***
Collective of the graves
Black raven lost in white snow
You remain silent
The silence is still as ambiguous as before the funeral

***
Returning home is near
Counterbattery fire
Burst intestines are covered in painful spots
Eat vomit because we all have eat and die
They say war is a milky night mother
After all one born from the night

Must someday return home to the darkness

***

I grow in the dew under the branches of the heavy arms of the forest I am the grass mown by time, rain, sun, hope you are a candle that burns only in the blinding heat you are the rain that waters the cemetery paths we can’t find each other we can only be snow and everything around is white as if nothing had happened and it’s over forever like a paper book about a felled tree the snow continues its path off-road

***

I don’t know why a graveyard crawled out from under my bed

I don’t know why all the flowers are tied with a mourning ribbon

“We bury the old world” – says the bird and dies

The agony of the cemetery bursts like a vein

Mothers sew dresses for their daughters from their vaginas

Daughters marry soldiers

Mosquitoes drink the blood of the universe

Cats dream of a bowl of blood with a drop of milk

Military pilots fly to the smell of blood

People are insects – at least mosquitoes

***

sakura is silent

calm bird drinks silence

***

spring is like a drowning

we drink damp heat

time to go to bed

***

the frog drinks from the bowl of autumn

water and air mix with each other

***

autumn colors stuck to the skin

the leaves underfoot beg for help

***

Getting to know silence

The clouds in the sky burst silently

The veins on the arm burst silently

The dead cry silently

Thunder rumbles without any unnecessary sounds

Fish heads don’t scream

Even mosquitoes don’t squeak

A military pilot prepared to drop a quiet (but only for the time being) air bomb

***

the existence of clouds for the sake of the existence of rain

the creation of man for the sake of the creation of god

I know everything in the world except the truth

***

The future is water

The future is a spit

I collect spit and tears

I pretend that the cemetery is a space rocket

I pretend I’m going to the stars

But in fact I’m picking mushrooms in the forest after an explosion in the forest near Hiroshima

***

Religion was invented for those 

Who have not yet died

Each of us dreams of being Jesus Christ

Each of us is a baby

Вut where are the Magi

5 new pieces

***
lips emerge from the evening gloomy snow
lights of blueberry nights teach the eyes to sleep

and if your face floats in silence
noiselessly and invisibly
then I will still draw your features
in every rustle of a winter evening

I love you even though you don’t have a name
you will be the black square of my triangular heart
you will be immense and inexplicable
and then I will run out of gouache
and your face will be painted with my blood

from where
do you get your name if I’m selling you to make money
do I really love you if I sell your features for money
?

I don’t love you at all and I don’t know you at all
no one cares for anyone in the snowy space

I teach your lips to sleep I pacify your lips
your name is a black square
we all live in portrait frames and only

snow

and only snow
and only snow
and only snow

***
The legacy of silence grows among the reeds of what is forgotten
Life never ends and silence goes to sleep in a tired cemetery

A girl flies like a swallow through the concrete night painting time with a brush
Too much water and the paint is completely stale and the teacher scolds

The orphanage speaks silently to the blizzard
And on the next street, a retirement home sails into the sky with its sails spread

The final stop
The final goal
The middle silence

***
What’s hiding behind the window glass? The rain falls asleep. Red splashes flow down from top to bottom. The emptiness shines. Silence mumbles. Rifles whistle. The fires are raging. Warheads play with birds. Houses turn into bloodthirsty monsters and swallow the future. Explosions scream. The baby sleeps in a cradle and dreams. Window frames whisper to the walls. A window will never become a mirror for time flowing down like water into a toilet. And what, after all, is hiding behind the glass?

***
The bird does not know what silence is and sings songs with its cut throat

***
Tree looking for an apple
The tree is looking for a child

The body is growing
The body is getting old

The cell searches for the soul
And the soul has died

***
What is emptiness
In the hands of a beggar is an empty can of cola with change

What is loneliness
This is when birds still return home from warm countries
Аnd you look out the window and realize that these birds are no longer (none?never?) a flock

***
every evening the bird thinks about the sky
every night the cell thinks about emptiness
every morning feathers dream of flight
every noon the beak begs for alms

every new bird day is a small escape from the past and present
the shores play with the waves in sighs, cries of silence and knocks of inevitability
the bird learns to walk again on the hot sand, but its legs don’t obey

every moment of wasted flight is an expectation of death
a bird flies forgetting about its legs just because it can fly
what is the meaning of flight and where does the water of time flow?

every bird hides a cemetery in its nest
each leg hides cement in its nest
every head hides meaninglessness in its nest
every void expands to the horizon line
and there’s nothing beyond the horizon

The city covered in white snow,

Now the children are playing in the snow.

An example of white cream is sugar,

Therefore, eat children.

All together harmoniously and harmoniously,

But the cold weather hurts.

But our warm affection, affection,

It’s our palm.

Let’s go sledding and play in the snow.

We are constantly thinking about the New Year.

A group of children gathered,

We are making a beautiful snowman.

Maria Miraglia is a poet, essayist, translator, and peace activist. Her commitment to human rights and peace activism is evident in her long-standing memberships in Amnesty International, Ican, and the International Observatory for Human Rights. She is Vice President of the World Movement for the Defense of Children) – Kenya and the founder of the World Peace Foundation.

Dr. Miraglia’s influence on contemporary literature is significant. As a cosmopolitan Italian writer, her academic curriculum is impressive, placing her among the stars of the literary world. She is a founding member and Literary Director of the Pablo Neruda Association and a member of several editorial boards of international literary magazines;

Member of the International Writers Association; Member of the International Academy Mihai Eminescu; Honorary Member of United Nations of Letters; Poet Laureate 2018, WNWU; and World Poet Laureate and Golden Medal 2020 – Xi’an, China;
Miraglia writes in Italian, English, or both languages. Her poems have been translated into over thirty languages and are prominent in over one hundred anthologies worldwide.

Miraglia is a writer with considerable skills. She has an exquisite imagination; her style is lucid, transparent in thought, philosophical and meaningful in substance. She can skillfully intertwine emotions and creativity, philosophy, logic and reason, giving her poems an air of new beauty. She expresses her broad humanity, magnanimity, aesthetic abilities, delicate sensitivity and concern for global peace and harmony. Her originality makes her a truly brilliant writer.

Dr Miraglia Maria Antonietta
Literary Director of P. Neruda
Founder President of WFP.
Member of the European Academy of Science and Arts- Salzburg

………

Interview conducted by

Eva Petropoulou Lianou 

Please share your thoughts about the future of literature.

Literature has always held fundamental importance in developing societies, and it seems right to recognise poetry’s merit as the first means of spreading knowledge when writing did not yet exist. With the advent of printing, access to culture became more manageable, but even today, masses of individuals are not granted this privilege. Culture is the only tool that can facilitate social mobility, improve economic conditions, and provide a better quality of life. However, in many areas of the world, young people are not even given access to basic education. This is especially true for women, who remain subjected to a slavery that is not only economic but also intellectual, depriving them of individual choices.

The Good and the Bad. Who is winning nowadays?

I was born in a Catholic country where the belief in an individual’s struggle between good and evil has always been present. Beyond Catholic thought, historical facts tell us of a world in which struggles have prevailed, a world in which wars have continually devastated entire countries and created tears and death. And even today, the media inundates us with news of the same type that sometimes makes hope difficult. This does not mean that we should give up, on the contrary, we should increasingly commit our forces so that men can live in harmony so that the idea of justice does not remain in the pages of the codes, and there is a better distribution of wealth.

For this to happen, everyone must be allowed compulsory education without gender distinction. Only knowledge can help people make better choices in every social sector. I want to address a cry for help to intellectuals so that they become champions of a rebirth of consciences. It is easy to make the responsibility of conducting public welfare fall on the people in power. We must also ask ourselves who put them in that position and why. The masses have tremendous power that they may not realize.

How many books have you written, and when can we find your books?

Twenty-one of my poetry anthologies have been published, mainly in Italian and English but also in Arabic, Telugu, Hindi, and many other languages. I have enjoyed translating some of the most appreciated contemporary authors. My poems are also in over one hundred anthologies in various Italian and international magazines and have been translated into over thirty languages.

My books can be found on Amazon.

The book. E-book or hard book. What will be the future? 

I wish for any form of diffusion of books, even though I prefer the paper form. I can read and reread a text, mark it, and consider it a personal object to take and take again over time.

A Wish for 2025

I am a woman of peace. Some international organisations have kindly wanted to give me the honour of being an ambassador of peace. It is in this role that last year I presented, together with a group of various authors, in the council hall of the municipalities of Assisi, a city universally recognised as a centre of peace, the book “Give Me Peace – Anicia Editore.” Peace and harmony between peoples require education in welcoming and accepting diversity, yet schools in all countries forget education in goodness and beauty. Young people are induced to compete, not collaborate, which is one of the attitudes we should work on.

A phrase from your book

…………..

women and men on earth  

in holy silence

for the massacre and horror

could sense the fear

of the little martyrs

of the human foolishness

hear their cries

imaging the violated bodies

the tears of their mothers

their eternal mourning

From Martyrs of Human Foolishness  – Coloured Butterflies

Gaza, the Land of Resilience

Oh Gaza, cradle of ancient cries,

Beneath your sky where sorrow lies.

Your streets bear tales of courage untold,

A city of fire, steadfast and bold.

The winds hum songs of a broken dream,

Yet your spirit shines in every gleam.

Through shattered homes and fractured land,

You rise again with a steady hand.

The olive trees whisper their lore,

Of days of peace they once bore.

Now, roots hold firm in the scarred terrain,

A symbol of hope amidst the pain.

Don Bormon is a student of grade ten in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

How Many?

I’m suddenly frightened, scared to death, actually. I feel a little dizzy and breathless. I crack open another beer, in order to forget what might be facing me. I’m losing my memory and there’s nothing I can do about it.

It was subtle at first: what singer sang Fast Car, a tune that was popular more than 30 years ago? Try as I might, I couldn’t recall. It’s not like my short-term memory is evaporating, which is an early indication of Alzheimers. And it’s not like I can’t remember what day it is or the name of the president. Those were the questions the neurologist asked my dad when he was diagnosed at age 80, more than 20 years before. So what am I worried about? On the other hand, all my mom and dad’s brothers and sisters suffered profound dementia prior to their deaths.

As I drink my beer, I wonder: how many beers have I already had? I can’t remember. And have I eaten? Did I take my medicine yet? What is the name of that singer? Next I try to retrive a document on my PC, but I get confused; I forget how to do it! Dammit!

Dad was just 10 years older than I am now when his memory began to fail. Today when I was out and about, people stared at me as if they didn’t know what I was talking about, as if I’d said something which didn’t compute, didn’t make sense. Instantly, I forgot what I’d just said. Did I say something to upset that young female cashier? Did me mistake me for some kind of masher? Do they even use that expression anymore? God, I’m old!

Back home again, I stride into the next room with purpose, only to discover that I didn’t know why I’ve come. And I don’t even remember coming back home. I open another beer; this makes…how many? 

UNPOETIC THOUGHTS

[Saying anything and getting caught is not a  literary virtue, it is an unliterary activity. The best in literature are things which spin the words and images round and round and the reader has to shoot an arrow into the eye of the floating fish, looking at its image in the water. [Draupadi’s Swaymbara] ]

Dr Jernail Singh Anand

Broken lines which carry sophisticated ideas are not poetry, unless they evoke emotions which blend disparate elements of experience into a unified whole. The final feeling should not be of a broken experience, but a unified entity, whispering to the soul. If the poet does not whisper to the soul, it lacks in essentialities.

When we talk of a common subject like love, on an extensive scale, is the broken heart of a poet so important to the world? Is it important to tell the world how it was broken and where its splinters are lying? Does the world expect such lavish wastefulness from the poet? If poets are irrelevant to the world today, it is precisely because they sing of their personal sorrow, and sing too much, which fails to connect with the mass mind.

Metaphor as a smoke-screen

Is it important to postpone finally saying something and trying to find metaphors, so that abstract images could say, what the poet is so scared to say in plain words? A metaphor is not always an adornment. In these politicis-ridden times, most of the times it is used as a smoke screen.  

A poem’s message is like a needle to be found in a chaff store. The poet talks loosely about clouds, flowers, rivers, oceans, moon. – good images, and sometimes soothing too, but the message… Oh, I am sorry, does the poet have any message to convey? Or just to fiddle with words, images and enjoy and make the reader enjoy his word patterns, which have expertise in not saying anything.  Saying anything and getting caught is not a  literary virtue, it is an unliterary activity. The best in literature are things which spin the words and images round and round and the reader has to shoot an arrow into the eye of the floating fish, looking at its image in the water. [Draupadi’s Swaymbara]

So difficult it is to find the meaning of a poem. And finally, if the reader says, “the poet says this” agains there are eyebrows. It is not the poet, it is the poem that says something. So, the text says, the poem says, … this is the fad. The poet has nothing to say. He only put some words together. Forged some images. Which are now lying before you. Try to read into them and say what you find them say.

A post-modern reading of Paradise Lost can be rewarding.  Let us forget what Milton has to say about “to justify the ways of God to man”.. The invocation becomes absolutely irrelevant in which he invokes the Muse to let him sing of the disobedience of man which brought death in the world. How can Milton dare to utter these words? It is all irrelevant. Leave invocation. Let us move straight into the text.

Love for the Workshop

If text is our focus, we can go beyond Milton. The message has no significance. What is important is the text, and using the text, bring a staircase, stepping down into its interior, let us move in the dark chambers of Milton’s mind.  What he says, has no relevance. What he did not say, is important. Move in.

Everyone who enters this talisman finds something different and challenging. So, that is our study of poetry. Finally to put out a broken spectacle because, a verse, if we take the words to enter into the poets mind, will take us into a factory area where tools are lying scattered. Are we interested in the workshop or the finished product? I think entering a sweet seller’s pantry cannot be a rewarding experience. Better to enjoy the sight of the silver-covered sweets, and still better, to taste a few of them, and praise the sweet maker, rather than de-kneading the flour and sugar that went into it and following them from which mill the flour came and from which factory, the sugar came.

Bio:

Dr Jernail Singh Anand, President of the International Academy of Ethics, is author of 170 books in English poetry, fiction, non-fiction, philosophy and spirituality. He was recently awarded Seneca Award by the Academy of Philosophical Arts and Sciences Bari. [Italy -19/10/2024]. He also won Charter of Morava, the great Award by Serbian Writers Association, Belgrade and his name was engraved on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He was awarded Doctor of Philosophy [Honoris Causa] by the University of Engg and Management, Jaipur. Recently, he organized an International Conference on Culture, Values and Ethics at Pune.  His most phenomenal books are Lustus:The Prince of Darkness [first epic of the Mahkaal Trilogy]. And Philosophia  de Anand, a work of philosophy which has under one roof, ten of his philosophical works. [Email: anandjs55@yahoo.com Mobile: 919876652401[Whatsapp] [ethicsacademy.co.in]

Link Bibliography:

https://atunispoetry.com/2023/12/08/indian-author-dr-jernail-s-anand-honoured-at-the-60th-belgrade-international-meeting-of-writers/

https://sites.google.com/view/bibliography-dr-jernal-singh/home