Ana Stjelja, Immagine & Poesia, Lidia Chiarelli

Lidia Chiarelli: Hymn of Enheduanna (𒂗𒃶𒌌𒀭𒈾), published in Serbia

Lidia Chiarelli Art

Lidija Kjareli: Himna Enheduane

Gospa svih božanskih sila, sjajna svetlost,

pravednica obučena u sjaj

(Uzvišenje Inane)

Ur, 23. vek p.n.e.

Dozvoli mi, o Inana, da opevam tvoju lepotu

Mlada i poletna

Kraljice neba

Ja, tvoja skromna En Sveštenica, prizivam Te,

Boginjo zaštitnice Eaninog hrama.

Uzburkavaš pometnju i haos

Protiv svojih neprijatelja.

Odevena u zastrašujući sjaj

Podstičeš razornu poplavu,

Gospo bitke i osvete.

Da pozdravim tvoj sjaj

Tvoju osmokraku zvezdu.

Neka tvoji zraci osvetle moj um

Boginjo ljubavi i rata.

Vodi moje misli

Vodi moju ruku

Da napišem ovu himnu za Tebe

Da Te večno uzdižem.

Molim te da molitvu ovu prihvatiš

Od mene, Enheduana,

Od mene koja danas želim da Ti pevam

Od mene koja želim da Ti ukažem čast

Sada i zauvek

U svakom danu mog života

(поесиа традотта ин сербо да Ана Стјеља)

*Lidija Kjareli je italijanska pesnikinja i umetnica. Član je književno-umetničkog pokreta Immagine & Poesia, koji je pokrenula 2007. godine u Torinu zajedno sa ćerkom velškog pesnika Dilana Tomasa. Takođe je vajar i kolažista. Njeni književni radovi su prevedeni na nekoliko svetskih jezika i objavljeni u preko 150 književnih magazina i časopisa. Koordinator je proslave dana Dilana Tomasa u Italiji. Svoje književne radove objavljuje na italijanskom i engleskom jeziku i objavljuje ih u brojnim italijanskim i međunarodnim književnim časopisima, blogovima i portalima. Dobitnica je mnogobrojnih književnih i umetničkih nagrada širom svetu.

Louisa Calio

Louisa Calio: A Passion for Jamaica

Louisa Calio Louisa Calio is an internationally published, award winning author, whose work has been translated into Russian, Italian, Sicilian and Korean. In 2016 her poem “Sky Openings” won “Words of Gold” in Agrigento, Sicily. She won first prize for her poem “Bhari” from the City of Messina, Sicily, an International Poetry Competition 2013,was a2013 Finalist for Poet Laureate of Nassau County, NY, formerly Director of the Poets and Writers Piazza for Hofstra’s Italian Experience for 12 years, founding member and Executive Director of City Spirit Artists, Inc. New Haven, Ct. and an activist in the arts internationally, She is currently on the Advisory Board of Arba Sicula an organization devoted to Sicilian culture. She was honored at Columbia/Barnard with Alice Walker, Ruth Beta Ginsberg, and others, as a Feminist Who Changed America 2nd Wave, won the 1978 Connecticut Commission of the Arts Award given to individual writers, the 1987 Women in Leadership Award for her contribution to Arts development in Connecticut. She holds a BA with special honors in English from SUNY Albany and a Masters from Temple University. As an independent scholar who studied with Robert F. Thompson at Yale, in African Art and Religion and others, she lives in the USA and Jamaica WI where she writers and exhibits her photography. and Facebook. Her latest book Journey to the Heart Waters is published by Legas Press.

Daniela Feltrinelli, Lidia Chiarelli

“Accendo candele” poem by Daniela Feltrinelli. English Translation and Digital Art by Lidia Chiarelli


Accendo candele 

per veder danzare la notte,

intreccio filigrane di parole

e attendo …

Accendo candele

e aspetto la notte:

lunga è la sera 

e non vedo la luna…

Accendo candele 

e aspetto parole:

scorre l’inchiostro 

senza macchie e senza colore.

Accendo candele

e spengo le luci,

silenzi di casa

e rumori dell’anima…

Accendo candele

e spargo profumi,

aspetto un sonno

che non verrà…

Accendo candele

e accendo pensieri

che vengono a te.



I light candles

to see the night dancing

I intertwine filigrees of words

and I wait…

I light candles

and I wait for the night:

long is the evening

and I do not see the moon…

I light candles

and wait for words:

the ink flows

without stains and without color.

I light candles

and turn off the lights,

home silences

and noises of the soul…

I light candles

and spread perfumes,

I look for a sleep

that will not come…

I light candles

and I turn on the thoughts that come to you.

Translation by Lidia Chiarelli


Daniela Feltrinelli was born in La Spezia, in the magnificent Gulf of Poets.

Since her youth she has used the written words as means of introspection and personal expression, publishing poems in anthologies of her area.

In 2018 she wrote the collection of poems Isole vicine, almost entirely dedicated to the small islands of Palmaria and Tino and to the sea, a continuous source of great inspiration for her.

The book, published by Agorà&co, has received many awards and mentions in national and international literary competitions.

In 2020, in full lockdown, she published her second book of poetry, L’incanto dell’onda (Helicon editions).The book is divided into five sections: Nature, People, Seasons, Travel, Humanitarian Emergencies. Some of the poems have already been awarded in different competitions and the book is among the finalists in the International Prize City of Sarzana.

The author believes that poetry is the safest place to store feelings and emotions.

Ali Al-Hazmi, Immagine & Poesia, Lidia Chiarelli

“Lacrime sulle sue labbra bruciate dal sale” poem by Ali Al-Hazmi, Saudi Arabia. Italian translation and Digital Art by Lidia Chiarelli, Italy

Lacrime sulle sue labbra bruciate dal sale

Vicino alla costa, costruivamo case di sabbia. Quando partì per la pesca, per l’ultima volta…

Siamo corsi a riportare le corde della rete alla sua piccola canoa.

Con le manine

Abbiamo salutato incessantemente le ultime onde che strappavano via la barca,

Lontano dai tempi della nostra infanzia.

Dietro le sbarre della finestra, le nostre testoline serrate; con gli occhi fissi sulla strada costiera;

Le ali della mamma spiegate sulle nostre piccole spalle

Mentre il suo corpo si insinuava tra i nostri;

Immensamente preoccupata per le nostre anime innocenti in erba.

Avevo paura che i suoi lunghi capelli potessero cedere al vento, se avesse camminato oltre la ringhiera di metallo;

L’ho tirata indietro verso il calore della stanza di legno; poi ho guardato la riva del mare impressa nei suoi occhi,

Allora vidi il mare avanzare ben oltre le case di sabbia.

“Ritornerà di sicuro” disse

Prima che le sue lacrime si posassero sulle mie labbra, le mie labbra bruciate dal sale.

Vent’anni non sono serviti a demolire le case di sabbia

Ai nostri occhi.

Il volto rinsecchito di mio padre, adagiato sulle onde, è diventato una finestra che guarda agli anni d’argento della nostra epoca; un’epoca abbandonata in trappole fangose.

Eppure, la mia amata madre nasconde i suoi rimpianti dietro la sua ombra. Ancora, al mattino,

Fa il pane fresco con i suoi sogni;

E a mezzanotte,

Riscalda ciò che resta dei suoi desideri sul fornello della sua anima. Ancora, ci fidiamo di lei e mangiamo il pane della sua menzogna,

Solo per continuare a vivere.


Tears Rolling down Her Salted Burning Lips

Near the coast, we used to build sand homes. When he left for fishing, for the last time… We raced to return the trimmings of his net To his little canoe.

With little hands

We waved unceasingly to the last waves That snatched his boat away,

Away from the times of our childhood.

Behind the window bars, our little heads squeezed; With eyes fixed on the coast road;

Mother’s wings spread over our little shoulders

As she injected her body among ours;

Immensely worried about our budding innocent souls.

I was scared that her long hair may submit to the winds, If she forward on the metal rail ;

I drew her back towards the warmness of the timber room; Then I stared at the seashores dwelling in her eyes,

And saw the sea travelling far beyond the sand homes.


 “Sure, he will return,” she said,

Before her tear floored upon my lips— mysalted burning lips.

Twenty years did not avail to demolish the sand homes

In our eyes.

The dried out face of my father, laid upon the waves Became a window thatlooks at the silver years of our age; An age abandoned in muddy traps.

Still, my beloved mother conceals her regrets behind her shadow. Still, on the mornings,

She makes fresh bread with her dreams;

And at midnights,

She reheats what remains of her wishes on the stove of her soul. Still, we trust her and eat the bread of her lie,

Just to live on


Ali Al-Hazmi (Biography)

* Born in Damadd, Saudi Arabia, in 1970.

* Obtained a degree in Arabic language and Literature at Umm Al-Qura University – Faculty of Arabic Language,1992.

* As early as the year 1985, the poet started publishing poems in a variety of local and Arabic cultural Periodicals such as The Seventh Day (Paris), Creativity (Cairo),

Nazoa (Amman) and The New Text.

The poet participated in a number of recital sessions of poetry inside and

outside of Saudi Arabia:

 International Poetry Festival, Costa Rica 2013.

 International Poetry Festival, Voix Vives in Toledo, Spain 2014.  International Poetry Festival, Punta del Este, Uruguay 2015.  Madrid Voice life Poetry Festival, Spain 2016.

 International Poetry Festival, Havana, Cuba 2016.

 International Poetry Festival, Medellín, Colombia 2016.

 Istanbul Poetry Festival, Turkey, 2016.

 International Poetry Festival, Roma 2017.

 International Academy Orient – Occident, Romania 2017.

 International Poetry Festival, Madrid, Spain 2017.

 International Poetry Festival, Malaga, Spain 2018.

 International Poetry Festival February, Madrid. Spain 2018. 82


 A Gate for the Body, Dar Almadina- Jeddah- 1993.

 Loss, Sharqiyat- Sharqueyat Pub. House, Cairo 2000.

 Deer Drink Its Own Image, Arab Cultural Center, Beirut 2004.

 Comfortable on the Edge, Riad-Al Rayes – Beirut 2009.

 Now in the Past, Arab Cultural Center-Beirut, 2018.

 Selected Poems (Audio CD Anthology) – Hail Literary Club, 2010.

Books Translated to Different Foreign Languages:

Trees of Absence, Translated into French-Lil-Dision – France 2016.

Comfortable on the Edge, Translated into Spanish by University of Costa Rica

Editorial 2013, House of Poetry Foundation.

Comfortable on the Edge, Translated into French- Larmatin – Paris 2016.

A Fragmented Life, Translated into Turkish – Art Shop Pub. House, Istanbul -Turkey 2017.

A definite Road in the Mist, Translated into English and Romanian language – Academy Orient – Occident – Romania 2017.

Take Me to My Body, Seleted Poems Translated into Serbian Language, Alma Publishing House, Belgrade, Serbia 2018.

A Road into the Wall, Translated into Macedonian Language, AkademskiPečat Publishing House, Macedonia, 2019.

 Comfortable on the Edge, Translated to Spanish, University of Costa Rica in Collaboration with The House of Poetry in Costa Rica, 2013.

Comfortable on the Edge, Translated to French, La Martin Publishing House, 2016. *Al Hazmi participated in more than 20 Anthologies in different parts of the world:

Colombia, Spain, Dominican, Germany, China, Turkey, Romania, Cuba and Serbia.

*The poet has recently signed a contract with Google to have the previlege of publishing some oh his poem son Google Assistance Site.


* Medal of Poetry, Urugway, 2015.

* The World Grand Prize for Poetry, The International Academy Orient – Occident in Romania 2017.

* His Poem “A Road into the Wall” won Verbumlandia Prize in Italy, 2017.

* The Prize of the Best International Poet in 2018, The International Center for Translation and Poetry Research, China.

Contemporary Art, Immagine & Poesia, Lidia Chiarelli, Tzemin Ition Tsai

The Bride’s Last Night, poem by Tzemin Ition Tsai 蔡澤民, Taiwan. Digital Collage by Lidia Chiarelli, Italy

The Bride's Last Night ---



























The Bride’s Last Night

Night, such as another dark injury

With that bitter can’t be spit it out. So afraid

The home of my husband is a place the stars do not shine



I do not know. The future husband

Can light up the sky just for love or not

The future mother-in-law can light up the sky

As I am their own daughter


In the past, the wind blew the sky

Always touching the lingering nocturne

Through the window, such as tonight

Without a little bit of sound

Without a little bit of sound




Everywhere is the light of the moon broken and quiet

Drowsiness overcome deeply consciousness

Do not remember the sun’s face

Calm Galaxy, never know where to go

Close my eyes and recite a poem


Poem by





L’ultima notte della sposa

Notte, come un’altra ferita oscura

con quell’amaro che non si può sputare fuori.

ho così paura  che

la casa di mio marito sia un luogo in cui le stelle non brillano


Non lo so. Il futuro marito

può illuminare il cielo solo per amore oppure no

la futura suocera può illuminare il cielo

perché  io sono la loro figlia


In passato, il vento soffiava nel  cielo

toccando sempre la notte che indugiava

attraverso la finestra, come solo stasera

senza alcun suono

senza alcun  suono


Ovunque la luce della luna è rotta e tranquilla

la sonnolenza supera di gran lunga la coscienza

non ricordo il volto del sole

la Galassia è calma, non so  dove andare

chiudo gli occhi e recito una poesia




Translation by Lidia Chiarelli



Art, Immagine & Poesia, Lidia Chiarelli, Tzemin Ition Tsai

The sunset even feels cold, poem by Tzemin Ition Tsai 蔡澤民 – Taiwan. Digital Collage by Lidia Chiarelli, Italy

























The sunset even feels cold


That tide infested waywardly my sandy beach

Sunset’s advice

With red eyes

No day to let off

In the past ten million years


Those ungrateful westerlies

Always secretly come and also secretly go

To turn

The giant fan of that wind power tower

For the confrontation between man and nature

Do not say a word


Clean up

Those gauzes hanging in the surrounding

My heart does not understand

How to deal with the questions of the little fishes

Are those thin meshes

able to catch the autumn wind?

Are those thin meshes

able to catch the cold before jumping into the sea?

Poem by



Freddo Tramonto


La marea infestava ostinata la mia spiaggia di sabbia

la suggestione del tramonto

gli occhi rossi

nessun giorno da tralasciare

negli ultimi dieci milioni di anni


Quegli  ingrati venti occidentali

sempre segretamente vengono e segretamente vanno

per far girare

il ventilatore gigante della torre elettrica di vento

per un confronto tra uomo e natura

nessuna parola



quelle reti appese tutto intorno

il mio cuore non capisce

come affrontare le domande dei piccoli pesci

sono quelle maglie sottili

in grado di catturare il vento autunnale?

sono quelle maglie sottili

in grado di catturare il freddo prima di cadere in mare?

Translation by Lidia  Chiarelli




Adel Gorgy, Cross-Cultural Communications, Immagine & Poesia, Peter Thabit Jones

“The Dark House of Hurt” artwork by Adel Gorgy, USA. “Crosses and gravestones break my view” poem by Peter Thabit Jones, UK

-Credit : Cross-Cultural Communications Art & Poetry Series Broadsides # 78


The Dark House of Hurt
Copyright © Adel Gorgy 2015 Photograph  –



Crosses and gravestones break my view.
To the left, I see you, bending
To arrange a jar of flowers;
The winter sky dulls your presence:
Charcoal figure, Van Gogh peasant.
Now kneeling, you recall a prayer.


My lack of Welsh locks out the sense;
But the grammar of sobs I know.
No priest, no poet, no actor
Could vinegar my wound like you.
You stand and gather up your things;
Then blackly walk the narrow path.


Your grief is deep – and so is mine;
Yet your strange prayer suggests that faith
Does visit your dark house of hurt.
I stare down at my child son’s grave;
I say no words to cross or stone,
As my clenched hands hold crumbs of dirt.


Published in VISITORS by Peter Thabit Jones, Seren Books (1986)


Immagine & Poesia

“I cani sentiranno la nostra mancanza” poem by Tomasz Marek Sobieraj, Poland. Painting by Sandrina Piras, Italy


(Painting by Sandrina Piras c/o



Una poltrona vuota in un angolo di una stanza,

sotto la lampada; un tavolo accanto,

occhiali, libri, telefono,

alcuni giornali e un gioco di dama sopra.

Davanti alla poltrona, un cane è seduto.

Non vuole alzarsi

e sistemarsi comodamente, come i cani

di solito fanno. Guarda. Aspetta.

Probabilmente pensa,

che questo è solo un nuovo gioco a “scomparsa”

un comportamento, infatti,

che è indegno di un uomo serio;

un altro scherzo, come lo era nel parco,

quando lui è salito su un albero e ha gettato le castagne.

Il cane aggrotta la fronte, inclina la testa,

annusa l’odore con il suo naso umido,

muovendo leggermente la coda. Si sdraia

sul tappeto, poggia la testa sulle zampe anteriori,

lotta con il peso delle palpebre, dopo un po’

si addormenta; abbaia,

corre dietro al suo padrone, è un piccolo cucciolo,

tira la stoffa, e quindi cade

in quella terribile pozzanghera vicino alla vecchia quercia.

E, naturalmente, insegue il gatto.


Dopo alcuni sogni del cane,

i bicchieri, i libri e la dama

scompaiono dal tavolo.

L’altare lentamente

si perde nel buio. Poi arriva l’inverno.

E il cane è ancora seduto davanti poltrona

e attende.

TOMASZ MAREK SOBIERAJ (Translation by Lidia Chiarelli)