Friday, September 1, 2023

SEPTEMBER 2023 V-9 N-6













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NILAVRONILL: Why do literature and poetry in particular interest you so much? Please give us some idea about your own perception of literature or poetry in general.

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: A Belgian poet wrote, if at forty you don’t know what you want, it is better that you die. I was thirty-nine, but did not want to die, so I decided to dedicate my live to poetry, not only the writing of poetry, but also the translation and publication of modern international poetry, to do something, although it is few, for a better understanding of human beings from all over the world, whatever their race, nationality or religion. The Spanish poet José Ángel Valente pretended that that writing poetry is not reproducing a pre-existing experience, but to produce it. That is indeed what writing poetry means for me. Moreover, poetry is the purest of all art expressions because it is not commercial. Poets can express their feelings and write the truth, even at the risk of being jailed in countries with dictatorial leaders

NILAVRONILL: How do you relate your own self existence with your literary life in one hand, and the time around you, in the other.

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: Only when I travel, I use mobile phone. I am a kind of hermit in this digitally indoctrinated world. To say it with the words of the Chinese poet Li Tao-Po: I have my own world, which is not among the people, or in this indoctrinated society. But… I have friends all over the world.

NILAVRONILL: Do you believe creative souls flourish more in turmoil than in peace?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: Well, literature and poetry confirm it. The best German poetry has been written in East Germany (Bertolt Brecht, Reiner Kunze etc.) under communist dictatorship. Also, in Latin-America, in China, Afghanistan, Palestine…  

NILAVRONILL: Do you think in this age of information and technology the dimensions of literature have been largely extended beyond our preconceived ideas about literature in general?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: No, I am rather pessimistic. Of course, we have more technical communication possibilities but they are also used to mislead and indoctrinate people. People are so busy taking their selfies and writing their stories that they have no more time to read good books or poetry, whose sales have decreased a lot.

NILAVRONILL: Now, in this changing scenario we would like to know from your own life experiences as a poet, writer and a creative soul: How do you respond to this present time?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: In the past, I generally wrote rather philosophical poetry. But the titles of my latest poetry book confirm it: The Unrest of the Word, The Road of Being, Poetic Reflections: they include poems about artificial intelligence, digital indoctrination, climate change…

NILAVRONILL: Do you believe that all writers are by and large the product of their nationality? And is this an incentive for or an obstacle against becoming a truly international writer?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: Well, yes, the writings of many poets are limited and a product of what they have read: their local poetry. I have the advantage not only having travelled around the world, but also of reading foreign poetry in the original language. According to the Chinese my poetry is Taoist or ZEN as Japanese pretend.

NILAVRONILL: Now, if we try to understand the tradition and modernism, do you think literature can play a pivotal role in it?  If so, how? Again, how can an individual writer relate himself or herself to the tradition and to modernism?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: At a reading I gave years ago at a Spanish university, one of the students asked me if I also were a nationalist. I replied Yes, I am a nationalist, a universal nationalist. I love local, traditional music and culture of many countries. Unfortunately, political nationalists don’t promote local values, only their own person. Modernism should not be an enemy of tradition and neither is all what is modern better than before. On the contrary. Compare modern constructions, modern music, modern painting to the former: a disaster! In one of my poems as asked: what shall we leave to our descendants, other than polluted water and air? Even if our communication limited to short messages. We should defend beauty, art and culture

NILAVRONILL: Do you think literary criticism has much to do with the development of a poet and the true understanding of his or her poetry?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: The great Bosnian poet Izet Saralic asked: if critics know so much about poetry, why don’t they write poetry? As to myself, I learned all from reading foreign poets and philosophers, nothing from critics. As to the readers, some critics might be valuable, but I don’t find that poetry should be complicated and need critics. Good poetry can be simple but profound.

NILAVRONILL: Do you think society as a whole is the key factor in shaping you up as a poet, or your poetry altogether?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: My reading of mainly international literature and poetry greatly shaped my poetry. Contrary to most Flemish (Belgian) poets, my poetry was originally influenced by German nature poetry, later by oriental philosophy. But also, human suffering influenced some of my poems, I recently also wrote several poems about the war in Ukraine.

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

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: Unfortunately reading books is declining and – as the majority of people spend so much time at their so called SMART phones, they have turned many people way from serious literature, a danger, as we see how the masses are misled by social media and politicians.

NILAVRONILL: We would like to know the factors and the peoples who have influenced you immensely in the growing phase of your literary life.

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: As a youngster, I loved German romantic poets, such as Goethe, Schiller, Heine, Hölderlin and even wrote rhymed poems in German, but also French poets like Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine, Mallarmé, de Lamartine and Victor Hugo fascinated me. At that time, I lived in Brussels and was member of German, French and English libraries. Later I discovered Paul Celan, still one of my favourite poets, Rilke and modern German poets like Reiner Kunze, Bertold Brecht etc.  As an adult, I travelled all over Europe, but also visited many times the Far East, discovered Chinese poets like Li Bai and Tu Fu, Confucius, Lao Tzu, Japanese haiku masters which I later translated. My Indian friend, the great artist Satish Gupta introduced to me Taoism and ZEN, leading to a drastic change in my poetry. In February 1998 I wrote in Rajasthan The Road, translated by the leading Chinese poet Bei Dao as TAO, meant as a poetic bridge between Western and Eastern culture. Since then, my poetry has become more philosophic.

NILAVRONILL: How would you evaluate your contemporaries and what are your aspirations for or expectation from the younger generation?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: Honestly speaking, few poetries of the younger generations fascinate me. All seems much of the same. Few personal writings. You can change the names of the authors, nobody will notice. As far as my personal experience and reading is concerned, the best contemporary literature and poetry is written in Latin America.

NILAVRONILL: Humanity has suffered immensely in the past, and is still suffering around the world. We all know it well. But are you hopeful about our future?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: Not really, I have the impression that we live in a selfie world. The majority of people cares only for themselves. Before there were human protests, such as against the war in Vietnam. Now there are nowhere protests against the murderous war in Ukraine, nor about what happened in Iran, in Afghanistan, in Africa…In France senseless protests by thousands of youngsters destroying hundreds of cars, buildings, including trying to kill a mayor…

NILAVRONILL: What role can literature in general play to bring a better day for every human being?

GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT: Although we cannot change the world, we should not give up. I weekly receive reactions from readers of my project Poetry without Borders, publishing two poems a month from all over the world. I know that a number of readers wait to receive the next poems and enjoy them. An old man ever asked his son to by a computer so that he could receive and read the poems. The German poet Waldemar Bonsels wrote: what happiness is it, to offer happiness to the people, even if it is only with words.


GERMAIN DROOGENBROODT is an internationally known Belgian poet, living in Spain, yearly invited at the most prestigious international poetry festivals. He is also translator, publisher and promoter of modern international poetry. He wrote short stories and literary reviews, but mainly poetry, so far 17 poetry books, published in 28 countries. As founder of the Belgian publishing house POINT Editions, he published more than eighty collections of mainly modern, international poetry, organised and co-organised several international poetry events in Spain, is co-founder and advisor of JUNPA (Japan Universal Poets Association) and founding president of the Spanish cultural foundation ITHACA and literary adviser of the Chinese Huifeng Cultural Association. He also set up the internationally greatly appreciated project Poetry without Borders, publishing monthly in more than 30 languages 2 modern poems from all over the world. Several famous artists made paintings inspired by his poetry and music was composed to his poems. Germain Droogenbroodt visited countless times the Far East and studied Chinese philosophy which inspired his poetry. He received more than a dozen international poetry awards as poet and as promotor of international poetry, recently in Spain the International Poetry Award Fuente Vaqueros (birthplace of Lorca). He was recommended for the Nobel prize of Literature in 2017.



The Message


I’m walking on the green meadow,

High on the tallest mountain,

Away from the noisy life

Plunged into the mist of daily routines.

Bathed in the light of Helios,

A cool breeze is caressing my face

And nature’s symphony echoes

All around me,

But why am I feeling as heavy as lead?


I nearly joined Dochia and her sheep

Inside the stone shell of the titan,

When I heard someone calling me.

I look carefully at my surroundings,

But no one shows up

Besides a flame near a tree?

I instinctively take water from the nearest river

And quickly go to save the pillar of nature.

The source of life didn’t get to touch it

Because the voice echoed louder than ever.

Shocked I realized it was the flame talking to me

And the tree thanks me for the water.


At its request, I touched it expecting to cry in pain,

But I feel its holy warmth instead

Melting the chain mail armour of ice

That was created by the venom spat on me by envy’s sisters

Throughout the journey to fulfill my dreams.

I humbly listen to it as the lamp of the soul

Slowly turns on, shining like the sun.

Enveloped in the holy aura, the peace of mind embraces me

And I can hear the inner voice clearer and louder than ever before.

My senses are sharpening, everything that was unknown to me until now,

I can see it with my eagle-eyed heart.

The baggage of knowledge is getting bigger,

Each new piece of information flies to the drawer

That is waiting for it with open arms,

Ready to be projected onto my consciousness when needed.


I happily stretch my phoenix wings

And soar into the sky,

Without forgetting to send His Message

To the hungry burdened souls,

But living a peaceful life wisely.


A Call For Help


You erratic man,

Why are you so indifferent

And don’t give me the respect I deserve?

I love you like you are my own child,

I generously give you what you need:

From my garden I offer you food for the body and soul,

Cures for every type of disease,

Inspiration for your artistic and literary works

Without asking for something in return.

I shelter you from the April showers,

I protect you from dangers like a guardian angel

And I brush your tears after a bad day.

How much do I have to endure

From your greed, pride and evil?

Instead of bathing in your love,

I’m drowning in a rubbish heap.

The fishes wear oil jackets,

The poor animals are chocking on your arrogance,

God’s messengers are coughing and getting lost

In the dense smog of your industrial activities.

Can’t you see that you’re suffering from your recklessness too?

Open the eyes of your heart!

Be responsible for your actions

And let’s live in harmony like the good old days!


Sweet Childhood...


Although you remain a memory

for some of us,

we keep you alive through our inner child.

Heavenly season,

you come every year

inviting us to join the other little ones

in the game in the magic glade,

where the flora whispers the mysteries of nature in our ear

and we understand the language of the fauna.

You advise us to see the world from a different perspective,

reminding us that we learn all our life

regardless of the age indicated by our changing appearance.

You bring a smile on the strict adult’s face,

taking a ray of the sun to light the lamp of his sad soul,

hoping that he will share it with everyone.

You escort us on the pirate ship,

encouraging us to weather Prospero’s storm,

to become wiser throughout the journey like Ulysses.

Attending the picnic organized by you and the old friends

from the years of innocence, exploration and joy,

we feel that the impossible becomes possible.




GEORGIANA-LAURA GHEORGHE - Brăila – România. Born in a country with a wonderful history, customs, traditions and culture, she’s a sensitive soul whom considers writing as a way to express her untold feelings and opinions. She’s a translator, but creative writing is one of the many hobbies she has. She has a Bachelor’s Degree in the English Language and Literature – French Language and Literature – Philology at “Spiru Haret” University of Bucharest, Faculty of Letters – Bucharest (Romania) and a Master’s Degree in Translation and Interpretation at “Dunărea de Jos” University of Galaţi (Romania). She competed in a few national literary projects such as the online poetic show „În Lumea Copilăriei”, Parfumul Clipei, May 2022 and international literary championships such as the “Dantebus” National Poetry Contest, 4th edition, Italy, 2022 etc. She was awarded the „Certificate for Best Entry” for my photography/poem „The Feline” entered in the ILA Magazine’s „ANYTHING SATURDAY”, Category: VISUAL ART/ POEM COMPOSITION, founder Annette Nasser held on July 9th, 2022, awarded on July 24th, 2022; “Mențiune” at the „Exercițiu de Imaginație” contest, judges: Ana Văcărașu, Ioan Avram organized by the Cenaclul Literar Artistic „Simfonia Cuvintelor”, July 17th, 2022 etc. She published poetry in various national and international literary magazines and anthologies, and launched two bilingual poetry books “What is life?” on September 2019 and “The Chest of Life” on 2021. She’s a member of ARTLIT - Asociația Română a Traducătorilor Literari from February 15th, 2022 and of the World Literature Academy that is under the aegis of the Romanian Cultural Centre in London from October 20th, 2020. Other than creative writing, she likes to listen to music mostly classical, instrumental and soundtracks, travel and navigate on the Internet. 



By Your Hand...


For how much longer will you balance

with the emptiness of your life wasting away?

Weights in your holey pockets are the broken dreams.

Injured legs from the marches

in the broken castles of youth,

where you keep coming back...

Broken glasses the words

that you strive in vain to match...

And cracks everywhere.

They wait your one stumble.

Arrogance once saved you

Not enough now.

Nothing is enough!

Contradictions killed hope

or you, mindlessly,

suffocate her in the crib?

Your cries in the wreckage are untimely.

Your horizon is full of closed doors

Every look turns back idly.

All land is disappeared.

This is your work!

It’s not about to change anymore.

You see? Time cooled down too.

Now you know!..


Matching Travels


With wishes and supplications,

little traveler,

castles are not taken.

Tomorrow is not even touched.

Keep these words in mind:

Far to go, don’t lust!

The valuables inside you are beating!

You got old and didn’t feel, little traveler,

the simple things of the mind, the self-evident things.


Great preparations are useless.

If you didn’t think in yourself,

if you didn’t wander around thirsty

from the beginning to be taught,

to crawl like a baby...

The farthest yet so close to you to taste

with the longing of the illiterate,

with the stubbornness of a torrent,

you didn’t understand anything!

Don’t mess with Time!

It was given to you,

but you wasted the precious gift.

You’ve been forgotten for a long time

in distant trenches

and the battle was lost, little traveler.

So unfair...


Did We Forget?


We hung those dreams

- Do you remember? -

in the lively, happy sun!

“Wait”, we were saying,

“for conditions to ripen”.

But we forgot.

We just gave up.

And the Winds tore them apart.

They are damaged now.

As faded rags they lie down.

Half-melted from the storms of conceit

and yet so clean!

Our dreams, my friend!

Deep down we didn’t believe

that we would ever go back

at that time

where the look was torn in two...

Irrevocably now!

At that time

we knew it was the last...




ANGELA HRONOPOULOU is a poet and a writer. She was born in Thessaloniki, Greece. She studied at the American College of Greece. She has published two personal poem collections. Her poems have been awarded in literary competitions and have participated in Poetry Anthologies, literary magazines and literary websites.




A Thorn Of Necessity


And those thorns that opened

Gently, Gently

They chose to bloom

Magnificently, Magnificently

They wore the silky petals

Softly, Softly

They gave a chance to dew drops

To play games

To glide on petals

Smoothly, Smoothly

At last, they matured into a fruit

As sweet as honey

A miraculous circle of life

Just ended

Magically, magically


A Joyful Woorld


She bent to pick that flower

Then she realized that

The flower was sweet in her world

Excited while swaying in her branch

What a joyful world ...

Then she turned around and realized

The universe was crowded with cheerful worlds

She wondered ...

Why we park in the dark corners then...

Let's all go to these worlds ...

Yes ... But there is a problem ...

from where we should start...




Such harmony between the soul and nature elements

The bird was singing its joyful melody

The bird didn’t care

The absence of the audience hasn’t made a difference

That fluttering flower is not insane but the breeze took her breath away

Don’t blame her, don’t do anymore




AZIZA DAHDOUH an Algerian teacher, a poetess and photographer. She writes in English and Arabic She is an author of two books: Soul of The Bird and Colors Of My Soul. Her poems were published in many English magazines, international anthologies and websites: at the Atunis, Narrative Prose Poetry Arcs & Tajdeed Magazine of Iraq, Our Poetry Archive of India. She took part in many international anthologies: Argentina, Poland, Romania, India and various poetry websites. Aziza holds certificates for best poetic contributions in performance from various poetic forums. She is a lover of nature which appears clearly in her photography



Churchill And The Black-Veined White Butterfly


"Butterfly loved by Churchill back in England after almost 100 years" The Guardian


The morning opens like the roses tilting themselves

towards the sun. Apple blossoms perfume the air.

Ash trees in a bordering woodland peer closer

at the gardens to peek at the old man,

hunched like a brown bear, curious

at the butterflies in their cages. Wings,

pale like the ice floes' cracked maps,

flutter wildly. The lepidopterist, cautious

as the weather, opens each cage

in the rose garden. The butterflies settle

like snow among flowers ornate

as Chartwell. Churchill lights a cigar

and remarks that King Charles the Second

would be proud. Seasons pass like conflicts.

The black-veined white butterfly doesn't stick

like a stamp to the estate grounds. Their fallen bodies,

knocked over like chess pieces, litter the soil.

Others are tangled like downed airmen

among the roses' thorny stems. Shadows

of wild birds prepare to blitzkrieg, their screeches

making every rose shut their eyes like children

before a blitz. The butterflies will return,

while our lives will become dry like kindling.

How flammable, how flammable we are.



Leopardus guigna


Though my face is no bigger

than your knuckle, don't call me

puddycat. My fur is spotted

like the rainforest's sorrow.

A bushy tail, fat like a firework,

helps me get vengeance

for its losses. I feed on lizards

splayed like starfish on tree trunks.

Their darting movements

remind me of the chainsaw’s

thrum, how quickly the blade cuts

without any thought to the tree

or the echoes sent throughout the rainforest.

When I feast on a black-throated huet-huet,

dark like a forest dipped in dawn,

cough up an austral thrush's honeysong,

or feel my tongue blush into the chucao

tapaculo's sunrise map, my eyes weep

for all that is lost. My kittens

will remember the rainforest's stories

echoed in the meat of every bird,

lizard, snake and rodent caught.

Our pheromones anoint the air

with the past, present, and future.

Every inch of ground we touch

carries stories as vulnerable as a broken

branch, as you.


Emerald Ash Borer

Agrilus planipennis


A pneumatic drill

no bigger than your index

finger. An emerald demon

forceful enough to evict

ash tree nymphs,

trim Yggdrasil to a bonsai,

and make Italian vampires

strut the catwalk

while the audience pales

like cappuccino froth.

An unsolvable riddle

waiting for the cipher

to be cracked.




The rainforest's hide and seek

champ, it sports joke shop

vampire fangs and eyes pooling

a perfect shade of night.

Look at this scrawny thing,

an escapee from a Bambi cut

on the cutting room floor:

a child's drawing of a fawn

the size of a baby, with twig legs

and a bulbous blimp of a body

birthed in autumn-wear.

Never underestimate this wannabe

Dracula — see how it submerses

itself like Arnie in Predator

in vernal pools and other bodies of water.

They'll make you Millais' Ophelia

in your dreams, while the trees weep,

and the cattle of stars lower themselves

to offer their condolences over the field

of your body turning wildflower, pastoral.




Your first radiotherapy session

felt fine, apart from a Kalahari

heat drying your skin like a drought

with no understanding of mercy,

making you shed hospital blankets

and anoint yourself with moisturiser

until it passed.


You reflected the arid savannah,

miraged a watering hole with a village

of elephants and zebra shedding

their radiator shadows. Perhaps

it was nothing, but you remembered

several animals in the room:


Watchtowers of meerkats, a lanky

secretary bird, and an African wild dog.

A gemsbok dressed in autumn. A porcupine

carrying an unkempt forest on its back.

Several cheetahs vying for attention.


Unexpected of all, a giant eagle owl

perched at the foot of the machine.

Silent and ghostly, serene as a prayer.




CHRISTIAN WARD is a UK-based writer who has recently appeared in Rappahannock Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Impspired, Mad Swirl, Dodging the Rain, Wild Greens, Dipity Literary Magazine, Indian Periodical, and Streetcake Magazine.





All The Stars


We loved too much what we lost

in a night of fire and carnage

From our childhood

we only kept the roots

of the tree that raised us,

the ancestors we adored,

because they had in them

lots of rain, blood, passion

Now to the other land

we will plant the seeds

of new dreams and expectations

We'll make a bet

with our burnt selves

how when we become adults

we will carry on our backs

all the stars of the Universe

in the new soils of our salvation


My Burning Heart


My silence became inevitably comfortable

under foreign eyes

The fire of my unforgettable homeland

it stuck in my mouth

my last wishes

which had been nailed down by profane years

like prayers in the depths of heaven

Now I watch through the cracks of time the escape

of life-giving light

through some smiling stars

I observe my days

to walk backwards through my diary

Who thinks that will be saved after all

my burning heart?

My hands remain frozen

in an uncertain world


Heavenly Walk


Let's go for a heavenly walk

with our starships, flying low in the stars

It is desirable

to recognize each other's trajectories

as they will be deleted

from our every step, from our every kiss

in the inexpressible starry nebulae,

to pulsating black holes,

in the strange flashes of the Universe

Let's hide

on the safe side of the asteroids

away from bad places and traps

Let's mislead each other

in his own erotic spin spin




CHRISTOS DIKBASANIS is a poet, writer and scholar of religions. He was born in Thessaloniki, where he graduated from the Theological School of the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He holds a Master's Degree (MTh) in Religious Studies. His poems and essays have been presented in many literary magazines, print and electronic. Many of his poems have been dramatized by the theatrical groups. Also, Christos Dikbasanis  has been included in the “GREAT  ENCYCLOPEDIA OF MODERN GREEK LITERATURE of HARI PATSI publications”, as well as in the "WHO'S WHO" of journalists. He has participated with his texts in collective works and anthologies. He has been honored with important national and international awards.






Shattered Dreams


You shattered me, life's relentless force

But still, I hold love tight.

In destitution's bitter course

With hunger as my plight.


Through toil and toil, relentless strain

Like wild beasts in the night.

At dawn, I rise, my body in pain

Fatigue my constant fight.


I earned my wage through sweat and plea.

From bankers in a perpetual quest.

But what I had was never free.

Empty pockets, my constant guest.


In the workshop with a kiss, love bloomed

With my wife, two souls entwined.

I gave her my all, but love was consumed

It was not enough for our hearts to bind.



They stole my humble abode

Where I found solace deep.

The stars on my porch, their stories erode

Yearning their secrets to keep.


Broken by life, a lost soul's plight

Labeled a tramp, deemed lowly...

Yet I persist, with all my might

Seeking strength, my spirit fails slowly.


I'll steal a car, in a rebellious flight

Crashing through the darkest veil

Speeding away, fueled by spite.

And Death, my companion, won't fail...




Your lips, so deceiving,

They're full of lies, believing.

Your eyes, so teasing,

They light up, but I'm left burning.


You let me fall in love,

Just for a little game,

To make me sick with longing,

For a moment of your fame.


You entangled me in your web,

Oh, manipulative one,

You confused me in your trap,

Your spells, they've just begun.


And I, how foolish I became,

Though they say I'm a tough guy,

But from joy, I was struck lame,

Lost like a clueless fly.




But the time will come, it's near

When you'll feel regret and fear,

For I'm a man of honor,

Worthy of your love, my dear.


You'll remember me and weep,

Too ashamed to find me,

With your unfaithful eyes that creep,

Seeking caresses, but I'm still free.


Yet, a true tough guy,

Once he gives his heart away,

No matter what misfortune may try,

He can't claim his love's sway.


So, when you appear, enchantress,

Back in my neighborhood,

For your words, I'll bear witness,

I want you close, as you should.


The birds will sing a joyful tune,

Granting every wish of yours,

In my humble embrace, love will bloom,

Bringing solace to our soul's shores


Beware! Beauty Is Struggled


Say, I 'm grump

Say, I'm a dreamer

Say, I got on my high horse

And I flatter myself to judge everything

But don't pull me on that stage where

Beauty is being struggled...

I cannot stand it

''C'mon! What is the meaning of beauty for you, oh the wisest one?"

Well... I cannot explain it

I'm just born to understand when it is struggled

I listen to its agony, frozen, blind and unable to act

I listen to the sarcastic laugh of the speculators

as they plunder and strip its corpse

So if you totally don't understand what I'm saying

And why I bombard you again with metaphors

Say, I'm singing the song too high

And let me learn how hard it is to kick against the pricks and be kicked back to the core

© ChryssaV.2023




CHRYSSA VELISSARIOU is an award-winning educator in Secondary Education and adult education, recognized by the Greek Ministry of Education. As a passionate advocate of non-traditional learning, she has successfully conceived and executed numerous Erasmus+ projects. She is also a writer, with six poetry collections and a novel to her name, and has participated in various poetry anthologies worldwide. She has been honored as a Poet Laureate by two poetry organizations in the United States. With a specialization in Space Physics and an M.Ed./M.Sc. in New Technologies, she integrates theater, poetry, and cinema in S.T.E.A.M. projects. She is multilingual, actively engaged in social solidarity, and an elected member of the Municipality of Larissa. She is keenly interested in sustainable development and the inclusion of marginalized groups.