Saturday, July 1, 2017


Poetry is not the turning loose of emotions. This had been pointed out by one of the greatest English poet of all time T. S. Eliot. Yes we do agree with him. We believe most of the poets and readers of the present time would also think so. Yet, it is also true that without any emotion, words and lines can never be transformed into poetry. So, emotional interpretation of your feelings is also vitally important for writing poems. But one has to control the release of emotions while interpreting his or her feelings in case of writing poetry. Poetry actually demands this from its creator to control the personal emotions in such a manner that the words and lines can represent impersonal interpretation of the feelings with a world view in the canvas of eternity.

Only then the readers can relate themselves with your poetry. Otherwise poetry remains the personal notes of its creator. Now with this belief or point of view if we proceed we’ll find that most of the written poems are actually a turning loose of emotions of their creators. Actually this is the basic instinct of human beings to portray their feelings in writing poems. Even the readers are more or less accustomed with this type of writing especially in the social media over Internet. We know, with this invent of Internet and with the revolutionized communication system with the commence of social medias, the tsunami of poems that fill our screens everyday are of this type. It is because anyone can publish his or her writings any where over the net. You don’t have to submit your poems to the renowned literary magazines and wait for months for the publications, which would depend on the editors. You can publish your own e-Books or even the printed versions through e-commerce. So in this present time anyone can claim to be a poet. It is only up to your wish and the economic strength.  And it is happening everywhere. Internet has made it possible.

Actually this is the time of confusion. Who is the real poet or actually what the poetry is. Nowadays people do think poetry is the only medium that can be easily ventured upon. So, almost everyone is writing poetry overnight. If you ask them how long are you writing poems? If you get a honest answer, you’ll find most of them are writing poems not more than for six or seven years. Yes, this invent of information technology has made it possible for all this so called self proclaimed poets and poetesses. Even if one would observe the proceedings of the social media giant face book; one can easily find this truth. Keep a keen eye of interest over the walls of your own friends you’ll find most of the walls are jammed with everyday poems. Now, one can argue that it is better to try out with poetry than to spend the time doing nothing creative. Yes we hope everyone would agree with this argument. We have nothing against it. Although this is not bad for society as a whole, yet this trend is not good for literature either.

Then what to do? This is the ultimate question for the literary fraternity of the world. Should we consider this trend will actually bring mediocrity in literature? Or can we believe that with the passing of time this trend will be phased out eventually. These are the questions of this time. We don’t have any clear-cut answers either. We can only try to work out some ways or methods to put some checks and balances into these proceedings. Again another question will crop up. How can we do that? And even if we can find out some way out, it would still be remained as a question of morality that who are we to put our judgments at this level? No, not only we or someone else or any other institutions can become moral police of literature. In spite of these we can only encourage others to uplift their literary taste for the benefit of the literature as a whole. Yes that can be done, and even over the internet. Our Poetry Archive is only trying to do this since its inauguration in web publishing.

Our readers are well aware of this fact and we are constantly trying our best to introduce more and more new poets of highest literary caliber around the world. We believe with this continuous process of uninterrupted endeavor to bring out poems of highest literary merit can eventually uplift the overall taste of the readers and upcoming poets as well. Without becoming the moral police of literature, we think this is a way out from this confusing time of which we have discussed earlier. And to our relief we have got the encouragement blessings and supports of many renowned poets and poetesses from different parts of the world to make Our Poetry Archive one of the rearguards of the literary frontier of this present time.

Just like all our regular issues this July we are also presenting more than hundreds poems of forty one poets and poetesses of the world. This month we are also glad to present poetess Claudia Piccinno of Italy as the ‘Poet of The Month’. Readers will find an interview of the poet taken by our editorial team supervised by poetess Deborah Langford and poetess Stacia Reynolds.  We are really grateful to the poet for the interview and hope our readers will also enjoy both his poems and interview.

We have good news for our readers; this general edition will be followed soon by the much awaited edition of “OPA Anthology of Contemporary Women’s Poetry”. This anthology will feature near about three hundred poetry from all over the world. Please wait a while for it’s’ publication. We’ll inform about the publishing date in our face book page and group as well.

Those who would like to participate in our upcoming editions, please send at least three poems and a profile picture, along with the explicit confirmation of your permission for publication of your copy righted materials in OPA well before the 21st of every month. You can also add one short Biography written in the 3rd person narrative along with the submission. With this note I would like to invite you all to this collection of poems of the World Poets. I would also like to convey our gratitude to all the poets who have participated in this number with their literary brilliance, on behalf of the entire editorial desk of OPA.

From The Editorial Desk





email us to:



july 2017

OPA How long have you been writing Poetry? We would like to know the early stories about your growing up as a poet or writer in general. Who are your favorite Poets? What are some of your favorite genres to read and to write? Had they inspired you a lot, do you believe in inspiration as a guiding force behind writings at all?

CLAUDIA  I have been writing poetry since I was 15 years old, but I never published my works before 2011. I was very jealous of my intimate reflections; when I was teenager I loved Leopardi poems and my schoolmates made fun of me because I had a melancholy vein, but I loved Dante Alighieri and Montale too, after when I studied at University I discovered Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, Rimbaud, Verlaine, Mallarmè, lately I’ve read all works of Szymborska that inspired me in my first collection “La sfinge e il pierrot” and in “Potando l’euforbia”,  I’ve read something of Achmatova, Neruda, Puskin, Borges and I realized how their writing  has influenced my soul. I love reading  greek mithologic tales and historical novels too. Anna Karenina for example, the heroine of War and peace of Tolstoj inspired my poem “Stay there”.

OPA What has been the toughest criticism given to you as a writer? What was the biggest compliment? Did those change how or what you write?  What has been the strangest thing that a reader has asked you?

CLAUDIA Giorgio Barberi Squarotti, a famous Italian literary critic wrote about me both a warning and a compliment:
The poetry of Claudia Piccinno alternates a lively and luminous lyrical contents to reflections and thoughts of life with effective judgments about the actuality of the pain in history. If there is a limit, it is the very private of his poetic discourse with the risk of sentimental and romantic fullness.
He suggested me to read Goethe and Rilke too, he died some months ago, but I’ll honour his suggestion soon. The strangest thing a reader asked me was if, after The ceiling I was ready to write something about my cellar.

OPA What is your favorite poem you have ever written? Compared to when you first started writing, have you notice any big changes in your writing style or how you write compared from then to now?

CLAUDIA  I think any poem is sacre to the poet, but  the most awarded is “Davide is your name”, it’s about a children affected with autism, it has been translated into 20 languages thanks to writers all over the world and I hope one day it can become a book, whose incomes can help some no profits or onlus associations dealing with special children. I think my writing style has changed compared to my literary debut, life, study and reading improved it.

OPA   What has been your favorite part of being a poet or and author? What has been your least favorite?

CLAUDIA  I prefer to be a poet, a poet can be a poet even if he doesn’t publish his work, a poet needs also the space of words that cannot be said, he needs sonority and silence at the same time and in an equal amount. An author sometimes is slave of marketing logics and he loose his judgment independence, the poet has a moral duty: to look for the truth.

OPA  Did you get to quit your day job and become a writer and or author or do you still have a day job and writing is something you do for fun? If you still have a day job, what is it?

CLAUDIA  I’m a teacher since I was 21, and I’ll always be a learner too. The ancient latin poet Oratio said “Carmina non dant panem”, which means Poetry doesn’t give a poet the bread, so we need to work to live. Anyway I love my job; sometimes I become tired of bureaucracy and formal fulfillment but I need young children in my daily routine. They help me to preserve my amazement and enthusiasm.

OPA   Besides writing and reading, what is your most favorite thing to do? What genre are you most looking forward to explore during your writing career? Why?

CLAUDIA   I like travelling and walking, I think any journey, even a trip can teach us something new. I love cats, I believe nature is our first teacher. I’d like to become a storyteller because I’ve lots of oral memories in my mind, when I was a child I used to sit at old people’s feet and listen their tales. But I need peace and silence, free time and quiet to sit and write.

OPA Do you think literature or poetry is really essential in our life? If so why? How does it relate to the general history of mankind?

CLAUDIA  Literature and poetry are really a soul therapy you know, In Italy some associations are trying to build literary pharmacy, giving freely books to clochards, drug addicted, alcohol addicted, prisoners. Someone else is promoting high voices reading in the hospitals for example. Yes I think reading and writing is essential, furthermore in war times we have had great poets and writer, I can think about Ungaretti, Levi, Svevo, Anna Frank and many others.

OPA   Our readers would like to know your own personal experience regarding the importance of literature and poetry in your life.

CLAUDIA   When I was a child I was fascinated by an enormous bookshelf in my great-grandfather’s house, so I was an early reader. Books have always been my faithful friends in my life, my ink wings to leave and land everywhere. Writing is my  magic glass in the world.

OPA Do you think people in general actually bother about literature in general?  Do you think this consumerist world is turning the average man away from serious literature?

CLAUDIA  Yes I fear so, the average man often prefer to buy the last item of mobile phone, rather than a book. In Italy a recent poll underlined that the best selling genres are esoteric stories or cooking books…

OPA Do you think society, as a whole, has a factor in shaping you as a poet, or your poetry altogether?

CLAUDIA  Neruda and Quasimodo taught me the role of a poet was to sow doubts and questions, poetry can make a new man, creativity is a basic ingredient to make a whole man. So I’ve never been indifferent to this society.
A Serbian critic and poetess Milica Lilic writes about my poems: “What comes out from its "rails in verse" is a meaningful world that arises from reflection from the logos, from the conscious and creative effort that overcomes the fragmentation of the creatures, the alienation of the nations, the moral depravity, the hypocrisy, the loneliness of the individual in front of the screen, the fear of this "civilization" that ignores the feelings, the pain, the intimate tragedy and the civil rights.
Alone, without love and compassion, the man is helpless and defenseless, Claudia calls for a new time made for sharing, real contact with others and with life. In the absence of the authenticity the poetess draws on the myth to survive the drama of urban chaos”.

OPA   We would also like to know; How do you relate the present literary trends with the literary heritage of your own country?

CLAUDIA  The father of Italian literature Dante Alighieri, in the 13th century with his book “The Divine Comedy” brought about a sort of globalization because none before him had never tried to write in “volgare”, the language spoken by all social classes, but never written until then. That was a great achievement, because it made easier for the masses to study in vulgar. Today globalization has increased the availability of information, but sometimes it happens at the expense of quality and depth. Paradoxically in Italy the greater dissemination of texts corresponds to a lower percentage of readers.

OPA Are you a feminist? Can literature play any decisive role in feminism at all?

CLAUDIA  I believe it’s necessary to ensure equal opportunities between the sexes, that should mean a complementary path where any abuse is forbidden. Literature can play a decisive role in any extremism, I think.

OPA Do you believe that all writers are by and large the product of their nationality? Is it an incentive or an obstacle in becoming an international writer?

CLAUDIA  All writers are the product of their cultural or intimistic  experiences which do not always depend on nationality. For me it’s a great incentive the comparison with writers from all over the world. On November 2016, I was a honor guest at a poetry festival in Istanbul and I met poetess from Greece, from Serbia, from Iraq… we instantly felt sisters in poetry and we discovered so much affinity among us and our mores.

OPA What 7 words would you use to describe yourself?

CLAUDIA  Self supporting, impulsive, sociable, ironic, gipsy, passionate, cheerful.

OPA   Is there anything else that you would like to share or say to those who will read this interview?

CLAUDIA  Our Poetry  Archive is for me like a huge box of wonders, it makes me happy. Thanks to  the editorial board for this chance to learn and grow.

CLAUDIA PICCINNO: Scholastic referent land for education at reading. She has received awards in major national and international competitions of poetry, including an honor  mention in the Paris 1st Word Literary Prize and a 3rd prize in Lugano, Switzerland, 3rd prize in Albania; She has been the first italian poetess to be awarded with The Stelae of Rosetta, World Literary Prize in Istanbul on November 2016. She will be conferred with the most prestigious award “World icon for peace” for Wip in Ondo city, Nigeria, on April 2017 .  Her poem "In Blue" is played on a majolica stele posted on the seafront in Santa Caterina di Nardo (Le).Last June 2016, she was art director in an art & poetry international exhibition called June in Italy. She is italian editor for the international literary magazine Rosetta World Literatura in Turkey and for  Atunis Magazine in Albania.She has also written numerous reviews and critical essays or prefacess about other poets’books.She has traslated from English into italian lots of authors.She has published“La sfinge e il pierrot”, Aletti Editore, 2011,“Potando l’euforbia” in Transiti Diversi, Rupe Mutevole Edizioni, 2012,“Il soffitto, cortometraggi d’altrove”, La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni, 2013,With english version also “Il soffitto, cortometraggi d’altrove” La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni maggio 2014, in serbian “Tabahnha” ed.Majdah luglio 2014.“Ragnatele Cremisi”- La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni, settembre 2015Tavan Baska Yerlerdeki Kisa Filmier,Artshop, Istanbul 2016

The editorial staff of this project: Deborah Brooks Langford, Stacia Lynn Reynolds; sincerely thank you for your time and hope we shall have your continued support.




She was the summer
Lithe she came
dispensing beads of sweat
on young cheeks.
Barefoot she was running
on beaches and fields,
she filled the wineskins
with water and the yards with voices.
The bustling glowworms
she gave to the night
to adorn the hedges
with joyful clips.
She was the summer!

Wings of ink
Glossy pages
they wink by the shop windows,
wrinkled pages
smile at
the lonely hearts,
illustrated pages
adventures and knowledge.
Wings of ink
routes of knowledge,
flight routes,
that with tender touch
cradle a dream.
I devoured
kilometers of lines
without taking a step.
Here I am.
I landed!
The time of an airport change
and I'll leave for new runways,
I will do the check in
to my astonishment
I will recognize
others  flights addicted
and I will never be sated!


At a meeting of fairy godmothers
Saucy and unshy
are the daisies
with which
my mischievous pupil pays homage to me…
Imposing was the sunflower
that I picked up as a diurnal lighthouse,
to turn on the gaze
of a sad little girl.
I brought immaculate lilies
on the grave of my grandmother
and colorful gerberas
I received the day of my wedding promise.
Red roses
had sent me an admirer.
red anthuriums
gave joy to my degree.
The cuttings of geranium
taught me the strength
and I learned humility
from the “beautiful of night”.
They ran here hydrangeas
gentians, azaleas and lilies
in fraternal communion
the day that a flower
blossomed in a cradle.
They ran here as if they were coming
at a meeting of fairy godmothers
bestowing good wishes
in order that he could grow
florid and strong...
I put compost of encounters
to his hedge,
I escorted his stem
with silent prayers
so that he could be hidden
to the shears of bad luck.


A false theorem
They are concentric circles
the true friends;
let's call "bread the bread"
and not sell for friendship
the metastasis of something else.
You were not parallel lines,
they can reflect
each other
and they are able to tend to infinity
for the dormant meeting.
You were maybe two  squared catheters
that give as result the hypotenuse
and its shadow.
And she thought
about perpendicular lines...
about honest crosses
to share with you for years.
And she tried
to see you again
in the chaste embraces
of right angles,
in the IP greek
of a circle.
What remains to her
of a false theorem?
Broken diagonals,
acute angles of suffering,
obtuse angles of dementia.


This is not a farewell
One day wings sprouted upon you
and you cautiously flew over mountains and valleys.
Now you have a little light on the front
to illuminate dark caves and gorges.
Soon you will have a transparent touch
To heat to your loved ones’ heart and mind.
This is not a farewell
You ‘ll come back.
You ‘ll be the leaf that becomes humus
to feed the roots.
You ‘ll be the drop that becomes steam
and condenses elsewhere.
You ‘ll be the nightingale
that will brighten other people’s old age.
You ‘ll be a run step in the infinite,
the compass of courage for the meeting agreed.


At the biro
Ode to you
eaten biro,
ode to you
voice of the timid
and mizzen of love.
Ode to you
forerunner of cartridges and toner.
Ode to you
that put away from the window
the nib and the inkwell.
Ode to your colored transparencies
metallic moods.
Ode to you
catharsis of lost souls!
Ode to you
that bleed gall
if a betrayed woman
writes for you.
I will praise you forever
oh flowing ink
because obstinately
you shy away
the ticking
of the keyboard.





Sudden gusts of wind
Tap rhythmically upon the window
Raindrops jangle on the glass.
Downpour composes a sonata.

It records transparent notes
On the invisible staves.
Single sounds join together
to create the  thundering chords.

Cold drops vibrate in music,
Antarctic glaciers crumble,
hot springs geysers steam,
river flow down rhythm  Allegro

Water, as the Eternal Wanderer,
will  never know peace.
It will continue roaming
between steam and ice.

Yesterday it was  the  ocean.
Today it is the lake.
Tomorrow it will be a tear


I have never been to Hawaii.
Not for me, do the palm trees dance in the wind,
The sun’s rays do not caress my skin,
The hot magma does not flow from the heart of the Earth.

I have not seen colored hummingbirds
hanging  like living jewels on the flowers.
The exotic and beautiful butterflies,
Similar to the fans of the Japanese geisha,
do not fly  around  me.

I have  not climbed  the steps of the ancient pyramids.
I have not seen the treasures of the pharaohs
And the huge Temple of Amun.
I cannot dance the Spanish flamenco
And I am not enveloped in a delicate, Indian sari.

The Amazon does not open the gate to the green paradise
And ruthless tundra does not lead to the white hell.
The ocean does not show its underwater treasury
And dolphins do not play on the backs of the waves.

I have not met a happy eternal love,
But this does not mean that it does not exist.


I was silent, smiling, undemanding.
You did not expect that I would take without consent.
I was too close, and everything was within the reach of my hand.

Like a thief, I stole your glances and loneliness.
Your thoughts, I tied in a myriad of knots, creating a dense net,
And from dreams, I wove a gentle curve of a woman’s figure.

I stoked the spark of passion in your eyes, and a fire erupted.
I wrapped us in a sweet scent of flowers in my hair
And we glided towards many, distant nights.

Day has no right to enter the precipitous depth.
It is a place, in which the contours of black shadows fall asleep.
Only at the bottom of the abyss, can dreams and starlight be seen.

You are from Mars, I  am from Venus.
Far planets are the bright points on a firmament of tenderness.
Our words and hands  attracts to the force of gravity of life.


I wait for the downpour of stars,
Maybe I have time to whisper a wish.
I look with hope to the Leonids.
I believe that I will see the falling sparks.
The dancing Pleiades stirred up a cloud of dust.
Jealous Orion will not overtake them
And Sirius will not find the seven nymphs.

Morpheus leads to the land of sleep
Somewhere on the edge of the River Styx.
My beloved knows the secrets of existence
And all the metamorphoses of the cosmos.
Every night he carries me in his arms
And gives to the possession of Apollo and the muses.
He plaits visions into prophetic premonitions.

Berenice sacrificed her golden braid to the heavens.
She explains sadly,
That she has not found happiness on Earth
Among the gods and among stars.


I wrote a few words and secured them permanently.
Reflections and emotions created the stanzas.
I uttered the final sentence,
and my poem moved like a zephyr,
Kissing my lips lightly as he left, gliding away to strangers.
He slipped into eyes, where tears are born.
He whispered tender words to hearts
and they faintly shivered.
He pricked dormant consciences,
made stale by daily routine.
He consoled a sad lady, Melancholy.

At night he soared skywards
parting heavy curtains of clouds.
The stars glistened over illuminated moonlit paths for lovers
The tender song of a lone  nightingale
echoed around the dark abyss
and sank softly into swooning scents of flowers.

Sometimes my faithless lover returns
- beloved son of the muse, but child of mine no more


Life happened to me.
With a gift of knowing the good with the bad.
I can capture fleeting thoughts
And stop time with a word.

The everyday delights,
Bring great mysteries.
Constant wonder is my lot.
I marvel at the greenness of the leaves
And how many sounds
Are concealed in the throats of birds.

Exceptional chance
To examine the shapes and colors of clouds,
To feel the menace of lightning.

It is a pity to waste any minute
On senseless sorrows.
I have a one-way ticket


dreams come true in the Bahamas

let's go there
where the wind brushes the green hair of palm trees
the huge ocean murmurs sleepily
the golden sand remembers footprints
and the sun disappears in blue water in the evening

before the black butterfly appears
we have time to write a few lines  of a poem
and to share our  thoughts like a slice of bread

only there
we can entrust our secrets to the stars


My heart had the shape of an envelope
I mailed it to you
- It's only a letter – you said.

You opened it and read hastily,
And then you put it on the desk
On the top of bills and ads.

My heart faded
And turned  into a piece of square paper.


I'm standing on an empty street accompanied by a cold wind,
which throws about pieces of paper and foil airily.
Rain drops whip my face and hands.

Darkness woke up windows of local houses,
their yellow eyes look at me with hostility.
I'm not going home, all addresses are unfamiliar.

Thoughts like a frightened flock of crows  fly around my head.
I don't remember anything – fear chokes me, suffocates me.
I don't belong to anybody, loneliness drags me into oblivion.

I don't know my name and where I come from,
where I will find a safe shelter.
My handbag, the guardian of privacy, shut its mouth.

I have no documents.
I have no money.
Keys to an unknown door glitter.

A touch of an angel woke me up.
Regained consciousness shouts out my name.
I repel a bad dream from under my eyelids.