Lily Swarn is a very sensitive person and through her poetry we can feel, not only read her poems. She is giving us a morning breeze that can follow our sentence in our quotidian life.
I discovered reading her poetry that verses have colours and perfumes like the flowers and this book is a must to read and even go to all libraries.
Kalotaxido as we say in my country, Bon voyage.
Article in the Hindustan Times on Lily Swarn. Her book should be available to order soon.
Our Childlike Souls
Our childlike souls are hesitant,
restless, burning, loud…
They stumble over emotions
like running barefoot in the wet grass,
not knowing whether to laugh or to cry.
I don’t always have the words
to write what I feel.
Often, I just stay still,
searching in silence for what the heart longs to shout.
But you—
your words, even clumsy,
come to awaken mine.
You bring back impulses I thought extinguished,
tender angers,
new shivers,
phrases I would never have dared to lay on the page.
Love is kind.
Love is frightening.
Love both enlightens and blinds.
It touches even those
who claim not to want it.
It seeps through the cracks,
and sometimes, waiting blossoms into a silent miracle.
It also hides in those blurred friendships,
where glances say more than lips,
where gestures brush against something greater
without ever naming it.
I don’t always understand the situation.
But I dare.
I dare anyway.
I dare to hope despite the unknown.
I dare to look for you in the crowd,
to lose myself in your silence,
to follow you in the gentle shadow of your absences.
I dare to move toward you
even when everything tells me to step back.
I dare to drink from your laughter,
to share crumbs of light between two silences,
to watch you smile without saying a word,
and to spend nights guessing if you dream of me.
I don’t know where all this leads,
but I go—
with a beating heart, in a low voice,
with my doubts,
my impulses,
and this wild need to tell you:
I am here,
I am everywhere,
in this mad world,
in this blurred horizon.
—
II
The Smile and the Silence
A smile
does not mean
one is happy.
There are tears
in the heart
that never reach the eyes.
We come from a life
woven of contradictions,
and we leave it
without ever solving them.
We move forward
between shadow and blur,
head held high,
heart held low.
I leave hanging
the endless questions:
life,
death,
and the reasons to stay.
Sometimes,
a smile is a barrier,
a barrier against falling apart.
There are cries
we hide in our eyes,
screams muffled
inside silences.
And the one who smiles the most…
is often the one
nobody
understands.
A sad soul
A realist mind
—
Hanen MAROUANI
Strasbourg 07.08.2025
.
BIOGRAPHY:
Hanen Marouani is a Tunisian-Italian poet and researcher with a PhD in French language and literature, focused on Reported Speech in the Narratives of Albert Camus: An Enunciative Approach. She is the author of several poetry collections, essays, and articles, and her work centers on Francophone poetry, intercultural dialogue, and the visibility of marginalized voices.
She contributes to “Le Pan Poétique des Muses” as a journalist and literary columnist, and collaborates with the “Union of Arab Journalists and Writers” in Europe. Active in literary translation through “ATLAS”, she also leads workshops and community initiatives exploring creativity, humanity, and women’s voices across cultures.
A two-time laureate of the “Eugen Ionescu doctoral and postdoctoral research program” (2018, 2022) in Romania, she continues to combine scholarship and creation with strong intercultural engagement.
Her collection “Tout ira bien… ” won the 2023 International Poetry Prize of the Poéféministe Orientales Review, and she received the Francophonie Europoésie UNICEF Prize in Paris in 2022 for her literary work. Since 2023, she has served on the jury of the Dina Sahyouni Literary Prize, after chairing in 2022 the international poetry contest Poetry and Pandemic, organized by the Agence Universitaire de la Francophonie.
————————————————————————————–
tucked behind the ear
my grandmother
always used to
say trust your
gut until you
realize the gut
has shit for
brains
i always kept
that tucked
behind the
ear
today, the shit
for brains part
came shining
through
but, as with
most matters
of the heart
love will make
it through
it conquers
everything
fear, ignorance,
cynicism and
the ever present
rejection
it’s a gentle
touch
a subtle
embrace
a soft kiss
on a rainy
day
the final battle
you have no
choice but to
win
———————————————————
just another transaction
your beauty is such
that i know i am just
another transaction
and as long as the
money keeps flowing
you’ll keep smiling
keep teasing
keep up the illusion
that this is something
real
that i mean something
tangible in your life
the magic trick truly
is to keep the teasing
going when the money
stops
even the dreamer in me
knows bullshit when he
sees it
———————————————————————-
a typical day on the farm
a woman told me
once i was fucked
i pondered where
she was going
with this
she continued,
dogs are man’s
best friend and
you have nothing
but cats
this means you
are either a communist
or an unlucky fucker
i suppose i should
start my manifesto
comrade
she laughed, took
another drag off
her cigarette
turkey vultures
circling overhead
a crow lands
in the yard
i lit a cigarette
and said i guess
we are putting
the conversation
on luck now
one of the cats
ventured a little
too far into the
back field
became an appetizer
for the coyotes
———————————————————————-
a cold reality
i hear laughter
in my nightmares
neon dreams of
strange women
that never want
to fuck me
like stepping in
a cold reality that
i have wanted to
leave for years
there’s a devil
in your kiss and
i hope that i don’t
have to cut yet
another deal
crossing over
state lines
counting down
the miles
sure, something
will go wrong
your life isn’t
a fucking dream
but the journey
will be worth it
you’ve seen
the destination
the curves and
soft skin
you know plenty
of worse places
to possibly die
in
—————————————————————–
just a wrong turn
step away from
the chaos and
remember love
think of those
hushed whispers
and stolen kisses
not about all the
years it has been
since any of that
has happened
in your life
pretend this hell
is just a wrong
turn in whatever
utopia you feel
comfortable in
of course, don’t
give the secrets
away just yet
the last twinkle
of hope still exists
in that dark sky
get high enough
and you can even
touch it
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, hoping to escape one day. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Misfit Magazine and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days betting on baseball games and taking care of his disabled mother. He has a blog, but rarely finds the time to write on it anymore. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
On the Strand
He’s having breakfast
At a small cafe
On the Strand
In London
And a group of
Young Americans enter
They’re too loud
But at least they’re respectful.
Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”
The Vorg
Sally was standing at the kitchen window over the sink one night, peering into the darkness, when the saucer landed in her back yard. Instantly her eyes opened wide and she shouted, “Duke, come in here. ET has landed!”
Her husband of 40+ years tumbled out of his recliner in the living room, tossed his newspaper aside and made a beeline for the kitchen. As he walked in, Sally mutely pointed out the window. Duke craned his neck and stared.
“Goodnight, nurse,” he muttered, then opened one of the cabinets and extracted a small black revolver. Taking out a box of ammo, he fitted bullets into the empty chambers, opened the window and pointed the weapon at the invaders.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
With the smell of cordite thick in the air, the pair peeped through the window to see what damage Duke had done.
An alien, ghostly gray and three feet tall and with shadows where its eyes might have gone, approached the window, levitated and handed Duke the three spent bullets. There was no sign of damage to ET.
“Gblrbg!” scolded the alien.
Duke blinked down at the undamaged bullets.
“What is he saying, Duke?” inquired Sally.
Duke turned up his cell phone and said, “Alexa, translate Gblrbg.”
They waited for a moment, then Alexa said, “Ass wipe.”
“Thank you, Alexa,” murmured Duke.
The alien began to speak, but Duke presented his iPhone and the alien started anew.
At length, Alexa translated the verbiage as: “Astral parasite, we of the planet Vorg intend to mine your miserable world for precious Ygbl (cigarette butts) and Zglzh (plastic waste) with which to replenish our stock of planetary fuel. Resist and you will be hgsgl (neutralized). Cooperate and we will make you wealthy as Ythgx (Croesus). Our excavation will take approximately thirty of your earth days.” ET then withdrew to his saucer.
Sally and Duke stared at each other, dumbfounded.
One month to the day later, the alien returned to the kitchen window and handed Sally and Duke a king’s ransom in precious jewels. The pair accepted the riches avidly and bid the alien farewell. They watched as he returned to his spacecraft and prepared to embark, when suddenly the saucer violently exploded. Sally recoiled and screamed.
“What happened, Duke?” cried Sally.
“I reported the aliens to Homeland Security,” replied Duke quietly.
“But why?” she said incredulously. “They took all the cigarette butts and plastic waste from the planet,” she protested. “What did they do wrong?”
“They were using up possibly valuable resources,” Duke told his wife. “Some of them mated with earthlings and they were poisoning our blood lines.”
“But, they seemed so nice,” remarked Sally distractedly.
“On their planet,” said Duke, “they were probably thieves and rapists and escapees from insane asylums.”
Sally looked out and the still smoldering embers of the saucer and sighed.
“I guess you’re right. They must’ve been interplanetary vermin.”
The next day another similar saucer hovered over their backyard. A voice from the saucer said “Do not attack. We come in thanks. We wish you well and have many blessings to bestow upon you.” This time no translation was needed.
Before Duke could grab his pistol, Sally asked him to listen to them.
The saucer landed and a similar alien came out of a portal and approached. “We got our language skills from people who were selling what you call cheap crap on television. Thank you for killing criminals from our planet.”
“Were they thieves, rapists, and escapees from insane asylums?” asked Duke.
“No, but they were intent on overtaking Vorg. We didn’t want that. What we want is ice cream, Coke, Brazil nuts, and coffee. And of course the Russian women who want to marry American men. You will like what we offer in exchange.”
“What’s that?”
“We can send more of what the criminals sent before, or we have saunas and salons which generate their own power, our pets which you will love and will love you if you know what I mean, and honest politicians if anybody is interested.”
At this point Duke said “Sounds good. Let me see if I can get our leader.”
The United Nations decided to send football hero Pitt Yazoo to meet with the Vorg leader Emile Stanza. The interplanetary leaders came up with a compact which was taken to world counsels on both planets. It was adopted.
While the fate of the Russian women remained an open question, Vorg sent what earthlings would call three-dimensional, interactive videos to earth. Many of those who saw the videos signed up. Their messages back to earth got more recruits, some from married women.
At the signing ceremony Stanza again thanked the earthlings for the service they’d rendered.
“What exactly were those criminals up to?” asked the American President.
“They were intent on taking over Vorg after making weapons of mass destruction with cigarette butts and plastic waste,” explained the Vorg leader. “You saved our pghtx (bacon)” he said gratefully.
TIRED ONES STILL ALIVE
Anđela Bunoš, Serbia
There are hearts you cannot hold,
even if I shared the stories they hide.
My smile belongs to the world,
but my tears are saved for one soul alone.
I wear a smile for all to see, Suzana—
and you should know the truth beneath.
I won’t whisper that you’re rare,
nor confess how deeply I long for you.
For if your eyes can’t find it,
then words would fall in vain.
But I know you feel it still,
for our roads run side by side.
Our souls remember,
our lips confess in silence.
Our gazes speak, weary of life—
yet still, somehow,
you and I remain alive.
Anđela Bunoš was born on October 2, 1998, in Belgrade. She completed her undergraduate and master’s studies at the Faculty of Teacher Education, University of Belgrade. She is currently working as a teacher at the “Sava Šumanović” Elementary School in Zemun.
Heartaches By The Numbers The End of the Road My yellow brick road was paved with her promises. A Dickinson Uncouplet A rant without slant? Don’t tell me I can't. Night Cruises Our ships passed at night. She would pass many others. I only passed hers. The Rehearsal When she rehearsed our wedding night I’m sure it whet their appetite, helping him rise up for more— another notch, another score. The Outsider Perhaps if they’d stopped once they kissed, I would never have felt that I missed the delight in her heart which was blissed from the start of the joy she found on their first tryst. My Mourning Star I still wonder where you are, you who made my dawn come up like thunder, morning star.