Rome. An astonishing Mega-Event and Spectacle dedicated to Dante Alighieri on Via Margutta—a Street linked to Fellini, Picasso, Gregory Peck, Audrey Hepburn. Billy Wilder Celebrated in SF and Naples.

By Federico Wardal

Rome. In early December of last year, *Il Messaggero*—a newspaper that frequently reaches one million readers a day—published a massive article about me (https://www.ilmessaggero.it/roma/eventi/wardal_amato_da_fellini_da_hollywood-9232025.html?refresh_ce), an article that would restore my full renown throughout Italy. Around Christmastime, a magical encounter took place between myself and Tina and Teresa Zurlo—the curators of one of Europe’s most important art galleries. 

It is located  at number 90 on the legendary Via Margutta, this street is inextricably linked to my mentor, Federico Fellini (who lived at number 110), as well as to Pablo Picasso; it is also famously known as the setting for the film *Roman Holiday*, starring Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn, which was filmed at number 51. 

Via Margutta also played a starring role during the years of Fellini’s *La Dolce Vita* and the era of his paparazzi—foremost among them the globally famous and celebrated Rino Barillari, known as “The King.” 

During our meeting, the Zurlo sisters and I discussed Fellini, as well as a major exhibition dedicated to him by the renowned painter Mario Russo—an event graced by the exceptional presence of his daughter, the famous actress Adriana Russo, serving as its godmother. However, as I was unable to return to Rome due to filming commitments in Hollywood, I sent a video message offering my greetings and recalling my personal bond with Fellini. The video proved to be a great success, and the brilliant Zurlo sisters subsequently informed me that they wanted me to serve as the absolute star of a grand event dedicated to the “Supreme Poet ” Dante Alighieri—an event that would extend into a subsequent tribute to Pier Paolo Pasolini and Dario Bellezza.

Inspired, I bring forth—from “the strata of the rock of history”—a short theatrical piece titled: *Dante, Pasolini, Dario Bellezza, Wardal: Infernal… all of them*. It is a reverse journey for the poet Virgil, who guides Dante into the contemporary world of Pasolini, Dario Bellezza (a friend of mine), and myself. Enrico Bernard—a playwright and director of exceptional caliber—directs me; the popular flutist Andrea Ceccomori graces the performance with magical musical moments (much like in the film *Anita*); and Antonio Zaru has designed for me a floor-length tunic of “Inferno-red” sequins.

My entrance is planned to take place from a luxurious automobile—naturally, also “Inferno-red.” An event constructed from such elements—never before blended in this way—has already circled the globe before it has even taken place. The glamour enveloping the event serves as a garment through which—with increasing clarity—emerge political, social, and moral issues: questions regarding peace, and the rampant psychological toxicity pervading both personal relationships and fluid modern connections. It feels as though a “Golden Age of Hollywood” has returned—a legacy that belongs to me through my friendships with Alfred Hitchcock and Billy Wilder. Indeed, I am bringing Billy Wilder back into our present times, envisioning him as the potential protagonist of a mega-event spanning San Francisco and Pompeii—the latter being close to Ischia and Sorrento, where Wilder filmed *Avanti!* with Jack Lemmon.

From the Cannes Film Festival, stars are already booking their attendance for the Roman event scheduled for May 22nd; meanwhile, in Egypt, *The Times International*—edited by Ibrahim Shehata—has published a fascinating article on the subject: https://www.thetimesinternational.com/?p=169588. A flurry of activity is currently underway, forging connections between an American film festival—active across California, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and New York State—and the Vesuvius Film Festival in Pompeii, presided over by architect Giovanna D’Amodio. Meanwhile, the film *Anita*—based on a poem by the hero Garibaldi and a winner at both the SF New Concept IFF and the Vesuvius FF—is enjoying special screenings in Brazil at the Gramado IFF, as well as at Andrea Priori’s Cortintelvi IFF (located between Como and Milan); it has also garnered interest in France at the *Festival International du film d’histoire*.

By now, the role of “puppeteer” seems to be taking hold of me—a role I embrace in order to bring to life these cultural and artistic bridges that constitute my lifelong dream. The very latest news concerns the event scheduled for May 22nd in Rome: the occasion will be graced by exceptional patrons—the legendary impresario of Tina Turner, Domenico Modugno, and the longtime head of the Sanremo Festival, Adriano Aragozzini—alongside Francesco Garibaldi Hibbert, a direct descendant of the “Hero of Two Worlds” who is currently making waves in the film world with *Anita* (a film about his famous ancestress, Anita Garibaldi). The event’s distinguished hostess will be the great actress Adriana Russo. Also taking center stage will be prominent ladies such as the Hon. Angela Alioto and *Cavaliere* Silvia Gardin.

We anticipate a veritable flood of VIPs, aristocrats, academics, stars (whose names we will reveal only after the performance), and filmmakers—including, of course, the performance’s director, Enrico Bernard. They will be joined by directors Antonello Altamura (*Ancient Taste of Death: The Sinister Legend of Wardal*)—who has a “top-secret” surprise in store!—as well as Andrea Marfori (*SHEMSU-HOR*), Jason Zavaleta (*Start on Market*), Sherif El-Azma (*Al-Maza*), and Jennifer Glee (*Narcisse Fluid*). All will be there with me, accompanied by the stars of their respective films—my heartfelt thanks to them all! Also in attendance will be director Agostino Marfella, who, like me, shares a theatrical bond with the poet Dario Bellezza.

But hopefully, all of this will be replicated live in NYC, LA, SF, and the Bay Area—and certainly on both Italian (TV programs featuring Maria Luisa Lo Monte) and American television networks.

Sea Pelicans Balcony and Jellyfish 

I entered the water but had noticed other people did not. Yet there were no sign or verbal warnings about anything. The sea in a storm season had somehow riled and stirred everything and people were getting almost immediately stung by jellyfish upon entry. And I was next. 

I didn’t realize at first, just that my body ached and itched and I got right out and tried different things. Water cold. Pool water.  Air. Nothing worked. A doctor came and gave me some medicine, and we could see the line on the arm that extended far across the inner arm that was swollen. After a while I felt well, not in crisis. 

But the doctor came back and said she was worried because that medicine is supposed to be liquid not solid, that it had gotten old. I said not to worry, and she stood watching the sea eating an ice cream cone. 

At the night I sat on the balcony and read For Whom the Bell Tolls under a soft yellow electric lamp. A lizard, the small type, watched this from the stucco wall. This was in Puerto Morelos. I slept a bit and began reading again inside the morning. Beautiful pelicans that looked like dinosaur things flew. I stood and stretched. Things would be okay. I’d avoid the sea for a while, certainly. But things would be okay. There were passages from the novel written so well I had to just pause and stare at the sky, wondering how Hemingway had done that. Ya, things were well enough, having Hemingway and that balcony. Besides, they had a good pool on the grounds. 

WITHOUT ANY REASON!

In search of faithfulness in this world 

I got to know I was in wrong address 

And my life hasn’t become complete 

My shortcomings were ignored though

I was punished without any reason

If I live on I feel like torturing myself 

And I go out fetching God in her heart

The person this heart sincerely seeks

There is always a mystery in the air

My days & nights are upset without you.

SLIGHT IMPRESSION!

You came to my world and disappeared

Next moment ; I thought several times 

That first look with a slight impression 

Why does it make my heart so restless 

Your smiling back with sweet glances

I don’t know what you are waiting for

Am I the one whom you trust so much

Why I have this feeling time and again

The buds of rosy lips have blossomed

Is it due to the passion of your heart ?

MARK OF BLEMISH!

We will flow in the air , cloud and rain

As you’re my rain and I’m your cloud 

If I’m not yours,I won’t be anyone else’s 

Know not why the world is jealous of us

It’s not mark of blemish but kohl of love

An illness in accordance to this world 

But the ones in love know it as divinity 

The twist of love and life has brought us

I’m deep darkness and you’re my dawn

A lost traveller, I’m yours and you’re mine

It may be infatuation if love is one-sided

But ours is love for each other , isn’t it ?

 THE TALK OF THE TOWN!

My morning has already come smiling

New dreams even with eyes wide open

An indication that happiness is lurking 

Radiant morning and uplifting breeze 

Being drenched, she runs into my arms 

An angel with lovely tune of her anklets 

The talk of the town is soft and smooth 

Though old, fresh seem conversations 

Beyond all thoughts this life moves on

I am a bud blooming at your first sight 

Find myself dissolved in thy love genuine

And I would love to find my muse in you.

Sahitya Ratnakar Dr Prasana Kumar Dalai.

(DOB 07/06/1973) is a passionate Indian Author-cum- bilingual poet while a tremendous Asst Professor of English by profession in the Ganjam district of Odisha. He is an accomplished source of inspiration for young generation of India. His free verse on Romantic and melancholic poems appreciated by everyone. He belongs to a small typical village Nandiagada of Ganjam District,the state of Odisha.After schooling he studied intermediate and Graduated in Kabisurjya Baladev vigyan Mahavidyalaya then M A in English from Berhampur University PhD in language and literature and D. Litt from Colombian poetic house from South America.

He promotes his specific writings around the world literature and trades with multiple stems that are related to current issues based on his observation and experiences that needs urgent attention. He is an award-winning writer who has achieved various laurels from the circle of writing worldwide. His free verse poems not only inspire young readers but also the ready of current time. His poetic symbol is right now inspiring others, some of which are appreciated by laurels of India and across the world. Many of his poems been translated in different Indian languages and got global appreciation. Lots of well wishes for his upcoming writings and success in future.

He is an award-winning poet author of many best seller books. Recently he was awarded Rabindra nath Tagore and Gujarat Sahitya Academy for the year 2022 from Motivational Strips. Jaidev Puraskar from Kavita Minar Badamba Cuttack A gold medal from world union of poets France & winner Of Rahim Karims world literary prize 2023.The government of Odisha Higher Education Department appointed him as a president to Governing body of Padmashree Dr Ghanashyam Mishra Sanskrit Degree College, Kabisurjyanagar. Winner of ” HYPERPOEM ” GUNIESS WORLD RECORD 2023.Recently he was awarded at the SABDA literary Festival at Assam. Highest literary honour from Peru contributing world literature 2024.Prestigious Cesar Vellejo award 2024 & Highest literary honour from Peru. Director at Samrat Educational charitable Trust Berhampur, Ganjam Odisha.

Vicedomini of the World Union of Poets, Italy. UHE awarded him the prestigious Golden Eagle award for his contributions to world literature in 2025.

Completed 257 epistolary poems with American poet Kristy Raines.

Bharat Seva Ratna National award 2025, International Glory award from Manam Foundation Hyderabad Telengana. On the eve of the 1979 Independence Day celebration he earned the Rashtra Ratna award & Maa Bharati Seva Sammana. In 2025 he received a doctorate in Humanity and Literature from Theophany University in Haiti with UNESCO, AEADO and the leaders of Autonomy International. The Prince of Crimea and the Golden Horde from the House of Genghis Khan gave him the prestigious title of “Honorary Bey.”

Received Sahitya Ratnakar from New Delhi 2025, Honorary Doctorate from RMF University collaborated with east and west university Florida United States of America on the eve of International Peace Day. Prestigious THE CONDOR OF ANDES from UHE Mexico 2025. PRESTIGIOUS DOCTORATE from VICTORIA UNIVERSITY OF CULTURE AND WORLD PEACE 2025. Nominated for Padmashree 2025. Three-time Gold from the world Union of Poets France. Doctorate from Theophany university Haiti contribution for the world literature 2025. SAHITYA RATNAKAR from New Delhi. Dr. Mayadhar Mansigh Saraswat Samman 2025. Doctorate in Gandhian Philosophy, Peace and Humanity 2025.

Doctorate from Victoria University for Peace 2026. UHE of Peru appointed him as a World Ambassador for Peace and Justice 2026.Valiant of the Nation Award 2026 on the eve of the 129th birthday commemoration for Subash Chandra Bose.

INTERNATIONAL BOOKS

1.Psalm of the Soul 2. Rise of New Dawn 3. Secret Of Torment 4. Everything I Never Told You. 5.Vision Of Life National Library Kolkata 6.100 Shadows of Dream 7. Timeless Anguish 8. Voice of Silence 9.I Cross my Heart from East to West and epistolary poetry with Kristy Raines, published in USA.

The Woman Shelling Beans

By Yeon Myung-ji

When you peel back a Type-B woman,
beans that sprouted upon dust spring forth.
With every sound of a rolling bean, a corner is carved out.
A corner: a place seen only
when you kneel and bow your head.
A place where tilted heads—
those nearly missed—begin to bud.
Therefore, shell the beans gently,
as if stroking them soft.
Such is the counsel of the corner.

Scattered sincerities
are gathered onto the dining table.
Within the husks, hollowed by heartache,
the rank regrets of things that lunged away
lie in a row, once-sunken pits.

Repeating mistakes cast far off in shallow sleep,
she opens her eyes to the morning sun.
From the woman’s listless calves, now a layer lighter,
baby mice flee in a frantic line.

“Be fruitful, multiply, and fill the earth”—
a fitting night resides within each bean pod.
Beans, born but a moment ago,
leave their hulls one after another
to simmer intimately, bubble-boil.
Every bean is nurturing
its own grain of a corner.

Profile

Poet Yeon Myeong-ji began her literary career in 2013 with the poetry collection 『Gashibi』, published in the Minerva Poetry Series.

Her published works include the poetry collections 『Sitting Like an Apple』 and 『Where would the House of the  Sorry’ be? 』 the e-poetry collection 『Seventeen Marco Polos,』 and the travel essay 『Step by Step, Walking the Camino.』

She has received the Tolstoy Literary Award, the Homi Literary Award, the Cheongsong Gaekju Literary Award, and the Aviation Literary Award. In 2025, she was awarded the Bronze Prize in Poetry at the Literature Asia Awards.

Her poems have been translated and published in local languages in India, Pakistan, Kosovo, Italy, Egypt, the United States, and Belgium,Greece,and Iraq.

In general, the results obtained scientifically confirm that innovative approaches in native language lessons significantly increase the effectiveness of working with a dictionary. This indicates the need to combine traditional methods with innovative approaches in the modern educational process, without completely rejecting them.

CONCLUSION

In conclusion, the process of working with a dictionary in native language lessons is one of the pedagogical areas that is of decisive importance in the formation of students’ speech development, level of thinking and communicative competence. The analysis conducted during the study showed that working with a dictionary is not just a process of teaching new words, but a complex methodological system that shapes students’ attitude to the language, develops their creative and independent thinking.

Traditional approaches – that is, methods of explaining, memorizing and translating words – although useful to a certain extent, cannot fully meet the requirements of today’s education. In a modern educational environment, it is necessary to involve students as active participants, increase their interest and direct them to independent research. In this regard, innovative methods significantly increase the effectiveness of working with a dictionary.

According to the results of the study, interactive methods (cluster, brainstorming, group work), digital technologies (electronic dictionaries, multimedia tools, mobile applications) and gamification elements contribute to the rapid and stable acquisition of vocabulary by students. In particular, these approaches increase students’ interest in the lesson, forming them as active participants and independent thinkers.

Also, the research revealed that when innovative methods are used, students develop not only their vocabulary, but also their speech literacy, level of logical thinking and creative approach. This directly affects the quality of education and the effective organization of the educational process.

In general, organizing work with vocabulary in native language lessons based on modern innovative approaches is one of the important factors in increasing educational efficiency. In the future, teachers should further improve these methods and widely apply them in the educational process. This will serve to form a high level of speech culture, independent thinking and creative approach in students.

REFERENCES

Gulamov A. Methodology of teaching the native language. – Tashkent: Teacher, 2010. – pp. 145–150.

Mahmudov N. Language and speech culture. – Tashkent: Science, 2018. – pp. 98–105.

Matchonov S. Interactive methods in native language education. – Tashkent: Innovation, 2020. – pp. 67–72.

Harmer J. How to Teach English. – London: Longman, 2007. – pp. 120–130.

Small Girl Big Devil

As quiet as I was 

your silence devoured me

I was spit into bits 

fed to pigeons

given a lollipop for this cross 

and left on someone’s door

who didn’t like children

so I became a woman

overnight 

in a back alley 

and you looked at your work 

said thy will be done

and fell into deep slumber 

as I crawled away in shame 

Monsters are made 

not born 

there’s still a monster under my bed 

I hear it deep within the empty night 

when dreams play tricks 

and lovers stop 

loving 

The morning so futile 

where I attempt to redeem 

us 

under the blood sun that rises 

over the arch of our terrace 

that hasn’t been used in decades 

and never will 

Since the city has climaxed 

we are spent within her

Alive 

but dead with guilt 

and old with fear 

Yet 

we sit together

numbly silent 

as a tomb

In Poison We Began

Your breath a siphon

of everything me

those late nights 

we plodded through our deadlands 

as vacant as the wind 

your lips a poison 

never matched 

(and we choose our poisons delicately)

Some burst of cosmic gases

from an unnamed planet 

as it flew apart 

fused us 

there isn’t a fiber 

between our skin 

our poison combined 

threaten

all the surroundings 

When I slink out 

from our skin 

I witness us

white and wrinkled 

posed as humans 

we glow toxic blue

in the moonlight 

We fold back

into each other’s poison

scrimmage until the moon

dies 

because we can’t ever 

leave pure things alone 

Sweet Darlings

There was something off

in my mother 

I’m sure I realized this at a young age

We salt our own wounds

to go back and revisit in some nostalgic way 

never does any good 

There’s a heroic bend to events 

we escaped from 

or got out of unscathed 

but it is bent and strange 

hope can be quiet rage in youth…..in the meek 

There are outliers for reasons 

back then I skirted darkness 

it was so natural 

to turn into those monsters 

the same ones I was born to

and some of us morph 

to become a hybrid 

pulling some old dark legacy 

along with a new creeping addiction

I don’t have to call up the dead

to ensure I’m awake nights 

I’ve been awake for decades 

fearing some floating stigma 

that will get me 

at some future point 

If there’s something off in me

the root goes deep 

my road went dark aways ago

I cry forward 

Kitty

The wind ever so lightly rustles the trees

there’s an egg in the blue jay’s nest

Kitty lights a Newport

blows that mint smoke straight into

the fresh morning air

we sit

sludgy and bent

ogle the simple shit

as if life never existed before

the blue egg

before martyrdom

Christ

dinosaurs

it’s all new today

cuz we heeled she says

Kitty coughs

deep and chunky

phlegm flows

over her lips

she wipes her mouth with a tissue

her potbelly ever so round

tits sag down 

while gravity sucks at her nipples

I light a Marlboro

nothin left to fear

that ain’t already spooked us

the egg

divine and speckly

imperfect

yet so pure

can’t take my eyes off it

almost the color 

of a Tiffany giftbox

Kitty grunts

asks who Tiffany is

I just want the egg to open at its time

without a hungry predator lurking

I want that baby blue jay for my own

some dormant motherhood beam

creeks in my dead womb

as if to ask

what happened to the many eggs

I’ve scrambled at the predator’s foaming jowls

A singular cry from the momma blue jay

the mother’s moan 

dates back to Mary

some invisible clock

that stops a heart

when necessary

as written in the Torah 

and we’ll come to it

Hole (For M.M.)

Your Frankenstein chariot

pieced together

from many dead Harleys

The rides to the beach

salt air sprayed us

from both sides of the bridge

and it was a freedom so epic

it engulfed us

Glittered eyelids

black leather

lust like dogs

hunger eats like a hole

we ain’t filling in this life

The bike on the boardwalk

us

staring into a future

we were unable to feed

sucking at the pure moment 

of innocence and death

too naive to know the difference

Boardwalk now is cracked

ripped and busted up

from the many storms 

I walk it alone from time to time

hungry to get to the point

That tipping point

when you and I meet 

as ghosts

Abdel latif Moubarak
Egypt

“Layla the Nightingale” did not walk on the ground; she floated on red carpets that stretched from Cairo to the capitals of mist and beauty. On those nights, the Grand Opera House would tremble before she even stepped on stage. The scent of luxury incense mingled with her French perfume, a fragrance crafted exclusively for her.

When she raised her hand, thousands fell silent. When she sang, that silence became sacred. The headlines read: “Layla, the Woman Who Stole the Throat of Angels.” She never imagined that this applause, which sounded like winter thunder, could ever fade.
It began with a simple rasp, which doctors dismissed as exhaustion. But Layla knew something was breaking inside. The hoarseness wasn’t just in her voice; it was in her soul. A “young producer” arrived with loud, rhythmic beats, and the public’s taste began to shift.

She told her manager coldly, “The audience doesn’t betray, darling; they are just being temperamental.” But when she stood for her final grand concert, she saw empty seats in the back rows. Those seats looked like black holes waiting to swallow her history whole.
Events accelerated like falling dominoes. A failed marriage to a businessman stripped her of half her fortune before he vanished. Tax cases piled up like dust on her old crowns. She was forced to sell her villa in Zamalek, then her Mercedes—the car the city streets knew by heart.

She moved to a small apartment in a crowded neighborhood, keeping her silk dresses in battered leather suitcases. She still wore bright red lipstick when she opened the door for the electricity collectors, as if she were receiving a press delegation.
The turning point came at a second-rate nightclub where she was forced to sing to pay her rent. She stood under a flickering neon light. She tried to reach that high note that used to shake hearts, but what came out was a strangled, wounded cry—the sound of a dying bird.
A drunkard in the hall laughed and shouted, “Give it up, lady! Your time is over!” The microphone fell from her hand, and there was no one there to catch it.

Two years passed. The phone stopped ringing. The friends who used to crowd her dressing room were suddenly struck by a collective amnesia. Resources dried up, and she was evicted from her apartment.
She walked out with a single suitcase containing one dress encrusted with fake crystals and a few black-and-white photographs showing kings and presidents applauding a woman who looked like her, but whom she no longer recognized.

The street has no mercy for those accustomed to silk carpets. On her first night under the Qasr al-Nil Bridge, she watched the Nile—the river she once sang to as the “Source of Goodness.” Now, the Nile looked like a black beast lurking for the lonely.
She lay on a piece of cardboard and covered her face with an old shawl. She didn’t sleep; she listened to the footsteps of passersby, terrified someone might recognize her… and even more terrified that no one would.

As the months went by, Layla’s features changed. Gray invaded the hair that once shone like a summer night, and the hands that were once kissed in high society became cracked and rough. She became “the crazy woman” who sat by the metro station.
She would sing in a very low voice—indistinct humming. People would drop coins in her lap out of pity for a “beggar,” never realizing that the hand taking the spare change was the same one that had received the highest medals of art.
One day, a luxury car pulled up in front of her. A young singer stepped out—the current “Number One” star. He wore sunglasses to hide his face. He placed a large banknote in her hand without looking at her.

Layla looked at his face and remembered him as a child who was once in her musical troupe. She wanted to call his name, to say, “It’s me, Layla, my son,” but her tongue had grown used to silence, and the pride remaining in her ashes held her back.
On a bitterly cold winter night, Layla felt the curtain was about to fall. She couldn’t feel her limbs, but her throat suddenly regained its old purity. She stood in the middle of the empty street at midnight.

She began to sing her most beautiful song, “Farewell to My Dreams.” Her voice echoed through the alleys of Downtown, powerful and resonant, as if she were back at the Opera. Residents opened their windows in amazement: “Who is this angelic voice in the dead of night?” But Layla wasn’t singing for the living; she was singing for the sky.
In the morning, they found an old woman lying peacefully on the pavement. She was smiling, holding a faded old photograph of a woman glowing under the spotlights.

No one knew who she was. She was taken away in an ambulance as an “unidentified body.” That evening, a radio in a nearby café played her famous song: “I am the one who never dies… I remain in your hearts,” while her body was being laid to rest in a pauper’s grave—far from the lights, and very close to the truth.

—