SPECIAL INTERVIEW: A CONVERSATION WITH ANKICA ANCHIA

Croatian writer and poet Ankica Anchia is a master of words. She is not only a writer for adults but also considered a children’s author. The poems she has written reach the hearts of people. Through her poetry, Ankica Anchia can sometimes make readers laugh, sometimes bring them to tears, and at times leave them deep in thought.

Q1: To begin with, tell us a few things about yourself, introduce yourself briefly to those who don’t know you?

A1: I was born in the beautiful Dalmatian city of Split, where the sun and the sea intertwine with stories of times long gone. My childhood was filled with the smiles of my parents, the warmth of home, and a sense of safety. But everything changed when I was twenty.

In that youth, suddenly without my parents, I felt a deep emptiness, as if the world around me had collapsed. I fell often, faced with pain that seemed endless. Betrayals came like storms—my heart shattered, trust wounded. Yet through those painful moments of breaking, I learned how to rise again.

The betrayals left scars, but they shaped me. I realized that those who make promises are often the ones who hurt the fastest. Pain became a teacher, a reminder that true value lies in those who stay, who do not turn their backs when things are hardest.

But the falls were not the end of my journey. They were simply the path toward awakening, toward the lessons one cannot learn without struggle. In my verses and stories, memories of those ups and downs came alive—moments of pain, sorrow, and emptiness, but also the strength that grew from every fall.

With each rise, I felt the blessings of my own resilience. The path was not without battles, sleepless nights, and tears. But in every fall and every betrayal, I discovered my own beauty—the kind not measured by success, but by the endurance of the spirit. My words are a testament to everything I have been through, everything I have become:

Life writes the words, but you choose the music!

Croatian Dalmatian city 

Q2: When did you start writing, and why? What does writing mean to you?

A2: I began writing poetry and prose as I was growing up, but the true intensity of my poetic expression reached its peak over the last 20 years.

Drunk on the love for Dalmatia, my homeland, and driven by deep respect for tradition, I tried to preserve that richness from fading away. My poems are filled with Dalmatian expression, images of the land, the scent of the sea, and the soul of the people. My love poetry leads us through romantic imaginings wrapped in everyday moments of life. The verses are filled with emotion—from joy to sorrow, from happiness to pain.

Writing never felt like a decision—it was a natural continuation of something I carried within me. Writing has always been my way of expressing what cannot easily be said, a way to touch the emotions and images hidden in silence.

Why do I write? Because each sentence brings me closer to who I truly am. Writing is my bridge to the world and to myself, my way of capturing fleeting moments and turning them into something eternal. In every letter, I find refuge, passion, and boundless freedom.

—

Q3:Did you dream of seeing your work on the shelves of bookstores, libraries, or readers?

A3: Of course I did—not out of vanity, but from the desire that my thoughts, feelings, and words find a home in the hearts of others. I dreamed that the pages I write would become a bridge between me and unfamiliar faces, that my stories and verses would serve as refuge, inspiration, or comfort.

To imagine my work resting on bookstore shelves, in readers’ hands, or in quiet library corners that safeguard stories—that feels like a quiet longing fulfilled, proof that words are not in vain, that they can reach someone and touch them, even for a moment. That is the beauty of it: sharing a piece of your soul with those who seek something similar within themselves.

—

Q4: How did the idea for your first poetry collection come about? Who or what inspired it?

A4: The idea for my first collection, “Beside jedne Dalmatinke” (“The Verses of a Dalmatian Woman”), was born from my love for the land I come from—for its rocky paths, the scent of the sea, and the timeless beauty Dalmatia carries. Every poem, every word, was my way of preserving the stories told by the waves, the whisper of olive trees, and the old stone walls.

Q5:What was it like preparing your first book for print? Describe the moment when you held it in your hands for the first time.

A5:Preparing my first book for print felt like waiting for the birth of something precious. Every decision—from the cover design to the final full stop—carried both excitement and gentle worry. It was a mixture of joy, pride, and responsibility, because I knew those pages would become a bridge between me and my readers.

And when I held my book for the first time, my heart stopped. It felt like meeting a part of myself for the first time outside my own mind. Touching the covers, feeling the weight of the pages that were once only thoughts—that is indescribable. I thought: This is a part of me that will live on—in the hands, minds, and hearts of others.

It was a moment of pure happiness, wrapped in gratitude.

—

Q6: Which of your collections is your favorite, and why?

A6:Each of my collections carries a part of me and holds a special place in my heart. But if I had to choose, my favorite is always the one that most deeply reflects the moment of life in which it was created.

“Beside jedne Dalmatinke” is dear to me because it carries not only my love for Dalmatia, but also nostalgia for childhood, memories of those who shaped me, and the strength of the emotions I lived back then.

Yet I always feel that my favorite collection is the next one—the one still being written.

“Kleknut htjedoh učitelju” holds a special place because it was created out of deep respect for wisdom, knowledge, and spiritual growth. It honors the teachers in our lives—the visible ones and the invisible ones.

On the other hand, “Zvjezdana prašina” (“Stardust”) is dear because it was written with childlike joy and imagination. Writing for children means letting go of all boundaries and returning to simplicity and wonder.

Both collections tell their own story—one speaks to the deep reflections of adults, the other plays with the stars and opens the door to childhood imagination.

Interviewed by:

Juraeva Aziza Rakhmatovna, who is a young poet from Uzbekistan. 

Grandmother and Granddaughter

I vaguely remember that day—I don’t even know why I can’t recall it clearly. Maybe I was too young?

One evening, we were all sitting together having dinner when our neighbor, Soliha aunt, suddenly came by. I didn’t really understand why she had come. After a short while, she quietly left without saying much. When we finished eating, we said a prayer, and then my younger sister took the dishes to the kitchen to wash them. My father went into the living room to watch television.

At that moment, without telling anyone, I went into my room and started reading my book. I don’t even remember how I fell asleep.

At dawn, half-asleep, I heard my mother and father performing the Fajr prayer. After finishing, they began whispering to each other. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hear what they were saying. After sunrise, I ran to my mother.

“What are you doing?” I asked with a smile.

“Can’t you see? I’m cleaning the house,” she replied. Then she looked at me and said, “We have a gift for you.”

“Oh, Mom, but it’s not my birthday,” I said, laughing.

“My dear daughter, are gifts only given on birthdays? They can be given at any time,” she said.

“That’s great! What kind of gift?” I asked excitedly.

“You’ll find out in the evening. Now go and finish your tasks and read your books,” she said.

I finished all my chores and waited impatiently for the evening.

Finally, evening came. After washing my hands and face, I went to my bed—and there she was, my dear grandmother, sitting beside it. I was so happy that I hugged her tightly. Maybe I hugged her too hard, but I couldn’t help it—I loved my grandmother so much.

I loved sleeping next to my grandmother in the evenings because every time she came, she would tell me wonderful and fascinating stories. The stories she told would come alive right before my eyes.

“Grandma, may I ask you something?” I said.

“What is it?” she replied.

“Grandma, what was your school like? Please tell me.”

“Oh, my curious granddaughter,” she said, “I will tell you, but you must not interrupt me, alright?”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Our school didn’t have the conditions and facilities that you have today. There were many children in our family, and our parents could barely afford enough for us to eat. My dear granddaughter, you have great opportunities for studying. Don’t waste your time on meaningless games. Study while you can, learn as much as possible, so that you won’t regret it later. If you study, many doors of opportunity will open for you—never forget that.”

“Grandma, I will do as you say. I will study and learn,” I replied.

“My smart granddaughter…” she said lovingly.

Saitkulova Fotima 

Uzbekistan 

going to the church of the wind
in the tops of the trees


        *


she comes to the window for the red fox at dusk


        *


he told himself not to stare at the newborn violets


        *


in the same photo,
the pacing cheetah and her grandfather's cane 


        *


he gave no reason for wanting to soak his feet in the Lower Vistula


        *


when they tell you to dye your hair
and change the locks


        *


Elvis never borrowed my brother's comb,
but everybody loved the lie


        *


it was Frankie's job to doctor up the coffee
for the grumpy saints


        *


the world going back to ignoring the green forsythia


        *


my destiny is already on its third cup of coffee


        *


"the objective correlative"
must include the worn gray socks of Pete Maravich


        *


throwing a chunk of coal for a touchdown in Jim Thorpe, PA


        *


though he makes room,
the regulars on the city bus would rather stand


        *



Patrick Sweeney is a short form poet and devotee of the public library.

Sunrise

Tell me sun, did you see the night? 

Tell me sun, did you see the dark? 

Every day you rise, giving us light. 

Your warmth makes us bright. 

Your light blinds us, 

Yet we can’t live without you. 

Your light keeps us alive, 

Yet we never truly appreciate you. 

Oh, dear sun, forgive us one more- 

We blind people forget you some time. 

Oh, dear sun, forgive us once more- 

We deaf people can’t hear your love.

-Charos Ismoilova

I am Charos Ismoilova daughter of Ruslan, and was born on January 1st, 2013, in Shafirkan district, Bukhara region. Currently, I am studying at Bukhara Presidential School, 7th grade.

THE WAR THAT DOES NOT END

Thi Lan Anh Tran – Aschaffenburg, Germany
10.04.26

My mother never told stories
the way books do.

She would pause in the middle of words,
as if something beyond language
was heavier than memory itself.

There was once a garden—
not the kind you visit,
but the kind that remembers you.

The soil carried more than roots.

I grew up far from alarms,
far from skies torn open,
yet at night
I still feel a quiet pulse beneath the earth—
steady, buried,
refusing to leave.

They say time moves forward.
But memory stays still.

It waits.

Elsewhere in the world,
men sit across polished tables
carefully choosing their words:
ceasefire,
security,
shared interest.

Their voices are calm.

Somewhere, a child learns
the difference between thunder
and something that is not weather.

A city learns to dim its lights
without calling it fear.

A mother learns silence
so deeply
it becomes a way of breathing.

I stand between what has ended
and what is repeating.

Nothing returns exactly the same—
yet nothing truly disappears.

War does not always arrive in fire.

Sometimes it remains—
in the body,
in language,
in the hesitation
before trusting tomorrow.

If history breathes,
it does not speak in victory.

It exhales slowly
through those who remember
what others are still becoming.

CUỘC CHIẾN KHÔNG KẾT THÚC

Mẹ tôi không kể chuyện
theo cách của sách vở.

Mẹ thường dừng giữa câu nói,
như thể phía sau lời nói
có điều nặng hơn ký ức.

Từng có một khu vườn—
không phải nơi để nhớ,
mà là nơi biết cách nhớ lấy con người.

Đất ở đó
giữ nhiều hơn rễ cây.

Tôi lớn lên không có tiếng còi báo động,
không có bầu trời bị xé toạc,
nhưng trong đêm
vẫn có một nhịp đập sâu dưới mặt đất—
chậm, nặng,
không chịu biến mất.

Người ta nói thời gian đi về phía trước.
Nhưng ký ức thì không.

Nó chờ.

Ở một nơi khác,
những cuộc họp diễn ra sau những chiếc bàn dài
với những từ ngữ được chọn lọc:
ngừng bắn,
an ninh,
lợi ích chung.

Giọng nói rất bình tĩnh.

Ở đâu đó,
một đứa trẻ học cách phân biệt
tiếng sấm
với thứ âm thanh không thuộc về tự nhiên.

Một thành phố học cách tắt đèn
mà không gọi đó là sợ hãi.

Một người mẹ học cách giữ im lặng
đến mức
nó trở thành hơi thở.

Tôi đứng giữa điều đã qua
và điều đang lặp lại.

Không có điều gì lặp lại nguyên vẹn—
nhưng cũng không có gì thật sự mất đi.

Chiến tranh không phải lúc nào cũng đến bằng lửa.

Đôi khi
nó ở lại—
trong cơ thể,
trong ngôn ngữ,
trong sự chần chừ
trước ngày mai.

Nếu lịch sử còn biết thở,
nó không nói bằng chiến thắng.

Nó thở ra thật chậm
qua những người còn nhớ
những điều người khác vẫn đang trở thành.

Nr. 65 TÌNH YÊU KHÔNG CHỈ LÀ NỖI ĐAU

Tình yêu đâu chỉ sắc hồng,
Dẫu như cầu vồng sau cơn mưa bay.
Có cay mới hiểu vị say,
Có xa mới biết vòng tay cần gần.

Đường yêu lắm nỗi gian nan,
Nhưng đâu chỉ có khóc than một mình.
Sau đêm rồi sẽ bình minh,
Giữa đông giá lạnh vẫn sinh nắng vàng.

Nếu ai giữ mãi muộn màng,
Thời gian đâu phải chỉ mang phai tàn.
Mở lòng thay những cửa then,
Tim còn biết đập — còn quen yêu người.

Tình đâu chỉ tựa trò chơi,
Chia ly cũng để hiểu lời yêu thương.
Dẫu mai hai ngả đôi đường,
Gặp nhau vẫn nhớ một thời đã qua.

Tình yêu không chỉ lệ sa,
Có khi là cả bao la dịu hiền.
Ai còn tin sẽ còn duyên,
Yêu thương giữ lại — bình yên trong lòng.

Nr. 65 LOVE IS MORE THAN PAIN

Love is not just colors bright,
like rainbows fading after light.
Through bitter taste, we learn what’s true,
through distance, feel what love can do.

The road of love is steep and long,
yet not all hearts must grieve alone.
For after night, the dawn will rise,
and warmth returns beneath cold skies.

If hearts stay closed in silent fear,
time cannot heal what we won’t hear.
Unlock the door, let feelings flow,
a beating heart still longs to grow.

Love is not just a fleeting game,
nor parting hearts to shift the blame.
Though paths may part and drift apart,
they still remain within the heart.

Love is not only tears that fall,
but gentle light that warms us all.
For those who trust, love will remain—
a quiet peace beyond the pain.

Christ is Risen 

The Holy Fire (Greek ‘Αγιος Φως, literally “Holy Light”) is a miracle that occurs every year at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem on Holy Saturday, the day preceding Pascha. 

It is considered by many to be the longest-attested annual miracle in the Christian world, though the event has only been documented consecutively since 1106.

 In many Orthodox countries around the world the event is televised live.

The ceremony begins at noon when the Patriarch of Jerusalem  recites a specific prayer. The faithful gathered will then chant “Lord, have mercy” (Kyrie eleison in Greek) until the Holy Fire descends on a lamp of olive oil held by the patriarch while he is alone in the tomb chamber of Jesus Christ. 

The patriarch will then emerge from the tomb chamber, recite some prayers, and light either 33 or 12 candles to distribute to the faithful.

The fire is also said to spontaneously light other lamps and candles around the church. 

Pilgrims say the Holy Fire will not burn hair, faces, etc., in the first 33 minutes after it is ignited. Before entering the Lord’s Tomb, the patriarch or presiding archbishop is inspected by Israeli authorities to prove that he does not carry the technical means to light the fire. 

This investigation used to be carried out by Turkish soldiers.

The Holy Fire is first mentioned in the documents dating from the 4th century. 

A detailed description of the miracle is contained in the travelogue of the Russian igumen Daniel, who was present at the ceremony in 1106. 

Daniel mentions a blue incandescence descending from the dome to the edicula where the patriarch awaits the Holy Fire. 

Global Spiritual Unity

Humanity must have one God

Or do without God

Many Gods divide humanity

Humanity must stop dividing divinity

The divisions of divinity

Ultimately divide human minds and hearts in reality 

Human hearts divided thus

Lead to divisions of one reality as such

Because of this divided reality

The human consciousness suffers duality

Divided human consciousness in reality

Condemns humanity to terrible suffering 

When one hand doesn’t know what other hand is doing

To divide God is the greatest human ignorance

Dividing God is indeed no work of any prophetic intelligence

Proposing and having divided divinity

Leads to the greatest planetary confusion

Divided God is truly a grand illusion (Maya)

In fact many divisions of one divinity

Caused a terrible fragmentation of one reality   

Aristotle talked about the holistic holon

Arthur Koestler talked about it in detail

Ghost in the Machine was soul’s hidden tale

David Bohm explained it by explicate and implicate order

Science and spirituality played with it at every corner

If we can’t recognize and realize this divine holon

Then humanity must leave the God alone

Humanity can’t reach ultimate truth without spiritual unity

Evolutionary wisdom shows the path to only one reality

Humanity must rediscover God

Through unity of spiritual diversity

All else shall lead to ignorant arrogance and vanity

God becoming many gods at the beginning of creation (एकोहम् बहुस्याम भवति।)

Needs to become One again at the apex of human evolution (बहुहम् एकोस्याम् भवति।)

But as great Aristotle said 

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts

Through global unity of all spiritual paths

Humanity shall enjoy a far greater spiritual whole

The sum of whose parts will be greater than the prevailing mole.