Lidia Chiarelli (Italy)

Lidia Chiarelli (Italy)
Lidia Chiarelli was born and raised in Turin (Italy), where in 2007 she founded with Aeronwy Thomas the Art-literary Movement: Immagine & Poesia.
Lidia’s passion for creative writing has motivated her to write poetry and she has become an award winning poet since 2011.
Pushcart Prize Nomination (U.S.A.) in 2014, 2015, 2016, 2018 and 2019.
Her writing has been translated into more than 20 languages and published in Poetry Reviews and on web-sites in many countries.
In 2014 she started an inter-cultural project with Canadian writer and editor Huguette Bertrand publishing E Books of Poetry and Art on line.
After visiting the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 2010, Lidia was inspired to create installations similar to Yoko Ono’s Wish Tree, hanging poems and art cards on the trees. Lidia Chiarelli has exhibited her “Poetry&Art Trees”in Italy and abroad.
She is also an appreciated collage artist.
The Polyglot Sea
“The polyglot sea
ah the polyglot sea…
sybils’ syllables fellaheen dialects
all run together
everywhere re-echonig…”
(from: Baja Beatitudes)
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
New dreams
emerge from a shadowy sky
The salty breeze
permeates the morning air
and the sun light
erases our loneliness.
Myriads of polyphonic voices
are sweet music
fed by ancient rhythms.
Now we can pause and rejoice
in the gentle breath
of the ocean
from different languages
slowly take form
and fill
one by one
every empty page.
Northern Night
time passes slowly
when you’re lost in a dream
(from “time passes slowly”)
Bob Dylan
In the summer twilight
dark clouds emerge
over the fjord’s crest
golden and purple trails
scar the northern sky
and the waves’ breath
echoes in the distance.
Silence alone
enshrouds the pearl ocean
as my mind wanders
in the mystery
of this surrealistic night.
(Sunset on the hills)
This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit
(from “ This bread I break”)
Dylan Thomas
of red and purple
(marks left by the hand
of an invisible painter)
light up
the vineyards on the hills
on this
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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s