Immagine & poesia, Lidia Chiarelli, Muhammad Azram, Uncategorized

“Twilight” poem and image by Lidia Chiarelli, translation in Urdu by Muhammad Azram

TWILIGHT_

 

 

 

شام

 (پہاڑوں پر ڈوبتا سورج)

 

“This bread I break was once the oat,

This wine upon a foreign tree

Plunged in its fruit

Dylan Thomas: from “ This bread I break”

 

 

گرمیوں کی

اس لمبی شام میں

روشنی کی سرخ اور جامنی

پٹیاں

(جیسے کسی  نظر نہ آنے والے مصور

کے ہاتھ)

گرمیوں کی اس شام میں

انگوروں کے باغات کو

چمکا رہے ہیں

 

 

ہوا کا ہلکا سا لمس بھی

ہر پتے کو

ہوا میں ایک جادوئی رقص کرنے پر

مجبور کر دیتا ہے

اور میں

(ایک نامکمل کینوس یا

ایک خالی صفحہ کی طرح)

وقت کی

وہ ہلکی آوازیں

نہیں سن سکتی

خاموش رہ کر انتظار کروں گی

رات کو

اپنی بانہوں میں لے کر گلے لگانے کا

 

Twilight

 

(Sunset on the hills)

 

This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape’s joy…

 

Dylan Thomas: from “ This bread I break”

 

 

Stripes

of red and purple

 

(marks left by the hand

of an invisible painter)

 

light up

the vineyards on the hills

on this

long

summer evening.

 

Only the touch of the wind

 

rustles every leaf

in a magical dance.

 

And I

 

(like an unfinished canvas

or a blank page)

 

unable to listen to

those soft sounds of another time

will stay and wait

in silence

for the enveloping embrace

of the night.

 

 

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Immagine & Poesia, Lidia Chiarelli, Muhammad Azram

“Times Square” poem and image by Lidia Chiarelli, translation in Urdu by Muhammad Azram

Times Square _

ٹائمز اسکوائر

 

روشنیاں کھول دو

ایک بار پھر سے

ٹائم اسکوائر کی روشنیاں کھول دو

 

میرے لیے آج روشنیاں کھول دو

آج نیو یارک میں

میری آخری رات ہے

 

گلیوں کی گرم ہوا

ایک نرم شال کی طرح

مجھے لپیٹ لیتی ہے

 

جیسے ہوا کی چرخیاں

چلتی رہتی ہے

اور رقص کو روکتی نہیں

 

میری آنکھوں

کو ایک بارپھر سے

اپنے میٹھے نشے میں کھو جانے د

TIMES SQUARE

 

Switch on

switch on once more

lights at Times Square.

 

Switch on for me

in my last night in New York.

 

The hot air in the streets is a gentle cloak

that wraps me up.

 

Like windmills moving and moving

don’t stop your dance.

 

Let my eyes get lost

again

into your

whirl

so sweet

so intoxicating.

Immagine & poesia, Lidia Chiarelli, Shurouk Hammod

“The Forest’s Daughter” poem by Shurouk Hammoud , image and Italian translation by Lidia Chiarelli

 

THE FOREST'S DAUGHTER

The forests’ daughter

 

Finland the astonished

Like a lover’s intoxication after the first kiss

The furious like a night that tries not to end

The affectionate like a sky that rains at a later date

The placid like the remnants of a forgotten flower in a book

Finland the white

Like clouds those pray on the waiting cross…

Because I love you

The wings stretched on my shoulders

So I could almost fly

Because I love you

I cut my heart in half

One half for the country that gave birth to me

And the other for the snow lady…for you

Because I saw god in you

My prayers became more beautiful

My voice began coming out

Warm like a wine on the soul’s lips

And because I became a friend of your night

O forests ‘daughter!

My face got a new dawn…

Dear Finland

The one whose heart can see you

Becomes a poet

0r a prophet

________________________

La figlia delle foreste

 

Finlandia meravigliata

Come l’intossicazione di un amante dopo il primo bacio

Furiosa come una notte che cerca di non finire

Amabile come un cielo che piove in un momento successivo

Placida come i resti di un fiore dimenticato in un libro

Finlandia bianca

Come nuvole che pregano sulla croce in attesa …

Perché ti amo

Le ali stese sulle mie spalle

Come potessi quasi volare

Perché ti amo

Ho tagliato il cuore a metà

Una metà per il paese che mi ha dato alla luce

E l’altro per la signora delle nevi … per te

Perché ho visto Dio in te

Le mie preghiere sono diventate più belle

La mia voce ha iniziato a uscire

Calda come vino sulle labbra dell’anima

E perché sono diventata amica della tua notte

O figlia delle foreste!

Il mio volto ha avuto una nuova alba …

Cara Finlandia

Colui il cui cuore può vederti

Diventa un poeta

0 un profeta

______________________

 

Shurouk Hammoud “born in 1982 “, a Syrian poetess, literary translator, BA of arts graduate and a master degree graduate of text translation, Damascus University.
She has three published poetry collections in Arabic language and one published poetry collection in English titled: (the night papers), in addition; excerpts of her poetry that have been published in many poetry anthologies in France, Serbia, Netherlands and India,
A member of Palestinian writers and journalists union.
An honorary member at NAJI Naaman international library of honorary culture.
Award winner of many local and international poetry awards

 

Fethi Sassi, Immagine & Poesia, Lidia Chiarelli

“When you gaze” poem by Fethi Sassi, image and Italian translation by Lidia Chiarelli

when you gaze copia

When you gaze

 

May I tell you something?

When you stare into a water drop

You wet the balcony where I sit waiting

And then you ask yourself

How can I wipe off the time stuck on the window?

And when you hear the rain in my mouth

It whispers to the naked star above the whiteness

Tell her about me

And grab the dream from his hands

And don’t let it fall on the sand

And it will be as beautiful as a moon that peaked through your eyes

And slept on the water side

________________

Quando guardi

 

Posso dirti una cosa?

Quando guardi a lungo in una goccia d’acqua

Diventa umido anche il balcone dove mi siedo ad aspettare

E poi ti chiedi

Come posso cancellare il tempo che si è fermato sulla finestra?

E quando senti la pioggia nella mia bocca

Che sussurra alla stella nuda sopra quel candore

Raccontale di me

E prendi il sogno dalle sue mani

E non lasciarlo cadere sulla sabbia

E sarà bello come una luna che ha raggiunto il culmine attraverso i tuoi occhi

E ha dormito in riva al mare

 

Fethi Sassi, Immagine & Poesia, Lidia Chiarelli

“Strangers may talk about you” poem by Fethi Sassi, image and Italian translation by Lidia Chiarelli

strangers may talk about you

Strangers may talk about you

 

Strangers may talk about you

And you as usual get stuck in the arch of your little griefs

They may say that you come from there

From the language

So that your sadness turn green

But the hanging door like the laughter of a star opens its arms for sleep

To sneak in secretly from the whole of the sunset

But all what is left of talk on the borders of your mug

Will gift you a new dress for a question free summer

_________________________

Gli sconosciuti possono parlare di te

 

Gli sconosciuti possono parlare di te

E tu, come al solito, rimani bloccata nell’arco dei tuoi piccoli dolori.

Potrebbero dire che tu vieni da lontano

Da antiche parole

Così che la tua tristezza si rafforza

Ma la porta scorrevole come la risata di una stella apre le braccia al sonno

Per dare accesso segretamente dal grande tramonto

Ma tutto quello che rimane di chiacchiere sui bordi della tua tazza.

Ti regalerà un nuovo abito per una estate senza domande

Fethi Sassi, Immagine & Poesia, Lidia Chiarelli

“Clouds” poem by Fethi Sassi, image and Italian translation by Lidia Chiarelli

clouds copia

Clouds

 

Usually I do not cry in my poems

So that languages don’t hear me

And assume that I’m a crying poet

And so that the whores won’t gossip

And simply I will not write other poems

I won’t be in my chair to observe the clouds

The silently passing by clouds

And I won’t observe the dead

I will always be there however

In my balcony waiting for water

____________

Nuvole

 

Di solito non piango nelle mie poesie.

Così che le parole non mi sentano

E suppongano che io sia un poeta che piange.

E in modo che le puttane non facciano pettegolezzi.

E semplicemente non scriverò altre poesie

Non starò sulla mia sedia a osservare le nuvole

Il passaggio silenzioso delle nuvole

E non osserverò i morti.

Ma ci sarò sempre, comunque.

Nel mio balcone in attesa dell’acqua

_______________

Alejandra Miranda, Arte, Immagine & Poesia

“FIRE’S ITINERARY”, Alejandra Miranda’s exhibition, Art Museum of La Paz (Entre Ríos) Argentina (April-May 2019)

miranda

They haven’t gone

Mixed tecnique on canvas, 50 x40 cm, 2019

Alejandra Miranda

FIRE’S ITINERARY

In this series of art works I had the need to return to abstraction, to “empty” myself in familiar ways to explore the invisible world of my ancestors. To cross the contours of what surrounds us, to connect with the delicate lines of light in continuous movement that I see since I was small when I unfocused my gaze, and that unite everything that exists.

First, I draw them with a black pencil on the surface, creating a frame from which I incorporate, scrape, dissolve, mix, cover the matter. Gradually the planes, the strokes and the words appear until they reach a significant internal meaning. I combine acrylic and oil with industrial paints. I use achromatics, gold, silver and very austerely, sometimes, primary colors. During the creative process I like to work the matter with intensity until I feel its transmutation.

Although my work is abstract it is intimately linked to the natural world at a level below the molecular, which I approach from intuition. The earth, the feminine, the word, the gesture and the “magic” of making visible what is not yet, are the themes that always accompanied me, and also do it on this return trip that began with this poetry.

Alejandra Miranda (ARGENTINA)

 

The fire’s itinerary

“To my elders who follow in my flesh darkly”

A line, meandering and powerful

heads down to the deep past

to the time and place

where I ran, I killed and

I devoured to survive.

Where fire was a refuge;

and love, an instinct

and dawn, bewilderment.

Behind the wind I will leave,

and I will shout their names.

They haven’t gone, listen.

They are present

in the breeze that makes us shudder,

in the unexpected crackling of the fire,

in the ever changing clouds,

in the flowing water,

in the gentle strokes of the moon,

in a ray of sunlight,

in my children’s eyes,

in my grandchildren’s smile,

in my hands.

Time’s memory is made of

bones and ashes, of turns

and stars.

A thread of sand flows subtly,

guiding my soul toward the light.

Alejandra Miranda (2018)