Shared sign

Ink that pulses, matter in waiting,

the shadow settles on the skin of the verb,

oozes from the body of the sheet, intertwines

with the breath of another.

The gesture engraves flesh and thought,

a watermark mutes in transparency,

the inkwell swallows distances,

it becomes an echo of the inexpressible,

liquid memory that mixes with the folds of written time.

It is not a word, it is a trace,

it is not a form, it is tension,

the sign unravels and recomposes

in the time that flows beyond syntax,

beyond ordinary perception,

where ink lives like blood,

where meaning twists and expands.

You dye in someone else’s inkwell

as in your own blood,

let the word expand,

let the border dissolve,

because language does not exist in solitude,

but vibrates in the flesh of those who welcome it.

Lidia Popa was born in Romania in the locality of Piatra Șoimului, in the county of Neamț, on 16th April, 1964. She finished her studies in Piatra Neamț, Romania with a high school diploma and other administrative courses, where she worked until she decided to emigrate to Italy.

She has been living for 23 years and worked in Rome as part of the wave of intellectual emigrants since the fall of the Berlin Wall.

She wrote her first poem at her age of seven. She is a poet, essayist, storyteller, recognized in Italy and in other countries for her literary activities. She collaborates with cultural associations, literary cenacles, literary magazines and paper and online publications of Romanian, Italian and international literature. She writes in Romanian, Italian and also in other languages as an exercise in knowledge.

BOOKS

She has published her poems in six books:

in Italy:

1. ” Point different ( to be ) ” – ed. Italian and

2.” In the den of my thoughts ( Dacia ) ” – ed. bilingual Romanian/ Italian AlettiEditore 2016,

3.“ Sky amphora ” – ed. bilingual Romanian/ Italian EdizioniDivinafollia 2017,

in Romania:

4. ” The soul of words” ed. bilingual Romanian/ Albanian Amanda Edit Verlag 2021,

5.” Syntagms with longing for clover ” ed. Romanian, EdituraMinela 2021.

6.” The Voice interior ” LidiaPopa and BakiYmeri ed. bilingual Romanian/Italian, Amanda Edit Verlag 2022.

Her poems featured in more than 50 literary anthologies and literary magazines on line from 2014 to 2023 in Italy, Romania, Spain, Canada, Serbia, Bangladesh, United Kingdom, Liban,USA,etc.

Her poems are translated into Italian, French, English, Spanish, Arabic, German, Bangladesh, Portuguese, Serbian, Urdu, Dari, Tamil, etc.

Her writings are published regularly with some magazines in Romania, Italy and abroad.

She is a promoter of Romanian, Italian and international literature, and is part of the juries of the competitions.

She translates from classical or contemporary authors who strike for the refinement and quality of their verses in the languages: Italian, Romanian, English, Spanish, French, German, stating that “it is just a writing exercise to learn and evolve as a person with love for humanity, for art, poetry and literature “.

SHE IS

*Member of the Italian Federation of Writers (FUIS)

*Honorary member of the International Literary Society Casa PoeticaMagia y Plumas Republic of Colombia,

*Member of Hispanomundial Union of Writers (Union Hispanomundial de Escritores) (UHE) and Thousands Minds For Mexico (MMMEX)

*President UHE and MMMEX Romania, August 21, 2021

*She had come power of attorney Vice-president UHE Romania, Mars18, 2021- August 21, 2021

*President UHE and MMMEX Romania, August 21, 2021

*Counselor from Italy for Suryodaya Literary Foundation Odisha India,

*Director from Italy for Alìanza Cultural Universal (ACU) Argentina

*Member Motivational Strips Oman,a member of numerous other literary groups at the level internationally,

*Director of Poetry and Literature World Vision Board of Directors (PLWV) Bangladesh

*Membership of ANGEENA INTERNATIONAL NON PROFIT ORGANISATION of Canada

International Peace Ambassador of The Daily Global Nation International Independent Newspaper from Dhaka Bangladesh – 2023

*Founder literary group Lido dell’anima with LIDO DELL’ANIMA AWARDS

*Founder LIDO DELL’ANIMA Italian magazine

*Founder SILVAE VERBORUM INTERNATIONAL multilingual magazine

*Founder literary currently #homelesspoetry

etc.

Αbout poetry

Poetry

Is a very demanding woman

She knows how powerful are the words

They can win a war

With the right verses

Poetry,

Needs loyal man

Needs time

And caring

As you take a white paper

And you give your self

Creating sentence s

With your heart

A woman need so

Much caring

Much love 

As the poem

Is ready

To come out of your

Stomach

Or your heart

Feelings never spoken

Feelings never shared

A woman was never loved…

Poetry

It is the way 

We see the love

We see 

Ourselves

Trying to  

Be loved

Trying to make 

Wishes

 to come true

Poetry

Is our freedom…..

In Any City

A muffled radio can be heard  

from a neighboring motorist 

stopped at the light 

When it’s green

vehicles thrust forward 

in unison with blind force 

rush by

a cathedral 

framed in scaffolding 

kids playing basketball

in the adjacent schoolyard 

barefoot homeless 

somewhere on any street 

universal longing

The taxi meter ticks

as the basketball bounces

from hand to hand 

the horns drown out a death or two

an eagle cries out 

for its mate

a traffic light is red globally 

while someone’s heart beats 

like a wild bird 

for it to turn green

for the ball to make the hoop

for the barefoot homeless girl

to return home

for some damn thing to happen

for the love of God 

anything above and beyond 

the hustle and bustle

down a street 

in any city

in any life 

Write How Quiet It Is

5am dawn crawls into the sky – hello

write me a love note

some fool’s verbiage

to tell me the dark stars – our death stars

have exploded

and we are free

from judgment

free to write

Write this you fool:

all that glitters

was in my hand

and like the sand

slid into the sea

all that matters now

is that you write it

Speaking goes into

the void of forgetfulness

pre-dementia waiting

on the forum

I write it

buy milk

put gas in car

feed and let dogs out

dumb-ass notes

in fifty years our kids

kids

kids

will read this stuff

and say

how simple she was

good ole

great-great grandma

But listen as I write

the quiet

of my heart

as the beats wind down

as the dawn

has finally won over the night 

and my meager mind

simple as a leaf

sits in a complex

pile of mulch

the deterioration

breaks me down

My two eyes stare

into the vast ocean

recall each molecule

of sand that slipped through

Write it you fool

All My Months of Forever

Every cigarette I swore was my last

that dang cat 

you swung it by its tail so hard

rendered it vertigo-ridden 

for the rest of its measly lives

back then all you did wrong was twist up that cat

would have been so easy to declare you a good soul

Winded now

from just a flight of steps – just one damn flight

you said I was a monster

yet you endlessly wanted to be with me

hence, we birthed the monster together

slipped into its asylum

a toke here and there

on some good marijuana

we spiraled into the Cadillac of drugs

We died some nights

straddled together in an agony so great 

it gives me chills dare I think about it

death is good for you – remember you said that?

it’s good to come back alive and on fire

I came back with one eye and dimwitted

I came back with a limp

I came back with a burned neck

I saw the stars spray

over an archipelago 

in a swoon 

during one of my deaths

I’m sure it was Jesus

That battered black cat long since dead

you – now homeless and a smell 

caked so deep 

you cannot be cleansed

I waited for Jesus under that moon

naked and busted up

it took all those months of forever

it took all nine lives of that wretched cat

He came for me

barely recognizable

me – not Jesus

(I’d know Jesus if I was deaf 

blind or headless)

when you were high as fuck

pouring lighter fluid on his beautiful white loincloth

I scrambled behind with a bucket of water

Jesus remembered

I Wanted Virgil

Same dream again and again

I trudge to the edge overlooking an immense blackened gorge

teeter and sway

will myself to step off 

my body in complete disagreement  

pushing myself with my mind

I flail myself over 

into the abyss 

then Virgil appears 

disappointed

worn and beaten 

from our grim replay 

I awake in time 

to swallow a scream

light a cigarette 

the orange glow soothes

yet my heart 

blows up 

On my nineteenth birthday 

we stood outside our building 

giggling in snow knee-deep

the heroin 

just started to flow

created magical art

on canvases we imagined 

in our personal heavens 

when she hurled her body over the roof

twelve floors 

the slow motion movie scene 

mesmerized us 

Her heart continued to beat

even after her body hit

we heard it – the beat 

a loud gong 

like a wildebeest being taken down 

not ready – the heart never ready 

defies all purpose 

simply because its primary desire 

is to beat 

The red-pink snow shaped a grave

around her twisted body 

and we – high as fuck

mourning like half-wits 

clumsily dipping and falling 

to lean together in some wrecked sadness 

or perhaps envy 

Virgil comes back 

pasty white 

stone-faced 

stares accusingly

annoyed that he 

is my chosen 

chaperone 

I awake again soaked with sweat 

still feel his rough ancient breath 

my heart dead

but the beating steadfast 

so violently alive 

Donna Dallas has appeared most recently in Beatnik Cowboy, Quail Bell Magazine and Fevers of the Mind.  She is the author of Death Sisters, her legacy novel, published by Alien Buddha Press. She has two chapbooks, Smoke and Mirrors, launched with New York Quarterly, and Megalodon, launched with The Opiate. Donna has served on the editorial team of Red Fez and NYQ. 

donnaanndallas@gmail.com

@DonnaDallas15 

What is Life???

A living being on the earth 
Seeking so many amazing rides,
Facing unbearable shoots and arts
Is that the meaning of life?

What is life?
Who cares or shares?
Who bears?
Who roars?

Life is nothing but the Illusion
Imagination is its own creation.

What do you mean about this?
What does life depict around this phase?

Life! It comes and says-
I know so much the fact.
No way to show any case
Life is itself a casino stage.

The fact lies on the phase
Life is the beautiful pace
Need to believe and feel
Life is the universal reel.

What is Life?
Now say this time
It’s omnipotent dear
Let it flow and clear.

Life is the charm on earth
Lit it with eternal arts
The heart and mind know all
Life is the beautiful pool.

Author S. Afrose hails from Bangladesh, a lover of poetry world. Poetry is her passion. Her writes have been published on magazines, anthologies etc. There are some published poetry books available on Amazon Worldwide. YouTube: S Afrose * Muse of Writes*

ITS NAME IS LIFE …

You falter,

Longing bears the weight of pain…

Yet Love—eternal—soothes the strain,

As solace knocks upon your door,

And joy leaves traces on your shore.

Its name is Life:

Victory waltzes

With sorrow and bliss in fleeting embraces.

Ruins of your heart, once lost in despair,

Find comfort in moments of hope laid bare…

Like a bird, you spread your wings,

Within, transformation sings.

You rise, embrace purity’s grace,

Unshaken—Freedom echoes in space!

As if all your dreams take flight,

Drifting like clouds so white,

Until Spring’s flowers kneel in delight,

Greeting you with colors bright…

Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna (February 15, 1973) was born in Uzbekistan. Studied at the Faculty of Journalism of Tashkent State University (1992-1998). She took first place in the competition of young republican poets (1999). Four collections of poems have been published in Uzbekistan: “Leaf of the Heart” (1998), “Roads to You” (1998), “The Sky in My Chest” (2007), “Lovely Melodies” (2013). She wrote poetry in more than ten genres. She translated some Russian and Turkish poets into Uzbek, as well as a book by YunusEmro. She lived as a political immigrant with her family for five years in Turkey.

EVIL, CRIME AND VIOLENCE: HAS GOD FINALLY LOST THE BATTLE?

What keeps us holding on while watching a movie is not the even flow of events, but we always look for how and when things take a twist, a villain is introduced, and the film ends with a brutal fight in which the villain is killed and his empire decimated embodying the great ethical message that good always triumphs over evil. I have never seen a movie in which the protagonist is killed at the end, and evil is shown prospering. However, the movies of contemporary times sometimes come up with blended stories which present victims who turn villains and take on society or their tormentors. I am reminded of ‘Deewar’ in which a victimized child turns out to be a great mafia don. He was getting back on the society which had caused the death of his father, and brought the family to ruin.

When we look back at literature, and, in particular, drama, we wonder how comedy stands nowhere in comparison to the impact, the tragedy leaves on the mind of man. If we talk of lasting impact, it comes only from tragedy. Tragedy is nothing but violence which is given an aesthetic turn so that finally it evokes a wholesome response from the audience. ‘Oedipus’ ‘Macbeth’ ‘Julius Caesar’ ‘Hamlet’ are immortal works which have left a lasting impact on the mind of man, finally making them emerge as better human beings.

If we are shown a film in which people are living a happy life, after some time, we shall start feeling, why we are wasting time. What is there in it. So, that ‘what’ which we are looking for in a film is some villain, something going wrong, so that it leads to some ‘thrills’ and thrills are not possible until things take a twist, and go wrong. If we look back at Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’, nobody will read it if Satan is dropped. Evil and violence are essential to make peace and poise, meaningful and worth craving for. When evil dies, we heave a sigh of unmixed relief. It is another thing this feeling of relief is different if we are watching a tragedy by Sophocles or Shakespeare. The students of literature know a tragedy effects catharsis by purging the feelings of pity and fear, thus restoring the mental balance of the audience.

Violence that we watch before our eyes on the road is different from the violence we watch in a film or even drama. Distance lends charm, even to a vile thing like a violent death. Actual violence evokes anger, and a feeling of revenge, while the reported violence makes us sit and reflect, and the servicing of our mind gets into operation.

Learning what is good may be a difficult lesson. But the instinct for the evil is quite intrinsic to mankind. Our nervous system reports faster to malignant impulses. Still, truth and untruth, and good and evil remain intertwined and in order to understand good, we have to have an instant understanding of what is evil and where good ends and evil begins. In this way, the study of evil is more important than the study of good, because when we study evil, we shall automatically understand, what is not evil, and all that is not evil is good.

Sometimes I wonder how we dislike the easy flow of life. What we call ‘illat’ in Punjabi is ‘mischief’ in English. Mischief is the sapling from which the tree of crime takes shape. Mischief in its infancy dons an aura of pleasantness, which we tend to enjoy. But it starts giving us headache when mischief takes the shape of mistakes, and when mistakes become a habit, they become the cause of cardiac arrest for the society: that is crime. A mistake can be corrected, and atoned for, but for a crime, one has suffer. The only reason why the perpetrator of a crime has to suffer is that he makes others suffer, and unless he himself suffers, the account cannot be squared.

How evil is interspersed in our being, we can judge it easily if we filter the ideas that enter and fleet from our mind for an hour. We shall soon come to realize how evil comes so naturally to man, while for doing good, we have to force ourselves into strict discipline, and even train our mind to think right thoughts. It is shocking and surprising too, that we need no training in doing evil, while we need gurus, scriptures, oracles, and pilgrimages to understand the idea of good.

The real surprise is we have a huge array of religions, and prophets, and their teachings, their sacrifices, and their shrines which dot the earth in millions. India has a great spiritual legacy [which country hasn’t have her own?] like the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. The Bhagwad Gita is the greatest spiritual text for right living. So, is the Guru Granth Sahib which represents the Sikh Faith. If we go further into it, we shall see how people like Yogis, Nagas, Boddhis and Lamas are required to undergo rigorous training of body and mind, to keep their minds in trim. They wear a particular dress, and lead  rigorous lives, and they are told that they must keep muttering the name of God all the time.

I cannot imagine how great is the lure of evil and violence in our lives!  They always keep us on tenterhooks, always trying to destabilize us and cause our fall.  The paradox is startling. For evil, you need no training. You can do it very naturally. Rather, if you indulge in evil, you feel so natural and normal. But, if you are told to do good, you need the backing of religious rigour, and when you do it, it is not done, it is performed, like a duty. To be good is a duty. And, you know, a duty is a task assigned to us much against our will. How happily we perform our duties?

I don’t question why Eve fell to Satan’s insinuations. Even Adam could have fallen, had Satan tried his art at him. But, I think Satan knew our modern dictum which has been the subject of declamation contests. If you teach a man, you teach only one person. But if you teach a woman, you teach a whole family. Satan might have been thinking of devastating the entire tribe by poisoning Eve’s ears. The original tribe was endowed with Original Intelligence, in the form of Innocence [which does not, however, mean Ignorance]. Satan attacked it very cautiously. He proposed that they should get knowledge and know more and more about themselves and their existential conditions.  It was tempting for them. Evil’s greatest quality is that it tempts. Men fall because of greed. That is why, Lustus, the neo-mythical heir of Satan is shown as blessed by Greda, the goddess of Greed [neo-mythology]. In fact, when man is greedy, he can be  tempted which means he has said good bye to reason and sense. It is a perverted form of trance, in which reason is put in abeyance, and man does not know when he has glided into the glittering world of crime and violence.  Just as Truth has a physical dimension in Ethics, Evil has a physical manifestation in Violence. How we love it? Our world, our newspapers are full of news items relating to crime, killings, abductions, arson, accidents, heists and scams. They never upset us. That is the neo-normal. Rather what upsets us is the absence of a villain and violence from a piece of life, as much as in a film.

The Author

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, [the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky award and Signs Peace Award Laureate, with an opus of 180 books, whose name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia]]  is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision.

Footprints in the Sand

I am lost between illusion and reality.

Footprints follow me in the cold sand.

No moon,

but I walk beneath a thousand stars.

Stars that light my path

as little fireflies pass by.

But none guide me home.

They scatter across the sky,

hinting at the wishes people keep close

to their hearts.

Which don’t always always come true.

Then dawn peaks over the mountains,

casting streaks of fire across the clouds.

Birds start singing.

Welcoming the sun.

I am no longer lost.

I see the night with its cold embrace

and its mirage.

I see the day with its clear sky

and its hustling trees.