è il nuovo sito realizzato da Lidia Chiarelli come “vetrina espositiva” delle bellezze artistiche di Caltanissetta, della sua antica storia, dei suoi colori e dei suoi dolci sapori.
Il sito ha ottenuto il patrocinio del Comune e la concessione del logo.
Articolato in 38 sezioni, ci permette un incontro ravvicinato con quanto di più caratteristico Caltanissetta sa offrire: le sue chiese, i suoi musei, i parchi e i giardini, i quartieri e i rioni storici.
Ma ci porta anche a conoscere il meglio dell’Arte contemporanea siciliana nello Spazio Pitta, voluto da Lorenzo Maria Ciulla e ad entrare in contatto con la “Scuola di Caltanissetta” e la poesia visiva, grazie ai documenti messi a disposizione dall’artista Calogero Barba.
Personaggi, scrittori ed ingegneri famosi, di cui facciamo conoscenza, ci fanno pensare che per molti di loro vale la dedica del monumento presente a Villa Amedeo:
Per chi con le radici in questa terra, ha sparso il suo profumo sotto altri cieli, ambasciatori della nostra cultura e delle nostre tradizioni.
Non manca l’elenco dei dolci tipici e l’incontro con Lillo Defraia, il maestro pasticcere che ha guidato Caltanissetta alla conquista del World Guinness Record per la creazione del cannolo più lungo del mondo.
L’ultima sezione è dedicata ai commenti di alcuni critici, artisti e scrittori americani a cui il sito è stato presentato in anteprima.
Due sono gli aforismi di Fabrizio Caramagna scelti per la nostra città:
Un luogo dove fermarsi un po’. Dove anche il tempo sembra voler aspettare.
Dove ogni colore si mostra “all’improvviso” e ti fa respirare.
“Rinascere”, “rialzarsi”, “riscattarsi”, “ripartire”. Senti come suonano bene, profumano di coraggio e di possibilità.
Infine citiamo le parole della dedica di Lidia Chiarelli riportata nelle prime pagine:
– a quanti strenuamente si impegnano e lavorano per la RINASCITA di Caltanissetta
– a Guido Chiarelli (Caltanissetta 1902 – Torino 1982), pioniere dell’illuminazione pubblica,
faro che guida la mia vita.
Da: LA VOCE DEL NISSENO, articolo di Michele Bruccheri, 21 aprile2024
Decía Baudelaire que “El genio no es más que la infancia recuperada a voluntad”. Acaso por ello la evocación suele ser el instrumento predilecto del poeta. Quien escribe aspira a volver a la casa paterna, a la niñez, porque intuye que rememorar los primeros años de vida es habitar un refugio que nos abre las puertas de la poesía. Doble acento para un naufragio / Duplo sotaque para um naufrágio (2023) de Yuleisy Cruz Lezcano (Cuba, 1973) es un poemario que se lanza a esa recuperación de la infancia. Se trata de un libro que indaga en la memoria para buscar un asidero que permita entender el aquí y el ahora. Este libro puede leerse como la bitácora de un viaje existencia, pero también como una confesión que transita de la nostalgia por años de infancia y la patria perdida, a la gratitud por alcanzar un puerto de arribo, por la llegada a una nueva Ítaca.
El mar, la ventisca, el oleaje y, por supuesto el naufragio, figuran como elementos que dan cauce a uno de los temas centrales: el dolor por la partida, pero también el anhelo de un regreso que llena de vitalidad el canto. El libro está conformado por cuarenta y cinco poemas en los que descuellan las imágenes tomadas del mundo marítimo, y más aún: del fluir del agua como símbolo dual de trasformación y permanencia:
Antes o después me iré.
Se quedará quien fui
sentada sobre una piedra,
mirando a orillas de un río
como tiemblan las hierbas.
Los poemas de esta colección son también un balance de lo vivido, y sobre todo, de lo escrito; de la relación tan íntima que todo poeta establece (y enaltece) con el lenguaje como un vehículo con el que crea y recrea su mundo. El tema de la nostalgia no sólo se aprecia en las reminiscencias de la infancia o la memoria como función discursiva, sino también en la elección del español: Cruz Lezcano nació en Cuba, pero radica en Italia desde hace más de treinta años y es en la lengua de Dante en la que ha dado a conocer una obra literaria basta, que incluye libros de poesía y de narrativa. Volver a la lengua madre es de hecho el regreso nostálgico más profundo en este poemario.
En Doble acento para un naufragio / Duplo sotaque para um naufrágio también hay cabida para la contemplación del ahora, para la búsqueda de lo momentos que enriquecen el presente. Asimismo, para el homenaje literario, para la recuperación de las influencias o admiraciones que todo poeta lleva consigo y hace latente en su escritura. Pizarnik, por ejemplo, está presente como inspiración, pero también como introspección y punto de partida.
Doble acento para un naufragio / Duplo sotaque para um naufrágio es, hasta donde tengo noticia, el primer libro de Yuleisy Cruz Lezcano escrito en español. Y es también el primero que publica fuera de Italia. El libro fue editado en Portugal por Edições Fantasma, y cuenta con una traducción al portugués a cargo del poeta y traductor Carlos Ramos. El prefacio corre a cargo de la poeta española María Calle Bajo, de quien recupero esta afirmación que suscribo plenamente: “Sus versos son esbozos de la más anhelada infancia cubana, sus estrofas desdibujan las pulsiones de juventud y en su nota dominante de madurez se erige la fragilidad del atesorado tiempo”.
Yuleisy Cruz Lezcano
Doble acento para un naufragio. Duplo sotaque para um naufrágio.
Yuleisy Cruz Lezcano. (Cuba, 1973). Radica en Marzabotto, Bolonia. Emigró a Italia a la edad de 18 años. Realizó sus estudios profesionales en la Universidad de Bolonia, donde consiguió el título en Ciencias de la enfermería y obstetricia. Cuenta además con un segundo título en Ciencias biológicas. Trabaja en la salud pública. En su tiempo libre ama dedicarse a la poesía, la narrativa, la pintura y la escultura. Ha publicado los siguientes títulos: Pensieri trasognati per un sogno (2013), Fra distruzione e rinascita: la vita (2014), Diario di una ipocrita (2014), Vita su un ponte di legno (2014), Cuori Attorno a una favola (2014), Tracce di semi sonori con i colori della vita (2014), Sensi da sfogliare (2014), Piccoli fermioni d’amore (2015), Due amanti noi (2015), Credibili incertezze (2016), Frammenti di sole e nebbia sull’Appennino (2016), Soffio di anime erranti (2017), Fotogrammi di confine (2017), Tristano e Isotta. La storia si ripete (2018), Inventario delle cose perdute (2018), Demamah: il signore del deserto – Demamah: el señor del desierto (2019), L’infanzia dell’erba (2021) y Doble acento para un naufragio – Duplo sotaque para um naufrágio (2023).
Su poesía es presente en distintas antologías y revistas sea italianas sea Internacional y ha sido traducida en distintos idiomas. Es miembro de honor del Festival Internacional de la Poesía de Tozeur en Túnez. Ha obtenido numerosos premios literarios en distintos certámenes tanto de Italia como del extranjero
When me and my close friends, Dan Blebea and Florentina Dalian on Dan’s “Renault”, going to visit to Transylvania, the land of the evil Count Dracula, old and charming, with a mysterious appearance and a rich history, my friend’s puppy, the longing for the old, lovely Bobitsa which just was very passionate by the fireplace, somehow reminded me of Chekhov’s Kashtanka the first time I saw it, was crushing my heart, and the thirst caused by the heat of the Romanian autumn, similar to ours, in the first month of summer, had already begun to irritate my throat. Every ten to fifteen minutes, I wet my throat with one of the mineral waters, which was given to me by the grace of generous Dan, and I licked my lips, once again believing that life is a supreme blessing and I was enjoying form it. I didn’t even stop saying “your puppy likes me” to my friend. He would only smile softly in response to me, with the composure characteristic of his nature and enlightened age, he would turn the steering wheel of his car in one rhythm, straighten his black glasses on his nose, and calmly look at the geolocation on the phone screen in front of him.
Another friend of mine, Florentina, who is riding in the seat behind me, whom I affectionately call “my Romanian mother” and she also likes it, is sometimes addressing someone in Romanian on the phone in her hand, sometimes she shares with me the necessary information without taking their eyes off the beautiful and fascinating landscape, about majestic Argez forest, which is increasingly surrounding us and which until now I only read about in books, is the forest of Transylvania. Sometimes there would be a long silence, and all three of us would be quiet, and only the sound of the engine of the car, which was moving at a moderate speed, could be heard in the cabin.As I was not used to such silence, I took my eyes off the road and engaged both of my interlocutors in turn and tried to talk to them about any topic that came to my mind.Sometimes I would distract Danny from the road and puzzle him about the Romanian city of the large-fruited grape variety that I liked on the table at home, and sometimes I would turn to Florentina and disturb her with the recipe for the preparation of the Romanian national dish Mamaliga or modern Romanian literature.
At one point, a beautiful song started playing on the car’s tape recorder. I thought it was Romanian. A woman with a magical voice was singing, there was a living soul who listened to her in absentia, and shared her acute pain with all of them.
“Tatyana Stepa is singing,” said Florentina, approaching my seat. “The name of the song is “Copaci fara padure”. Translation: “Trees without a forest”.
After her answer, I involuntarily looked at the surrounding trees, which, although it was the end of September, had not yet lost their greenness, at the magnificence of the forest, where the endless border had begun.
“Bear, bear,” said Dan as he slowed the “Reno” down, pulled over to the side of the road, and pointed to a bear on the side of the road.
The cars in front of us and the ones behind us stopped, and the passengers in all of them were busy looking at the big bear standing on the opposite side of the road.While basking in the sun on the side of the road, the bear opened his mouth, showed his big teeth, played with his huge paws in the air, and kept his eyes fixed on the cars and the curious people inside them.He even raised one hand and seemed to greet those around him. All three of us laughed at this.
“The bear started to think that he is a Hollywood star” I said laughing as I pushed Dan.
To be honest, until now I have only met a live bear in zoos. It was the first time I met a bear living in nature, under natural conditions. After hanging out with the bear for a few minutes, my mind drifted back to the same song as we continued on our way. The song didn’t stop. Tatiana’s pains, absorbed in the song, penetrated more and more to the depths of my heart.
“Trees with a forest” I said when we got out of the tunnel and reached the bridge over Lake Vadraru, referring to the surrounding trees, making a pun.
In response, Florentina now laughed
“You’re right now,” said Dan, smiling after her.
On the bridge, Dan pulled over. The three musketeers (I jokingly named the three of us) went down. We decided to have a little rest here, to eat in one of the artificial kitchens lined up on the edge of the bridge. Dan came up with some hot corn on the cob, wrapped in paper, and soft-cooked. He handed me two. I stared at Vadraru Lake for ten to fifteen minutes while chewing my corn. Falling in love with it grace, I touched my face to the ice-like mist radiating from it.My heart was beating with excitement, since it was the first time in my life to see such a big lake, my fascination with it was increasing every second, the hunger for beauty in my heart was insatiable no matter how much I looked at the lake, the fire in my eyes was burning more and more, I felt as if I was standing in heaven.
But even here Tatiana’s song did not leave my ears.As we continued on the road, I would play the song over and over again on the tape recorder, each time I would like it not to end, and when it was over, I would immediately touch the tape recorder’s rewind button with my index finger. Dan and Florentina were not against it. They did not pay attention eye to my capriciousness, just as a parent bears the capriciousness of his child, on the contrary, both of them were blissfully happy, when I discovered Tatyana Stepa for myself.
“Tell me about Tatyana Stepa,” I said to Florentina as I opened the car window and smelled the breath of the green forest.
She shared everything she knew about the contemporary Romanian folk singer.
“Is she dead?” I asked, feeling strange after hearing about her death.
“Yes” said Florentina, shaking her head sadly. “She died of cancer in 2009.
The information she told me seemed to be lacking, or the reason why I became interested in Tatiana seemed to be lacking. I was not satisfied with them, so I immediately started looking for Tatyana Stepa on the Internet. It turned out that she was born in 1963 (here I thought that she is the same age as my mother), her songs were popular in Romania from a young age, she created mainly folk songs, and she died of cancer in a Military hospital in 2009. The place called “grave” is written on Wikipedia as “Bellu Cemetery”.
Turning off my phone almost in a knockdown state, I first whispered “Bucharest”, “Military Hospital” with trembling lips. After all, the other day when we went to Bucharest, we passed by the magnificent Military Hospital, which is an indescribable example of architecture. At that time, I looked at it in amazement and admired its architecture. At this moment, I wanted to go back there and to enter through the door, to look for the room where Tatiana died, to feel the walls, to lay on the bed where she was lying, even to look for the doctor who treated her and the nurse who took care of her, and to ask them for the last days of the singer who won my heart. Within a few minutes, I was in such a state of ecstasy that I lost consciousness of what I was doing or what I was thinking. As if my heart stopped beating and my brain stopped, only Tatiana and things related to her were spinning in my mind.
“She was buried in Bellu, Florentina!” I said with a broken heart.
“That’s right,” said Florentina in a broken voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Tatyana that day.”
“We found Eminescu’s grave, we would also find her grave,” I continued, regretting even more.
“You visited her father-in-law’s grave,” said Florentina, trying to comfort me. “Adrian Paunescu was her father-in-law. Tatiana mainly turned the poems he wrote into songs. He is also the author of Copaci fara padure.”
In fact, I was able to visit the graves of many Romanian poets and writers, except for the grave of one of my favorite poets, Mihai Eminescu, whom I searched for in Bellu, I acknowledged that death was right in front of them, froze like a statue for a few minutes and prayed for them. Among them were the graves of Ion Luca Carajale, Marin Preda, Alexandru Macedonski, Adrian Paunescu. I wandered around Bellu, hich includes a large area. So, Tatyana’s grave was somewhere in front of me, but because I didn’t know her, I ignored her, I passed by it indifferently.
This thought tormented me. Tatiana boldly entered my heart with her painful song for a few hours, and from there she took a firm place, and now I want to know completely every thing about her and I didn’t stop asking about her from Dan and Florentina. “What kind of person was Tatyana when she was alive?”, “Did she mainly create in folklore?”, “Why did she get cancer?” I wouldn’t let them rest for a moment with my questions like those, if I didn’t have enough information, I would get nervous and my anger would explode.
Tatiana was at the same age as my mother. If she had lived, she would have turned sixty these days, just like my mother. It’s interesting that I started loving her as if I loved my own mother. Although she continued to sing on the tape recorder, I could no longer hear her with my ears. Because she has already started to sing in my heart, even if her voice dies in the tape recorder, it will not die in my heart for years. She was more and more sorry for the trees without a forest, and she was forced and swallowed her pain. Looking at the trees that have a forest around me, “do you feel sorry for the trees without a forest, what about the untimely death of Tatiana who sang them?” I wanted to scream. It was as if I begged Dan, Florentina, and these trees about how the entire Romanian land, which was left without Tatiana, was like when she was alive. Especially I wanted the trees to speak which are tall as the sky, the silence of the trees hurts me once, destiny of Tatiana hurts me twice.
On the other hand, the addition of Tatiana to the ranks of Edith Piaf, Lara Fabian and Yasmin Levy, who made my heart to the door with their songs and either shook or tore them to pieces every time, now shows that the human pain and suffering in the queens created by these representatives of the delicate sex will increase and become too large , and my mind kept reminding me that it was unlikely that my sensitive heart would be able to bear it, that it was impossible to live like this, that is, to die a million times. Even when “Renault” turned towards Voynatsa, a resort town located on the slopes of the Argez forest, I still could not get rid of the above feelings, which were a heavy example of lead, and, in the words of Somerset Maugham, “a whirlwind of human pains and passions.” Voynatsa is a small and quaint town, with many street lights reminiscent of scenes from Chaplin’s movie “Lights of the Big City”. Since it was night and maybe it was raining heavily, we could not see anything on the street, not even a creature was in front of us, apparently the inhabitants of the town were sleeping soundly. I also couldn’t pay attention to the town properly due to exhaustion. In my current situation, I could only note that although the sheltered houses and two-story houses formed a strange ensemble, they reminded me of fairy-tale huts with their architecture reminiscent of the past. Even when our car stopped in front of one of the hotels there to sleep (Dan had booked the hotel in advance), only the memory of Tatiana, her bitter fate, the poet Paunescu’s ode to the salt trees that do not have a forest, and finally, that song that managed to kill me in a day, like a stunner, were on my mind was spinning. I hummed the song involuntarily. The three words “Copaci fara padure” were the only words in the lyrics in my memory (I didn’t memorize the entire lyrics). Mostly I would covertly follow its tone.As I said, it was pouring rain outside. In the small room reserved for me, I sat on the edge of the sofa and warmed up with my longing eyes to the raindrops rustling against the window, to the freshness of Voynatsa, which spread the dark curtain of the silent night outside, shimmering with the help of countless lights, and to the silence of the mysterious forest that covered the surroundings and was colored by the sky. I felt as if my body was giving up due to a hard day (we drove about 160 kilometers by car) and another pain in my heart was added to it.
Tatiana was lying alone in the cemetery in Bellu, on the cold and dry ground, in an almost rotting coffin, while I was lying on my side on the couch. Now she did not sing, did not speak, did not see, did not smell, did not laugh, did not cry. Except of skeletons left from her, there was no trace of her gentle gazelle-like eyes, white lips, thin lips, blond hair, long and soft hands that had learned to hold the guitar in the coffin. I couldn’t get that into my mind.When I listen to or remember the song “Copaci fara padure” in Voinatsa, it is as if Tatiana is sitting face to face with me and talking with me while drinking cappuccino.The more I looked at the forest, the more I envied its trees. Somewhere, the fate of trees without a forest made me sad (perhaps Tatiana sang about the trees in Brasov, Sighisoara, Sinaia or other cities of Romania without a forest, lying deserted, when the time came, they dried up and became useless for nothing but firewood).
Finally, when the dawn was about to break, my eyes began to sleep. As I closed my eyes, I thought about something that my died grandmother once said. My grandmother used to say that “we often meet people late or never alive, whom we have been looking for a lifetime, with whom want to talk for hours and whom we love.” Unfortunately, I had the same fate and was late for Tatiana.
2024, January
Sherzod Artikov
Translated from Uzbek into English by Maftuna Abdurasulova
Sherzod Artikov is an uzbek writer, essayist, poet and translator. He graduated from Ferghana Polytechnic Institute of Uzbekistan in 2005. He was one of the winners of the International Award of Contemporary Author’s Fairy Tales held in North Macedonia in 2021. His stories have been translated into 30 languages of the world and published in websites, magazines and newspapers of about 60 countries.
In 2020, the author’s books “Autumn Symphony”, “Beauty that did not save the world” and “Mona Lisa’s Smile” were published in 2022. In the middle of 2021-2022, his stories and poems were published in international anthologies in Bangladesh, Egypt, India, Canada, Tunisia, Greece, Mexico, Indonesia, USA, UAE, France, Lebanon, Poland, Turkey, and his author’s books were published in Cuba (in 2021 under the name of “La Sinfonia del “Otono”), in India( in 2022 under the name of “The Book of Garcia Marquez”) , in Romania( in 2022 under the name of “Sonata lui Rahmaninov”), in Vietnam ( in 2023 under the name of “Luan vu mua) and in Hungary ( in 2023 under the name of “ Hemigway es anyam”)
In 2021-2023, he participated in international literature festivals held in Argentina, Tunisia, Singapore, Chile, Romania, Nepal, Nicaragua, Portugal and Indonesia.
He is a 2021 laureate of the “Golden creativity award” of the Mexican-Moroccan literary alliance for young translators.
Often, one word is more than enough to warm your body as if by magic, making anxiety, that rigid piece of ice, melt and flow away like a stream.
A word, then the waves of sadness in one minute change into bubbles. Your shy smile is a ray of sunshine that soon breaks through the clouds.
One word is enough . . . but strangely, even that the people don’t want to say.
__________________________________________
IN THE SAME BOAT
“Am I dying?” you asked me suddenly, your transparent skin, like a white sheet. “Is this my goodbye to life?” A tear fell from your eyes, the last leaf on the tree.
I rested my fingers on your hand, slowly whispering, “You’re not leaving at all. We die a little bit every hour, every day, so we’re equal, we’re in the same boat.”
IRMA KURTI is an Albanian poet, writer, lyricist, journalist, and translator and has been writing since she was a child. She is a naturalized Italian and lives in Bergamo, Italy. All her books are dedicated to the memory of her beloved parents, Hasan Kurti and Sherife Mezini, who have supported and encouraged every step of her literary path.
Kurti has also won numerous literary prizes and awards in Italy and Italian Switzerland. She was awarded the Universum Donna International Prize IX Edition 2013 for Literature and received a lifetime nomination as an Ambassador of Peace by the University of Peace, Italian Switzerland.
In 2020, she became the honorary president of WikiPoesia, the encyclopedia of poetry. In 2021, she was awarded the title of Liria (Freedom) by the Italian-Albanian community in Italy. In 2022, she was also nominated as the Albanian ambassador to the International Academic Award of Contemporary Literature Senecaof the Academy of Philosophical Arts and Sciences, Bari. She also won the prestigious 2023 Naji Naaman’s literary prize for complete work.
Irma Kurti has published 28 books in Albanian, 24 in Italian, 15 in English, and two in French. She has written approximately 150 lyrics for adults and children. She has also translated 18 books by different authors, and all of her own books into Italian and English. Her books have been translated and published in 14 countries.
Black women, radiant and bold, Their stories waiting to be told.
Why, dear ones, do you doubt your worth, When your beauty shines upon this earth? Why do you question the hue you wear, When black is a color beyond compare?
In a world that casts shadows of doubt, Blackness stands tall, unyielding, devout. It carries the weight of a thousand stars, A testament to resilience that leaves no scars.
Oh, the nights that have witnessed your tears, The struggles endured throughout the years. White and brown mocking, with voices unkind, But know, dear sisters, they’re blind.
For they fail to see the history deep, The champions who fought, who dared to leap. Muhammad Ali, the boxing king, Maya Angelou, whose words still sing.
And let us not forget Mandela’s might, A beacon of hope, a guiding light. These icons, they wore the same shade, And their legacies, in blackness, were laid.
So, black women, embrace the night, For within it, your beauty takes flight. You are more than the color you don, A symphony of strength, forever strong.
No more doubting, no more despair, In every step, know that you’re rare. Black women, stand tall, proud, and true, For the world needs your beauty, through and through.
Anila Bukhari
Anila Bukhari, an incredible young girls’ education activist and award-winning humanitarian, has truly inspired many. At the age of 10, she began her writing journey, and by the age of 20, she had already authored 11 books! Her passion for raising awareness about girls’ education, especially for blind individuals, and her focus on combating forced and child marriages is commendable. Through her project “Girls Shine,” Anila’s impactful work has reached 50 countries. Her books have been published not only in the USA but also in many other countries. Her poetry, translated into 20 different languages, has touched hearts worldwide. Anila’s dedication goes beyond writing. She created a YouTube channel called “Refugee Voice,” providing a platform for global refugees to share their life stories. Additionally, she established the “Butterfly Global Teachers Club,” implementing projects in schools worldwide, including art classes for women’s empowerment and combating child marriage. Anila’s efforts extend to refugee camps, where she has published a book based on poetry from those residing there, showcasing their talent and amplifying their voices on social media. Her impact as an inspiring leader is evident through her 200+ articles and her recognition with the International Excellence Award from the House of Parliament in London, where she competed against 800 other applicants. Anila’s ultimate goal is to provide education to every orphan and street child while ensuring the safety of girls from forced marriages. Anila Bukhari’s journey is truly remarkable, and her unwavering dedication to making a positive impact in the world is an inspiration to us all.
Medaglia consegnata a Lidia Chiarelli in occasione del “25° Anniversario dell’istituzione del Premio Città di Arona” da parte del Comitato Organizzatore – 14 ottobre 2023
Dew drops on the flower Baptize the petals. Tear drops from the soul Baptize the eyes. Baptizer, the water, Guilt cleanser, the water, Thirst quencher, the water, Seed sprouter, the water, Feet soother, the water, Formless, odourless, tasteless, Life-sustainer, the water.
__________
Critical Comment dy Dana Neri
DEW DROPS ON THE PETALS
The poem “Dew drops on the petals” is a brief and evocative composition that captures the beauty and purity of water, exploring its significance both physically and symbolically. The poet begins the description with the delicate image of dew drops falling on a flower, representing the power of water to baptize and refresh the petals.
The central theme of the poem emerges as the poet draws a parallel between dewdrops and tears of the soul, both capable of purifying and giving life. Water becomes the “baptizer,” the “guilt cleanser,” that quenches and sustains life itself. The author attributes to water a series of positive qualities, such as promoting growth (“seed sprouter”) and soothing pains (“feet soother”).
The poem culminates in the listing of water’s attributes: “formless, odorless, tasteless,” emphasizing its essential and universal nature. Water is presented as an indispensable vital force.
In general, the poem offers a reflection on the deep connection between water and life itself, suggesting that water is much more than a mere physical element; it is also a symbol of purification, rebirth, and nourishment. The simplicity and elegance of the words make this poem an ode to water, celebrating its value both physically and metaphorically.
Salutarsi a voce attraverso lo sguardo per far durare il tempo rubare lo spazio tra i nostri gesti e iscrivere un patto nel registro dei nostri ricordi.
Riconoscersi attraverso un discorso intenso come pazzi ostinati e sotto la carezza delle parole diluire un po’ di noi stessi nella luce diffusa.
The poem “RENCONTRE” captures the essence of a meaningful human encounter through poetic images and metaphors. The author explores the theme of connection and communion between two individuals.
The image of “greeting through the branches” and facing the “anger of the wind” creates a sense of challenge and strength in the encounter, as if the external world is a test of their connection. The poem emphasizes the importance of words and gaze in extending time and stealing a special space between gestures, creating a pact of connection and a record of shared memories.
The use of the expression “like stubborn fools” suggests intense passion in the encounter, while the “caress of words” represents the delicacy and intimacy of interaction. The poem evokes a sense of deep connection and intimacy between individuals, highlighting the power of words and gestures in meeting and creating shared memories.
Il 16 settembre 2023 ad Agliè (Torino) si è svolta la PREMIAZIONE del CONCORSO LETTERARIO IL MELETO DI GUIDO GOZZANO. Per l’occasione LIdia Chiarelli ha creato una delle sue installazioni artistiche “VOCI PER LA PACE 2023” con la partecipazione di poeti di diversi paesi del mondo.
Associazioni a cui Lidia Chiarelli ha dedicato la sua opera:
immaginepoesia 