Claudia Piccinno, pág 20

Claudia Piccinno was born in the south of Italy, but she lives and teaches in the north of Italy . Operating in more than 100 anthologies, she’s a former member of the jury in many national and international literary prizes. She is the Continental Director for Europe in the World Festival Poetry, she represents Istanbul culture in Italy as Ambassador of IstSanat Art Association.She has published 34 poetry books, among his own poetry collections and other poets’ translation into italian language. She was conferred with the most prestigious award “Stele of Rosetta” in Istanbul in 2016, “World icon for peace” for Wip in Ondo city, Nigeria, on April 2017 ; Najiman prize in Liban on July 2018 and almost 250 prize in Italy for cultural merits. Her poem “In Blue” is played on a majolica stele posted on the seafront in Santa CaterinadiNardo (Le). She is european editor for the international literary magazine Papirus in Turkey and for Atunis Magazine international. She is responsible for poetry in the italian magazine called Gazzetta di Istanbul, printed by Italian community.

https://claudiapiccinno.weebly.com/

I

We are not told why every meeting has its reason. We are not told. why a storm pushed us into the same shelter on an ordinary day. I questioned myself by rejecting unusual feeling but the thought of you returned intermittently. There is -I know - an ethical diaphragm that isolates us in the movement of a luminous mind and a soul suffering for old disillusionments. For that thin membrane I silenced the ink but - overbearing - his disruptive strength returns to sow hope before apathy drag us into the dark.

II

I got lost in fear not a milestone to give me the direction of travel. I waited at the crossroads that you go back candidly with your doubts and your reasons. I looked to the sides of the roadway looking for a path or a shortcut. Nothing led me at the arrival point, nobody took me by hand, each of mine steps follow the rules of the good way, make arrangements to the others like violin’s horsehair and wait for the right vibration the sound of a beat that will take me home.

III

My say on this obituary is no needed better would express a stone rolled in the pit. Each stone a thought Each thought a name Each name a cross. Leaf, stone, scissors To tell, to do, to kiss Look at me father. Do not call me. Let me live again seasons of joy. May I live blue mornings and pick a poppy to lay at your feet. Let the bells ring in celebration, may I sing the song of cicadas may I come back as a seagull on the Bosporus as a swallow in the sun. Look at me, don’t pronounce for now my name.