops the same, the sidewalks skewed, exotically
Ordered, my stranger self-returns, an empty script rewritten,
Older and richer body, emblazoned prosperity shines nakedly,
On my gated community face, until my speech begins to betray,
Its own mythical beasts, its aromas, cacophony of cold regret.
Its intricate designs carved on my ten million dollar home,
Those Daoist and Buddhist altars, worshipped tirelessly, my
Gigantically empty master bedroom stares at them; the salted fish
pines, fermented mushrooms and fungi seethe with boredom,
Uneaten, bleak souvenirs of a wasted marriage, oil paintings
Colored with fortune cookie base; super structured, gone to seed.
Homeless in my home; homeless in Chinatown, as it were.
Nishi Chawla (USA)
#lightsforthecity
___
Nishi Chawla (USA) is a well-known poet, playwright, filmmaker and a long standing academician. She has published two novels, seven volumes of poetry and ten plays. She has also made three feature films. She holds a Ph.D. in English from the George Washington University, Washington D. C., USA, and a post doctorate from Johns Hopkins University, USA
Wlliam Heyen, U.S.A.
Curved Street
The Croisette (for those of you who have not been there) is a curved street
that rings the Mediterranean
at Cannes. It was dark except for hotel lights, my friend heard music,
he drifted there
into those sounds to a lobby where he first met the man he would marry,
an actor whose name
you would recognize. My friend’s life without his beloved now after
their thirty years together
is a curved street that rings the Mediterranean at Cannes from where,
in darkness,
he heard prophetic music & followed that ringed street of rapture
to his lover.
William Heyen
#lightsforthecity
Amir Or, Israel
Haiku Citylog
Daybreak in the alley
The streetcleaner is sweeping
Heaps of yesterday
The morning orchestra
Only percussionists
The smell of rain
Intermittently
Through the poplar's foliage
A sky, a bird
An arrow of chirps
Above the poinciana tree.
Where, birds, are you off to?
A 'Stop' traffic sign:
On my way back home
A roadkill cat
Linden blossom
Fills the air with memories
Of someone else.
Night, there's no one
In the public garden
Earth is moaning
Night on my bed
The smell of your body
Doesn't fall asleep
Inhaling, exhaling
A full moon,
The night is breathing
Emptiness at last
Not a feather is left on
The wings of the city
AMIR OR
Translated by Seth Michelson
#charmofurbanlandscape
AMIR OR (Israel) (b. Tel Aviv, 1956) is the 2020 Golden Wreath laureate, and winner of numerous other literary awards. Published 14 poetry books, 2 novels, an Essays' selection, and 12 volumes of his translations. His work was translated to over 50 languages, and published in 43 books in Europe, America and Asia.
Gloria Keh, Singapore
ODE TO LIGHT
I cannot imagine a world without light
I fear to think of empty streets
desolate
and gloomy
sans the glow
of stately street lights
standing sentinnel
amid the darkness of the night.
Light is an amazing blessing.
A miracle that lightens the way
Paving the path
Adding a touch of romance
and luminosity
after the sun sets over the horizon.
Be it a flickering light
from a solitary candle
Or a dancing light
from a blazing campfire
or a cosy fireplace
Light spells comfort
warms the heart
endearingly nurturing
body mind and spirit.
I am in The Light
as moonbeams dance
in the still of the night.
I am of The Light
as the sun beats down
upon the sandy shore
changing the shimmering colors
of warm gentle waves.
I am The Light
as I merge with The Light
becoming one with it,
whilst basking
in the wonder
of my soul.
Gloria Keh
#lightsforthecity
Gloria Keh lives in Singapore. An artist, who
began painting since childhood, Gloria enjoys writing poetry and making bookart.
www.gloriakeh.com
San Lin Tun (Myanmar)
You and I
I and You
Met in a back alley,
In the darkest night,
Under street lamps.
We are totally strangers.
A drunken man in the deserted street,
Lying, cursed “TSK” quite loud,
Under his alcoholic breath.
When a rat run over,
His unkempt and filthy body.
Far distance, a trumpet sounded,
Resounded a droopy jazz tune,
Caressing the sensuous body
Of a total silent night,
Enjoying musical ecstasy.
San Lin Tun
#lightsforthecity
TO THE MAN WHO LIVED IN 29TH STREET
He who loved Yangon streets, not because Fraser’s city’s plan,
Nor Lord Dalhousie’s dreams; simply, he fell in love with the cosmopolitan city.
What he found in it was amazing, he said to his best friend,
That there are treasures hidden in these streets,
Digging those up when he had a chance.
Among other things, authors like Rudyard Kipling,
George Orwell, Pablo Neruda, Paul Theroux, Ludu Sein Win, and Aung Cheit
Inspired him greatly while he was living in Yangon.
He really loved the literary life, and being an author,
He even managed to finish his doctorate in creative writing.
He walked freely in the maze of streets, wide and small,
Slinging his red bag on his left shoulder, with his panama hat,
His Apple laptop and quick-to-smile expression,
Making friends with locals, no discrimination towards age or gender,
He loved chatting, joking, philosophizing, and venturing,
A true global citizen and down-to-earth personality.
In his neighborhood in 29th street, he was known as ‘‘Mr Bob’’,
And well-liked by his friends and peers, showing their willingness,
And comfort in his association; they saw humour in him, and a quick wit,
He made their existence more meaningful and strengthened their identity,
To them, he was a sensible, true man.
Among his fascinations were Art House movies,
Also, Raymond Carver’s books; he had a liking for old books,
Postcards, and posters which he managed to revive again,
On the stagnant walls of residents, expats and locals alike,
With his creative sense, and human touch.
Among his many success is ‘‘Walking the Streets of Yangon’’,
Which has become the Bible to those who like to explore the city’s life,
He embossed his name in the city of Yangon, living fully in it,
Never wasting his time, always exploring and discovering,
He is remembered, not just on 29th Street, not just in Yangon.
San Lin Tun
#charmofurbanlandscape
San Lin Tun (Myanmar) is a freelance writer of essays, poetry, short story and novel in Myanmar and English. He has published over ten English books including his novel “An English Writer” at Goodnovel. His writings have appeared in local and international literary magazines. He lives in Yangon, Myanmar (Burma).
Maid Corbic, Bosnia ed Erzegovina
ENCHANTING CITY LIGHTS
I prefer people to those
Who understands the meaning of love?
That in the evening I still look at the sky.
How spacious it is and my knowledge begins
Just right now then
I did not know that the meaning of everything was only
To love myself and this world that only
He lets me know that I am not alone.
Even when at least
I hope in my life
Aware that the meaning of everything is only
City's lights are important
I spread love and give new life
For other people around you with pride
I looked around
As I am, I would give everything I have
Alone and the world will be good for women and beautiful
Because it's nice when I still believe in everything.
That also surrounds me every night.
While I'm writing only to you
And I know that having you is an infinite beauty.
But the meaning of life is to love this life.
Because I'm unique when I have you by my side.
And the love miracle is right for mine
Eyes dreamed of this love!
Maid Corbic
#lightsforthecity
Maid Corbic from Tuzla (Bosnia ed Erzegovina) is 22 years old. In his spare time, he writes poetry that has been praised and awarded several times. He also selflessly helps others around him and is the moderator of the WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for unity and world peace in Bhutan.
Pavol Janik, Slovakia
NIGHT BUS
I admire the smiles
of the wax figures
and the drunks.
Their faith.
Their humility.
Their precision.
Their infallible wisdom
determined by the office of normalization.
I admire
their wallpapered souls
full of light and brocade.
Their responsibility and legality
surpassing
the price of taxis and wine.
I’m terrified by the indifference
with which they listen
to the heavy breathing of the last trolley buses.
PAVOL JANIK
Translated into English by James Sutherland Smith
PAVOL JANIK | POEM "NIGHT BUS" translated into NEPALI by Keshab Sigdel | Published by NEPALI Literary Magazine "Kalashree" | 2020
| page 415 http://pavoljanik.sk/lit/
#charmofurbanlandscape
This virtuoso of Slovak literature, Pavol Janik, is a poet, dramatist, prose writer, translator, publicist and copywriter. His literary activities focus mainly on poetry. His works are translated in many languages and published in different countries.
http://thepoetsland.blogspot.com/p/pavol-janik-referencesit.html
Tareq Samin, Bangladesh
At Morges and an afternoon at the bank of Geneva lake
Walking can be a lovely experience
when you are in a new land.
the pictorial landscape
the silence, the raindrops.
The seagulls, the boats and the fisherman
at the port of Morges
at the bank of Geneva lake.
Being alone and loneliness not always crush
when you have water, lakes, mountains and the giant Sequoias
And they whisper! you are not alone
you are among us, you are with us
and we are too.
Tareq Samin
First published on: https://synchchaos.com/poetry-
#charmofurbanlandscape
Tareq Samin is a Bangladeshi Author. His poems are translated in more than 20 languages including English, Spanish, Chinese, German, French, Italian etc. Also
his poems, short stories and articles are published in more than 25 countries.
Maristella Angeli, Italy
Maristella Angeli: Fiori Metropolitani
La città illuminata
Luci stellate in città
vie illuminate a festa
lampioni come lucciole brillanti
la buia notte festeggia
la vita si fa strada
tra vie e parchi
tra ampolle pulsanti
cuori che palpitano
alla beltà
che allo sguardo appare
l’incanto
negli occhi rapiti
Maristella Angeli
#lightsforthecity
Maristella Angeli (Italia) è una poetessa, scrittrice fantasy e pittrice che ha sempre sentito il bisogno di esprimersi in diverse forme artistiche.
Ha pubblicato dieci raccolte poetiche, due romanzi fantasy, una raccolta di racconti e ha esposto i suoi dipinti in personali artistiche, eventi nazionali e internazionali.
Sito: https://www.maristellaangeli.it/
http://www.antipodes.it/autori/scheda.asp?id=32
Maristella Angeli: poetessa e pittrice
Professional Artist IAA/AIAP – Unesco Official Partner
Sandrine Davin, France
L’horizon est sans fin
Entre le bitume
Et les racines
Les cendres du soleil
En sombre lumière
Au loin
Un terrain vague
Où la lune joue à cache-cache
- Dans la poussière d’étoiles
Une ombre divague -
Sandrine Davin
#lightsforthecity
Sandrine DAVIN (France) est née le 15/12/1975 à Grenoble où elle réside toujours.
Elle est auteure de poésie contemporaine inspirée des tankas, elle a édité 15 recueils de poésie dont le dernier s’intitule « Fracture de terre » aux Editions TheBookEdition.
Binod Dawadi, Nepal
The Charms of Cities by Night
There are the beautiful street lamps,
They are in the golden, as well as,
White colours,
They give brightness in the dark night,
They also gives the beautiful landscape,
As well as cityscape,
We think we are in another world,
We are very much enjoying in the city,
Here we can get a kinds of the,
Needed things,
In the night time light is showing,
It's presence by glowing we can see nature,
We can see the beautiful moon,
As well as beautiful stars in the sky,
This gives us so much happiness,
To live in a city is a matter,
Of the gift of the God,
To make our life happier,
We forgot ourselves and involve us,
With the lights in the city which are doing it's work regularly.
Binod Dawadi
#lightsforthecity
Binod Dawadi (Nepal) from Purano Naikap 13, Kathmandu, Nepal.
He is a writer, teacher and a social worker.
He has worked in more than 1000 Anthologies. The Power Of Words is the debut poetry collection of author Binod Dawadi, edited by bestselling author Sydnie Beaupré.
John Karajoli ( Ιωάννης Καραζόλη ), Greece/Syria
The city lights
We walk so happy we all discuss everything together
So we laugh, we scream, we make fun under the beautiful lights, we even hurry and run together
At some point we are noisy and then we turn it into the journey of silence for a moment
Happiness still unites us under the bright lights
We are noisy and crazy
We do not want to stop walking
The dark streets of silence were far away from us
It was a night paradise
Above our heads, the bright lights keep our hearts full of pleasure
This is the sweet story of the city lights
That keeps our love for joy and happiness a life forever.
JOHN KARAJOLI -
Ιωάννης Καραζόλη
#lightsforthecity
.
John Karajoli is a Greek poet, born in Syria from a family of Kurdish origin. He is a member of the Litterateurs Association of Northern Greece and of the cultural social institution “Amphictyonic League of Hellenism”. He received ‘Honorary Distinction’ at the 4th International Poetic Contest on “Hellenic speech, Light of the World” (Thessaloniki, May 3rd, 2014. His work under the title “Colors of an Era “was published in the magazine “Critique of Language and Art , positions and views “ (50th issue ,May –July 2015). He became a member of WIP and Peace Ambassador Branch of SYRIA in 2018.
Sandro Orlandi, Italy
Sandro Orlandi: Il lampione (fine art photo)
Dolce ricordo
Alla luce di questo lampione
giallo ocra sul selciato
solitario ti aspettavo
timoroso e agitato
Un bacio nella notte
nella pioggia sottile
sotto un ombrello per due
a sognare la nostra sorte
C’era attesa, speranza di felicità,
c’era la vita davanti
promessa di immortalità
Passati sono gli anni
di quel bacio rimane il calore
e la stessa pioggia sottile
bagna ancora il nostro amore.
Sandro Orlandi
#lightsforthecity
Sandro Orlandi, nato a Roma, è medico ospedaliero in pensione che ha sempre sentito l’irreprimibile bisogno di esprimersi attraverso la scrittura, sia che fosse una poesia, un brano musicale, un racconto, un saggio o un romanzo. Ha al suo attivo diverse pubblicazioni e riconoscimenti, oltre che due cd di brani musicali.
Maria Mistrioti, Greece
Maria Mistrioti is a Greek poetess, who lives in Chalkida of Evia, Greece.
She is mainly inspired by the Homeric Odyssey. She has published many poetry collections and some literary studies. She is included in Greek and foreign anthologies and her poems have been translated in many languages. Maria Mistrioti was awarded with special Greek and International Literary Prizes, like the HOMER & IANICIUS International and the State Prize –Medal and Special diploma by the Polish Ministry- Of the Culture Prizes-. She is an Organizer of International Poetry Festivals in Greece.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon, Mauritius
Street lamps of Roses
When the light in my heart dimmed,
When my logical vision was lost in blurriness,
When all roads were dead end fangs,
When I stumbled, got hurt and
prayed,
You came.
Oh, the hands that uplifted my soul!
You lit the pink, orange, green, and yellow
fluorescent roses –
thousands of street lamps for the beloved;
You hinted at me.
I was bewildered by the perfect symmetry
of your face,
Demi - God, mortal man or Creator!
Tonight, you light the whole city,
You brighten the paths of thousands.
For me, you spread the lights to my heartbeats,
And as per your witty daring request,
under the street lamp priding the half- pink
and half- green of eye catchiness,
I will kiss you and confess my love.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon
#lightsforthecity
Vatsala Radhakeesoon (Mauritius) has been writing poetry for 30 years and is the
author of numerous poetry books. She is also an abstract artist and likes to experiment various possibilities that bless Art.
Vatsala is a literary translator and currently lives at Rose-Hill, Mauritius.
Ахадов, Эльдар Алихасович, Россия / Azerbajan
#lightsforthecity
Eldar Akhadov (Россия /)Azerbaijan) is an honorary member of the Union of Writers of Azerbaijan, a member of the Union of Writers of Russia, a member of the South Russian Union of Writers, a member of the Geographical Society of Russia, the author of 67 books of poetry and prose. https://az.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eldar_%C6%8Fh%C9%99dov
Donatella Nardin, Italy
Luci e ombre su Torino
Sbatte contro i lampioni accesi
e i tigli neri di Gozzano l’autunno,
in liquide forme cade a terra
e si decompone la luce,
non l’ombra che, passeggiando
di notte lungo i viali del tempo,
tenta di strapparsi dalla pelle
solitudine e malinconia.
Che sia l’ombra amatissima
“ del poeta della luce “?
Chissà!
In quel rievocare si risveglia
argentata una stella, temeraria
allarga a fiore il suo chiarore
ricordandoci gli affetti preziosi,
oro la luce che tutto smisura,
tenerissima luce che appellandosi
al suo mistero un po’ ci accora.
Haiku
Luci a Torino-
biancolieve l’aurora
spegne i lampioni.
Donatella Nardin
#lightsforthecity
Donatella Nardin (Italia) è nata e vive a Cavallino Treporti- Venezia. Appassionata da sempre di scrittura, soprattutto poetica, ha ricevuto per questa sua attività numerosi premi e riconoscimenti - circa 160 - in diversi Concorsi Letterari. In poesia ha pubblicato per le Ed. Il Fiorino In attesa di cielo e Le ragioni dell’oro, per Fara Ed. Terre d’acqua e Rosa del battito.