‎22nd World Congress of Poets (Larissa, Greece 2011)

22nd World Congress of Poets
(United Poets Laureate International)
Larissa, Greece June 29-July 3, 2011


Website of 22nd WCP / UPLI
Website of UPLI - WCP


President: Dr. Dimitris P. Kraniotis


Contact: wcp2011@yahoo.gr & worldcongressofpoets@gmail.com

Ernesto Kahan


Prof. Ernesto Kahan. Israeli - Argentine. Born in 1940, and educated in Argentina (University of Buenos Aires) and in USA (University of Washington). Medical doctor, university professor and poet. Vice President of the World Academy of Arts and Culture. Professor at universities in Argentina, Israel, Peru, Dominican Rep., Mexico, USA and Spain.

Dr. Ernesto Kahan served as Director General of the Ministry of Health in Argentina before migrating to Israel during the military coup in Argentina in 1976. In Israel was Deputy Director of Rabin Medical Center, Head of the Department of Epidemiology at the Institute for Occupational Health of Tel Aviv University, and Director of the Medical Academic Branch of the International Institute. In 1998 was nominated by the World Bank as head of the evaluation staff for primary health care programs for Ecuador. Dr Kahan is well known in numerous International Medical Associations related to Epidemiology, Cancer, Public Health and Human Rights. President of AIELC - Israel Association of Writers - Spanish Branch. Author 7 books and more than 200 articles in international Magazines. Poems of his book Paxaporte" were translated into 11 languages. His book "GENOCIDE" written with Taki Yuriko (in three languages), generated the prize "Golden Key of Literature Hanchon Culture, and was acclaimed in many festivals. Compiler of the Anthology "Los Escritores del Alba", Editorial Certeza, Spain. Selected for 20 editions of the book "Nueva Poesía hispanoamericana" of Lord Byròn editors, a publication in which the most noticeable exponents of our contemporary poetry in Spanish are included. Universal Anthology "POESIA IBEROAMERICANA SIGLO XXI"; 4 editions of the "Stand@rt World Anthology of Contemporary Poets"; "Contemporary Poetry" in Chinese and English, Hangchon Literature Complete Collection Vol. III and XII, and many other publications. Founder of the Association of Physicians for Peace in Israel, Uruguay, Chile and Bolivia; Vice-President of International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War- IPPNW, (1985 Nobel Peace Laureate organization), President of the Literary Group "BRASEGO". Vice President of the International Forum for the Literature and Culture of Peace (IFLAC). Editor of Literature for Peace in "Palabras Diversas". Vice President of the XXV World Congress of Poets, Los Angeles 2005, Vice President of the XXVI World Congress of Poets Mongolia 2006. Vice President of the XXVI World Congress of Poets Mexico 2008.

Awards: Delegate to the Nobel Peace Prize Reception in Oslo to International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War- IPPNW (1985), Schweitzer Peace Award “for his courageous work for peace in the Middle East” (1991), “Peace Ambassador of the Youth of Uruguay” (1996), “Award in Public Health HECTOR ABAD GOMEZ”, “In recognition for his work in benefit of mankind” (1999), “Rector’s Medal” of University of Chile “For Dr Kahan distinguished merits and relevant human conditions” (2002), Honorary Degree of Doctor in Literature (2002), "Excellency in Health person of the year 2004" by the Global Organization for Excellency in Health (2004), World Congress of Poets Gold Medallion for "poetic excellence and great contribution to the Brotherhood and peace through Poetry", Ambassador of Poets of the World in Israel (2005), Ambassadeur de la Paix-Universal Peace Ambassador GENEVE CAPITALE MONDIALE de la PAIX (2006), "Golden Key of Literature Hanchon Culture, Korea (2006), "Ernesto Kahan awarded as Best Poet" by the International Writers Association (2006), Awarded "Ernesto Kahan, Best Internet Culture and Poetry – 2007" by International Association of Writers and Artists (2007).

1. Ceasefire at Eight O'clock: City Landscape

Nine minutes have gone by. On the horizon, silence
The tree that brushes my balcony sings with goldfinches and new hues
I hear them in my core, my deepest core
The source of the breeze presaging life
And I walk slowly not to awake the forces of sin
I keep on walking. Walking is the way I feel reality
Walking and watching TV.
No mushroom clouds in Haifa, no explosions in Tyre
And on the border... Oh, the border! Tension but Cease-fire.

I walk slowly. Dreaming of those two towns by the sea
Oh the sea rhythmically in love with them!
Walk to absorb the silences of The Pastoral
But man is man and does not forget
In the North each sings his belief in victory
In the South a missile, reminder of war lingering

I walk back in a roundabout way
And arrive at my cup of coffee
Oh coffee!
Aroma of mornings for those who awake with plans and projects
Smell of grief for those inconsolable in mourning
The parents who bury their soldier sons

Eight Thirty-three,
A chain of tanks wends its way home
An endless queue of strategists knocks on press doors
In offices of political parties, speeches are prepared
Workers transport spades and cement to reconstruct the city
New commissions, new evaluation committees
And preparation for the next war.

The city awakes to pursue its human evolution
Witness of gregariousness lacking in compassion
Soft winds of the Mediterranean
Soldiers embrace at Eight Forty
And me, I carry on walking
And David Grossman, writer of peace, will bury his son this afternoon
Yet not his writings

And I have another sociable coffee in town
And when I am convinced that the cease-fire is undeniable
I smile
With the bread fresh out of the oven
I will turn up the sound of The Pastoral.

Nine Thirty
The bombs remain silent. How good that is!
Yet are being stored in the city.

Landscape of gregarious man
21st century.
From yesterday we started to count.

Tel-Aviv, August 2006

2. Ashes

the stork felt

rained on the birds

the routine of
millions of years
cycles of life

flowed in the stork...

the pigeons died...
the stork flew away.
the nest was ash-gray...

later, much later...
the birds of Auschwitz returned
to the crematorium of Jews.

they are,
in Auschwitz,
the grass the birds,

and my people...

3. Mushroom Of The A- Bomb

Oh Hibakushas!
Survivors of the A- bomb,
Tell us to tell them "See what man has done to man…"
Voices of the world's shame, mirrors against nuclear arms
Now and forever live on! Be my poetry:
Nagasaki, Hiroshima
the bomb,the universal suicide!

4. Illusion

is a dove,
that came
from Oslo
to Jerusalem.

In summer
it laid
an egg
and then,

Now, I have it
in my hands,
oh illusion!
help me,
please, come!

January 2002

© Ernesto Kahan

A. D. Winans


A. D. Winans was born in San Francisco and graduated from San Francisco State College (now University). He returned from Panama in 1958 to become part of the Beat and post-Beat era. He is the author of 45 books of poetry and prose including North Beach Poems, The Holy Grail: The Charles Bukowski Second Coming Revolution, North Beach Revisisted, This Land Is Not My Land and The Wrong Side Of Town. From 1972 through 1989 he edited and published Second Coming Magazine/Press. He worked for the San Francisco Art Commission (1975-80), during which time he produced the Second Coming 1980 Poets and Music Festival, honoring the late poet Josephine Miles and the late blues musician John Lee Hooker. He has received numerous editor and publishing grants from the NEA and the California Arts Council, and writer assistance grants from PEN and the Academy of American Poets.

In 1983 he was awarded a San Francisco Arts and Letters Foundation cash award for his contribution to small press literature. In 2006 he received a PEN National Josephine Miles award for literary excellence.

He has read his poetry with many acclaimed poets including Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Hirschman, Diane DiPrima, and the late Charles Bukowski, Jack Micheline, and Bob Kaufman.

His poetry, prose, essays and book reviews have appeared in over a thousand literary magazines and anthologies, including City Lights Journal, Poetry Australia, the New York Quarterly, Beat Scene, Beatitude, Rattle, The Smith, The American Poetry Review (APR) The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry (Thunder’s Mouth Press), and Inside the Outside (Presa Press). His poetry has been translated into nine languages. A song poem of his was performed in April 2004 at Tully Hall, New York City. Such noted poets and writers as Colin Wilson, Studs Terkel, James Purdy, Peter Coyote, Jack Hirschman, and the late Jack Micheline and Charles Bukowski have praised his work. In January 2007 Presa Press published a book of his selected poems.

He has worked at a variety of jobs, most recently with the U.S. Department of Education (Office for Civil Rights), as an Equal Opportunity Specialist, investigating claims of discrimination against minorities, women, and the disabled.

Winans is a member of PEN, and has served on the Board of Directors of many arts organizations, including the now defunct Committee of Small Press Magazine Editors and Publishers (COSMEP). He is listed in Who’s Who in America, The International Directory of Who’s Who in Poetry, The Gale Research Contemporary American Authors the Gale Research Contemporary Authors Autobiography Series and Who’s Who In America. His essay on the late Bob Kaufman was published in American Poetry Review and was republished in January 2007 by the Writer’s Research Group. His archives and those of Second Coming Magazine/Press are housed at Brown University.

1. On My Way To Becoming A Man

On my way to Lackland Air Force Base
The train stopped to take on passengers
Giving me the chance to get off
Stretch my legs and relieve myself

On returning from the men’s room
An elderly black man approached me
Wanting to know where the restroom was
And when I pointed in the direction
Of where I had just come from
He shuffled his feet nervously
And said, “No, the colored room”
And being naïve and from the North
I had no idea what he was talking about
When suddenly a woman came running
Out from behind a concession stand
Her face red with anger
Yelling for the old man
To leave me alone
As I tried in vain
To calm her down
Telling her it was all right
He was only looking for the
Men’s room
“That boy knows where the colored room is”
She said, shooing the old man away
As I boarded the train
Turning to see him
Bent over a “colored” only
Water fountain
Ss the train picked-up steam
Sparks flying from the tracks
Taking me on my way
To becoming a man
Where I would have
My serial number branded into
My head
And made to wear a dog tag
Around my neck
To remind me
I was the property
Of Uncle Sam

2. Panama Ten

Two political prisoners were sitting
In their jeep with two
Panamanian National Guardsmen
Outside a bar in town

The two Panamanian Nationals
Went inside to check the bar
Leaving the two men
Handcuffed outside alone

Once inside the guardsmen spoke
To the bartender
In a language
I couldn’t understand
When suddenly there was an explosion
Coming from outside the bar
And without looking the
Two guardsmen laughed
And downed their tequila and beers
While outside you could see the
Flames engulf the jeep
The two prisoners lit up
Like two scarecrows
Tossed into
A bonfire

3. Panama Memories

The young Panamanian girl
Sitting alongside
Her sister dressed only
In panties and bra
Reading a comic book
And chewing on bubble gum
At a brothel called the
Teenage Club
Waiting for the first
GI’s to arrive

Six girls lined-up
Like bowling pins
Rooted to the long
Wooden bench with
Zombie like stares
Doing a woman’s thing inside
A child’s body

4. Returning Home From Panama

They had this bar at Ocean beach
Called the Chalet
It used to be a hangout for vets
The American Legion boys
Most of them fat and balding
The years piling up like litter
One so old that
He claimed he was gassed in
WW 1
You never knew whether
To believe him or not
He just sat there staring
Talking into his beer
Humming a song:
And using terms like
Dough Boy and Pill Box
And you just somehow knew
He had to have been there
Was still there would always
Be there

5. The System

There are old men and women
Who have worked all their lives
Who have put in three
Four decades for the
Right to a pension

There are old people who have
Worked twenty years or more
Only to be laid off and given
Two weeks severance pay
To seek a living at half the pay
There are old people
Who have worked all their lives
Only to witness the company
Go belly-up
And find there is no pension
Fund left

You can find them on park benches
Or wandering sterile supermarkets
Or sitting at neighborhood bars
Nursing drinks like
A blood transfusion

They come in assorted flavors
Like “Life Savers”
Some thin and balding
Some fat and sweating
Some complaining bitterly
Some too proud to let the pain show
Trapped by a belief in a system
That has abandoned them

For the most part they suffer
In silence, duly unnoticed
To be carted off in meat wagons
To be cut open by coroners
Who see them as morning cereal
Who go about their business
Like a butcher
Thinking of dinner
Thinking of a glass of wine
Thinking of how it used to be
How it might have been
How it should have been

It’s the way of life
It’s the way of politicians
And mice
It’s the system where
Just trying to stay alive becomes
A small victory

© A. D. Winans

Ada Aharoni


Professor Ada Aharoni, writer, poet, playwright and lecturer, was born in Cairo, Egypt, and now lives in Haifa, Israel. She has published 25 books to date, that have won her international acclaim. She writes in Hebrew and English, and her works have been translated into several languages.

Ada Aharoni is the Founder and international President of IFLAC: PAVE PEACE, the International Forum for the Literature and Culture of Peace (established in 1999
). She chaired its founding congress "The International Congress on Conflict Resolution Through Culture and Literature" and is also President of the World Congress of Poets XIII (Haifa, Israel, 1992).

Ada Aharoni received her Bachelor Degree (B.A) in Literature and Sociology, at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem (1965), her Master of Philosophy Degree (M.Phil.), at London University (1967) and she was awarded her Doctorate Degree in Literature (Ph.D), on the Nobel Prize Laureate in Literature - Saul Bellow, at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem (1975). She lectured in the Department of English Literature at Haifa University, and taught Sociology (Conflict Resolution), in the department of Humanities, at the Technion (Israel Institute of Technology), in Haifa.

Ada Aharoni's published books are: novels, biographies, and poetry collections, in English, French, Hebrew, Arabic and Chinese. A Bilingual collection of "Selected Poems," in English and Chinese, has been published in Hong Kong (2002). In addition, her poems have also been translated and published in journals in several other languages, including:
Swedish, Norwegian, Italian, Greek, Japanese, Korean, German, Gujarati, and Bengali.

Ada Aharoni has been awarded several international prizes and awards, among them are: The British Council Award, the Keren Amos President Award, the Haifa and Bremen Prize, the World Academy of Arts and Culture Award, the Korean Gold Crown of World Poets Award, the Rachel Prize, and the Merit Award of the HSJE: The Historical Society of the Jews from Egypt, for her "devoted and unmatched efforts in researching the history and culture of the Jews from Egypt, and to promote visionary literature and poetry proclaiming peace in the world." In 1998, she was elected one of the hundred "World Heroines," in Rochester, New York, for her "outstanding literary works for the promotion of women and peace."

1. What Is Happiness?

(In memory of Haim Aharoni, my dear husband and best friend, who passed away, after open-heart surgery, on 7 July 2006)

When you were here dear Haim,
One bright golden day I asked you
"What Is Happiness"?
You promptly responded
With a bright twinkle in your eye
"Happiness is being married to your best friend"
I laughed and hugged you my best friend.

Now that you have passed away my love
And we will not talk and laugh together anymore
I miss your kisses and warm hugs
I miss your caressing, gentle calm
With which you appeased all storms,
I admire your spirit that fights my sorrow
That sings in me "Be Happy" in spite of all -
For this is my legacy.

2. Peace Is A Woman And A Mother

How do you know
peace is a woman?
I know, for
I met her yesterday
on my winding way
to the world's fare.
She had such a sorrowful face
just like a golden flower faded
before her prime.

I asked her why
she was so sad?
She told me her baby
was killed in Auschwitz,
her daughter in Hiroshima
and her sons in Vietnam,
Ireland, Israel, Palestine, Lebanon,
Bosnia, Rwanda and Chechnya.

All the rest of her children, she said,
are on the nuclear
black- list of the dead,
all the rest, unless
the whole world understands -
that peace is a woman

A thousand candles then lit
in her starry eyes, and I saw -
Peace is indeed a pregnant woman,
Peace is a mother.

3. Teddy Bears for Guns

My man of the year
Is the wonderful, wise one
Who sat himself in the midst
Of the West with a huge box
Of chubby Teddy Bears
On New Year's Day,
Attracting an endless
Queue of cheering kids -
Holding guns

He playfully showed
With a smile and a wink
And a Teddy Bear Hug -
It could be the beginning
Of a honey-laden decade
In a brave new world

By wisely trading
For Teddy Bears.

4. A Ladino Song

Again, and again I am there, though I am here.
In that Aranjues wine-cellar in Toledo, leading to
a gray corridor winding towards the river

Since that mustached shop owner showed me,
smiling beneath his quaint flower-print plates, the
ancient eight-branched Menorah he found in his cave

dropped by my Jewish ancestors, fleeing the wolves
of the Inquisition - I cannot leave that Aranjues cellar.
I am still there with the Menorah though I am here.

I tried to fell to that caffe in front of the synagogue
which has been turned into Maria Bianca's church, but I was still
there. Then a singer, named Ada, with a deep "fatho" soul

sang a Ladino song, my grandmother sang to me: El pasharo se
vola "the bird has flown, the heart is crying, weep my soul weep
deep, for there are bad people who will not let you life...."

An Aranjues shiver ran down my spine, the floor
opened its ancient arms and I sank into the cellar again,
ran in the corridor again, now closer to the river

flying with the bird, weeping with the fugitives
but still holding the Menorah
tightly in my hand

I am still there
though I am here.

© Ada Aharoni

André Cruchaga


André Cruchaga, Nació en Chalatenango, El Salvador, 1957. Tiene una licenciatura en Ciencias de la Educación. Además de profesor de humanidades., ha desempeñado la función de docente en Educación Básica y Superior. Parte de su obra poética ha sido traducida al francés por Jean Dif, Danièlle Trottier; esta última, el libro antológico: “El fuego atrás de la ventana” (Le feu derrière la fenêtre) y Viajar de la ceniza. La poeta María Eugenia Lizeaga, por su parte, ha traducido el libro “Oscuridad sin fecha” al Idioma vasco (Euskara); y poemas sueltos, Michel Krott, al holandés.

Reconocimientos: Primer Premio Juegos Florales de Zacatecoluca ( La Paz, 1985),
Primera Mención de Honor (Juegos Florales de San Miguel, San Miguel, 1988), Primera Mención de Honor (Juegos Florales de San Vicente, San Vicente, 2001), Primer Premio Juegos Florales de Chalatenango (Chalatenango, 2002), Primer Premio Juegos Florales de Ahuachapán (Ahuachapán, 2005), Finalista: Primer Concurso Internacional de Poesía "Paseo en Verso" ( Editorial Pasos en la Azotea, Querétaro, México, 2004/2005).

Publicaciones: Alegoría de la palabra (1992), Fantasía del agua (1992), Fuego de la intimidad (1993), Espejo del invierno ( 1993), Memoria de Marylhurts (1993), Visión de la muerte (1994), Antigua soledad (1994), Insomnio divagante (1991), Viento (1995), Césped sobre el fuego (1995), Fugitiva luz de los espejos (1995), Fantasía del bosque (1996), Enigma del tiempo (1996), Roja vigilia (1997), Querencia del follaje (1998), Rumor de pájaros (2002), Oscuridad sin fecha (2006), Pie en tierra (2007).

1. Laberinto de los espejos

Ocúltate del siniestro pájaro
Que te asedia a las horas más inesperadas…
Enrique Gómez Correa

El aire turba los pensamientos ante el sonido de las piedras,
Mientras lianas de fantasmas nos asisten
Con abrazos de ciegos brebajes.
Las epifanías transcurren oscuramente
Donde el musgo germina sus andrajos.
Entre tanta imagen de la vida:
Imágenes esféricas, atribuladas,
Sombras a la deriva aleteando en la esperanza,
La vida le debe a la vigilia
Y a las leyes del mundo.
En la zozobra salta la altitud de la fe;
Los fieles dibujan un amor invicto,
Pero la carne tañe otros destinos otra luz que se apaga.
Sacrificial es este fuego de todos los días:
Agónico estertor de la demencia humana,
Frágil sueño entre la ceniza de la noche,
Dios ahí como luz errante,
Envuelto en silencio, sobreviviente también,
Del clamor de la vida, viendo los golpes
Desde la transparencia de su omnipotencia.
Estamos expuestos a la congoja,
Sombra del sueño;
Nada es la luz en la doliente herida,
Si no es para desvelarla,
Fragua de un himno desgarrado,
Luto de obstinado terror.
Hay salmos y proverbios para enaltecer la noche:
Huracanes de buitres, ebrias líneas de papel
Profanando las ventanas
Como cadáver oculto en la caverna
De las manos.
Debajo de la vida, la muerte renace cada día,
Con su borrosa porcelana de quebrados vientos:
Sepia es el zarpazo, horrible el tizne
De los tabancos, la presencia desnuda
De las aceras.
Debajo de la piel nombres destejidos,
Demasiada ceniza en las barbas,
Las banderas y el nombre de los santos desteñidos.
Dentro de los poros, los pájaros,
La herida genésica debatiendo
Entre antiguos sonidos, negros soles
Sobre el sonido de glaciales estupefactos.
Aquí la muerte presente en los nombres,
Aquí la muerte entre los dedos de la madera:
Olvida nombres, ruge, martilla como el mar.
Muerde con sus dientes de ballena,
Corta los cabellos con su silenciosa
Lengua de azufre.
La vida pierde sus zapatos. Como tantas cosas,
La cubre un puñado ligero de polvo,
Una losa y, después,
Sólo el silencio del abismo
Y las flores ateridas de la noche…

Barataria, 03. 04. 2007

2. El País (Casi una elegía)


Tu cuerpo se fue haciendo pequeño
Ante la multitud,
Vértigo de la abstracción, premisa de hiel,
Instancia del dolor, cuerpo sin labios,
Dolorosa luz entre la piel de titubeantes carbones.
Así has sido, País. Ala de gemidos, delirantes quejas,
Muro de la esperanza, alfombra del embuste,
Porción de espejos en disputa del sonido.
Ante tanta desdicha, la historia no ha tenido felicidad:
Cada calle de la ciudad es cementerio.
La ropa so sirve para cubrir las venas rotas,
Ni el día es suficiente para que brillen los ojos.
Todos nos hemos convertido en hijos de la muerte.
La única certeza es la destrucción:
El odio ha soltado sus estertores ciegos.
La realidad está ahí cubierta de huesos,
De sombras y labios sucios.
Todo nos conduce a la noche:
Noche la razón en tazas de ficción,
Noche la existencia del orden,
Noche la memoria con frases imaginarias,
Noche el ojo que ha renunciado a la claridad,
Noche la risa delirante en la garganta,
Noche el cielo reducido a noche,
Noche el tiempo envejeciendo como piedra,
Noche el fuego y el pálpito;
Latente, sin embargo, el temor y la injuria.
Cansada la voz, la ceniza la corona.
Hacen falta alas, para salir de estos huesos
Convertidos en sórdida caligrafía del pan:
Somos odio, burdeles y discursos.
Somos tema de la propaganda,
Madera sin violines, suma de sombras,
Donde las hojas son saetas del aire
Y las criptas, contrapunto del ultraje.

Barataria, 03. 04. 2007

3. La Patria entre la niebla de la historia

En la noche la lluvia resume los sonidos.
Tenue el vidrio de las gotas revive los peces:
La historia sólo cambia de guantes y bastones,
Cambia a ratos su hollín, acorrala,
Siempre alza muros de tumbas en la intemperie
Y despojos hechos ceniza.
Hay un fervor inaugural del albedrío:
La beatitud al caos es inminente;
El tropel, feroz e imprevisible.
La esquirla o la bomba o el asalto sirven de gramática,
En las clases de lenguaje y humanismo,
La hoja de papel de miedo e incredulidad.
En la luz sólo se ven manos vencidas,
Colgando de espejos mudos y yertas miradas.
En los sueños, la esperanza es hojarasca,
No otro color que transfigure la memoria.
No es camino, ni resplandor, ni paraíso,
Sino geometría oscura en el umbral del otoño:
Falaz ostentación de las estatuas,
Pesadez de las sombras sobre el horizonte.
La historia se ve en el espejo de la niebla.
Allí la lengua saca su espada,
Los espectros convulsos del llanto,
Los perros oscilando su saliva en el hueso.
Bajo el cielo, el dolor y el miedo son patentes,
La moneda que cambió nuestra identidad.
¿Es que acaso no tenemos derecho a la alegría?
En esta hora, el devenir parece un cuchillo oscuro;
Los sueños, alfileres; y la felicidad,
Llagas de enredaderas putrefactas.
Jamás ha habitado el sol de la prosperidad esta tierra:
A la ciudad la veo moribunda,
Y a los pájaros, chupamieles en fuga.
Nadie sale invicto, ni tiene sosiego:
Emigrar es huir para construir otros cementerios
Y vivir extrañamente entre fantasmas y mimetismos.
La historia es un candil que se adelgaza
Con el viento, su pabilo de herrumbre
Cae sobre la tierra
Y pellizca el espinazo de los relojes,
Hasta esculpir destinos de pánico:
Sedientos fetichismos para abrigos
Y tacones de obediente proclama.
Jamás la historia ha sido otra cosa,
Sino esqueleto, plegaria de la fe, espejo de la niebla…

Barataria, 04.04.2007

© André Cruchaga

Rosemary C. Wilkinson


Rosemary Regina Challoner Wilkinson is a award-winning contemporary poet. She is Honorary President of World Academy of Arts and Culture / World Congress of Poets (served as Secretary General then President from 1994-2003).

Rosemary C. Wilkinson wrote her first poem at age 14, served 10 years hospital administration, reared 4 children. When President Kennedy was shot she wrote her 2nd poem; from then on she could not stop the poetry flowing. She is the author of 22 poetry books, some of wich is translated into 38 languages. Her prose works include AN HISTORICAL EPIC translated into Mandarin (published in NEW LITERATURE, Taipei) and biography of EPIC OF THE SHIP'S CAPTAIN / ARTIST.

Wilkinson was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, reared in New York and San Fransisco, presently residing in the Foothills of mighty Sierra Nevada Mountains, northeast of San Francisco, writing her 40 year literary career autobiography titled POET: UPLIFT MANKIND.

1. Take a Walk With Me

Here at 3,000 feet in foothills of the
Sierra Nevada mountains, let us walk along
paths of 100 feet cedars, pines, black oaks,
Chinese pistache, crepe myrtle, low madrone,
manzanita, mountain misery, mid sparse homes.

Traveling down to Placerville feast
the splendor of purple lupine, daffodils,
jonquils, peeping up, with forsythia,
scotch broom plentiful spreading
over green hills to pink, white dogwood, galore.

Yes, this is Spring blooming out in full glory
we yearn for when winter slips, Spring is totally here.

April 8, 2007, 2:53 P.M.

2. We Came To See...

(VA Hospital)

We came to see where injured soldiers
walk limping, some in wheel chairs,
came to see agony they grimace
when sitting, as if in pain,
yes, we came to see, learned of a noble courag'ing.

If not among so many others waiting a turn
to hobble into M.D. visits, lab exams,
surgery, eye, ear, nose, frosted toes
repair; I would hide my face in book and
let a tear or two run down between as I look.

So I search for some solace, midst all of this, like
Chesterton viewing Botticelli's "Mystic Nativity"
in National Gallery to sooth hurt in my heart,
in these chaotic times, for some happiness,
like heaven, on the day we celebrate our Christmas.

Feb 11, 2007, 7:45 P.M.

3. Miracle of Order in Creation

Wind blows swiftly falling oak leaves
at my feet as I rustle through them
deep breathing this December air as new
storm drives close - birds fly to cover
in all this splendor and glory I feel uplifted, mind and spirit.

Oh! the wonder of the Lord of faithfulness and love, I say
as I look about these sky-tall pines yielding majesty of God
and seeing dignity in human beings, though alone, yes,
in all of nature I see God's goodness for when beholding
beauty and love it is as if I have arrived already in heaven.

December 8, 2006, 7:35 P.M.

4. This Is The Moment

This is the moment
when I see the dull sky
sprinkle pure white flakes
bending ponderosa pines fifty feet tall
creating a dripping "in tune"
as the sun shines through.
I smell the clean air, inhaling deep
within me, as I touch covered leaves
of flowers frozen, no longer to breathe
fragrance stifled by cleansing thereof,
imbuing soft stillness, I feel,
bringing peace within.

© Rosemary C. Wilkinson

Teresinka Pereira


Teresinka Pereira: Brazilian-American poet, President of the International Writers and Artists Association (IWA), President of the International Congress of the Society of Latin Culture.

She received from the Knights of Malta Sovereigh Order of St. John of Jerusalem the hereditary title of "Dame of Grace", signed by the Grand Prior S.O.S.J. Dom K. Vella Haber (Malta, January 8, 1997). January 1999 she was appointed Senator of the International Parliament for Safety and Peace. Dr. Teresinka Pereira received, in 1985, the noble title of Dame of Magistral Grace from Dom Waldemar Baroni Santos, Prince of Brazil, for her literary merits.

Teresinka received a Ph.D. in Romance Languages from the University of New Mexico, USA, and in 1997 received the Doctor Honoris Causa degree from the University Simon Bolivar, in Colombia. In 1972 she received the National Prize for Theatre in Brazil, in 1977 she was nominated Poet of the Year by the Canadian Society of Poets, and in 1992 was nominated Personality of the Year by the Brazilian Writers Union. She was awarded a golden "Laurel Wreath" as "Laureate Woman of Letters" from the United Poets Laureate International (UPLI). In 1994 she was the winner of the Su-Se Ru International Literary Magazine Company Prize in Korea, and in Greece, she was the winner of the Prize City of Athens. Also in 1994 was elected Director of International Affairs of the Society of Latin Culture. Since 1989 she is a member of the North American Academy of Spanish Language, corresp. of the Royal Spanish Academy.

1. Enigma

Once I jumped out
of my rose skin
and modestly
entered the fountain
of crystalline enigmas.

Since then I remain unknown
but I have the impetuosity
of a loose ocean
and phosphorescent pupils
to engender
the most daring dreams.

2. Death

To Cheo Seung-Hui*

Your tears became the rain
that mournfully inundated
heavens and earth with a
deluge larger than the
biblical flood prior
to your destiny.

I can only imagine
the darkness of your rage,
untimely and incurable,
the painful wound that
awoke with you
and which you laid out to share
the sacrifice.

The fury of your innocense
made the whole world tremble
leaving so many doubts
and false understandings.

Now that you are in peace
and have rendered your tears
to us, I forgive you for not
being able to decipher
the temporal pretext for living.

* Cho Seung-hui committed suicide
after shooting and killing 32 people
and wounding others at the Virginia Tech
University, April 16, 2007.

3. Nothing

Nothing is a long time
in the waiting room
in grief and sorrow
every morning.

Nothing is returning
to the emancipated breath
of freedom under parole.

Nothing was hope
in the lobies of time,
the fever in my tongue
and inside my body.

Nothing is this life
of strayed eyes and this
almost extinguished
flame still shining
in case that you
decide to love me.

4. Poem For Someone
Who Is Sorry For Me

Just a moment, please!
The night sleeps calmly.
Why do you want to annihilate
the silence of the infinite?
Leave my anguish alone,
let me protect myself
from your perfidious hopes!

5. Anna Politkovskaya

I hold the security agents
that detained you in Chechnya
February 2001, guilty
of violating your human rights.

Today, receiving the news
of your death, I imagine you
in a pit for three days
without food or water
while a military officer
threatened to shoot you...

Finally they did it
on October 7, 2006. Now
the whole world celebrates
your life and death
against oppression.

You don't need any extra words
in a poem about you.
you are the bravest poetry
any human being would love
to have the courage to become.

© Teresinka Pereira

Taki Yuriko

Biography :

Taki Yuriko: Born in Tokyo, Japan.

Jobs: worked in NIPPON RADIO BROADCASTING, works now in KUMON Institute of Education

Member of : International Writers and Artists Association, The International Forum for the Literature and Culture of Peace, World Congress of Poets-World Academy of Arts and Culture (Approved by UNESCO), World Congress of Poets for Research and Recitation Society of NIPPON RADIO BROADCASTING

1. In Japan: "The World of Atomic Bomb Poem Anthology" (published by Kadokawa) (*), "My Revolution Square" (published by Shichousha), "The Japan of Atomic Bomb Literature Anthology" (published by Horupu) (*), "Poems Against The War Anthology", joint with USA poets 2003 (publishedby Souhuusha), "Genocide" written with Dr.Ernesto Kahan (published by Nihon Tosho center in June 2006),
2. In Germany: "Seit Jenvem Tag Anthology" (published by Fisher Taschenbuch Verlag)(*),
3. In Romania: "8500 Christs, Les 8500 Christs" (published by Standart)the first edition in 2002 and the second edition in 2003
4. In USA: Internet publishing (
the Official Website), Harmony in New York by WCPPRR
5. In France: "Anthologie Secrete" (will publish by Jean-Paul Mestas )Selected by the editors who compiled the anthology.
6. In Other Countries and Awards:
In 2006 received the Honorary Degree of Doctor in Literature, from World Academy of Arts and Culture (Approved by UNESCO)
In the Newspapers or Magazines of Australia, Brazil, China, Korea (received award in 2006) Mongolia,India, Greece (received award in 2005) and France.
In the Dictionary of 2000 Outstanding People 2003 by International Biographical Centre Cambridge in U.K.
Literary Works translated into 11 Languages from poetry book “8500 Christs” (English, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Hangul, Chinese, Russian, Romanian, Mongolian, Greek).

(*) Taki Yuriko was the only poet born after the Second World War, to have poetry selected by the editors who compiled the anthologies.

1. Regrets of an Eldest Daughter

My inheritance was a single line.
"I leave all my worldly goods to the younger daughter."
Nothing more.
Though I scoured the will,
"Yuriko" was never mentioned.

Mother and I had never even quarrelled,
And I have ten albums' worth of fond memories.
My husband and I holding hands while Mom pets a swan.
Travelling to France, America.
Trying French wines
And Calvados apple brandy.
Exploring Normandy in a rental car.
Seeing America's West Coast and Yosemite.
Mom looking up at a huge tree and laughing.
All shots filled with happiness.

When my poems came out, I immediately sent them to Mother.
No comment.
The daughter of a high-ranking officer,
She dodged stones thrown by civilians after the war.
Mother idolized the pre-war days,
The days of her beloved, my grandfather.
But my poetry decried them.

When I married, my father, the only man, was already gone.
But Mother never reproached me.
She saw me off without complaint.

In Japan, children look after their parents.
Usually, the sons do it.
Otherwise it falls to the eldest daughter.
When I declared, "I am leaving home to get married,"
Mother must have concluded, "I've been discarded."

My inheritance was a single line.
"I leave all my worldly goods to the younger daughter,"
Nothing more,
"Provided that she devote herself to me
Til death do us part."

My sister never married; she cared for Mother to the end.
And she did not invite me to the funeral.

Translated by John and Deborah Saxon

2. A Dead Child at Hiroshima

The sound of a bat flapping its wings
Is the sound of my knocking?

A hole gapes in the sky
Is the scar of clouds scorched at the scattering of my fresh.

The voice of Emperor Hirohito praying,
Is my alarm clock screaming at me never to sleep.

Look, Mama
My little sisters are playing over my head.
From inside my eye
A single blade of grass
Is about to grow.

Long have my eyes been bone dry
No longer do cry.

3. Like Warsaw

The ice has melted.
A bird’s footprints
On the banks of the Wisla*
It’s springtime in Warsaw.

I saw a picture of
Warsaw -1945.
Gray was its only color.
The bombed-out buildings, the people,
As if covered in ash,
Pure gray.

In that town full of the dead,
People and horses
Wore ash.
Pure gray.

The living, the dead,
Pure gray.

I saw a picture of
Warsaw today.
It’s as through the clock had turned back
Before that gray time.
The red brick walls,
The very cracks in the buildings,
Are just as they were
Before Warsaw was destroyed.

If you walk around
With a map from back then,
There is the bread shop!

Just as it all was,
So it is now.

But where
Are those killed in the
Warsaw Uprising of
August 1st, 1944?

Where is the youth shot and killed
As he poked his head out
From the sewer?

Where are
All the dead?:**

But the bereaved of Warsaw
Steadfastly held to the ideal
Of restoring that city,
That pile of rubble,
To it’s former glory.

They relied on their memories
Of each and every detail,
How much the paint had peeled,
How much the bricks had clipped.

This obsession burned within
So as not to forget
Those who sacrificed their lives
Winning freedom.

Built brand new,
But exactly as long ago,
The town was designated
A World Heritage site.

I saw a picture of Kabul as it was 30 years ago.
Luscious green is everywhere.
A beautiful palace,
And in the park,
A rainbow
Rising up from the fountain.
A library filled with books,
And fields that are ripe for harvest.

Now Kabul wears that same gray,
A rubbish heap,
One of the world’s poorest countries.
It’s Warsaw in 1943.

As a city along the Silk Road,
As in the flourishing days of your past.
Become that Kabul of thirty years ago,
When your city held the stature of a World Heritage site
And many Buddhist statues.

One large power after another has come into Afghanistan
Dropping not food, but bombs.
Selling not medicine, but weapons,
Making Afghanis fight each other,
Laying waste the whole of the country
And extinguishing all hope.

To show that you have not succumbed,
Remember again the Kabul of thirty years past.
Trace each and every memory.
Like Warsaw, rebuild, and become
Magnificent once again.

For your efforts to rebuild,
Your sheer tenacity,
We would gladly name all of Kabul
A World Heritage Site.

And then,
The people of the world
Would visit Afghanistan.

Like the Warsaw of today,
Like the Warsaw that won its freedom.

* The Wisla river is the longest river in Poland. It flows from the Carpathian mountains of North Romania through Krakow and Warsaw to the Baltic Sea.
**Approximately 150,000-200,000 people lost their lives.)

April 2002, Translated into English by Deborah & John Saxon

4. Blessed Are They

Those taken into the
Camp at Auschwitz
Were nonetheless blessed.

Their names had been
Replaced by numbers,
But they could be numbered
Among the dead
After a month or two.

When the Nazi doctor signaled to the right,
Everyone was immediately herded
To the incinerator.
The old, the infirmed,
The children, the weak,
All were compelled to the right.

A kind and gentle voice
Led them to the gas chamber:
“Take a rest and shower.”

Whenever the camp
Became full,
That kindly voice again:
“Take a little break in here.”
Straight to the gas chamber.

After the dropping
Of the atomic bomb,
The dead whose
Corpses remained
Were nonetheless blessed.

For those whose bodies
Melted completely,
Leaving no trace,
Were never counted as missing.

For when an entire
Family or village disappears,
No one is left to look for them.

Translated by Deborah and John Saxon

5. Are you OK?

Just one second on that Day
It happened.
Eyes popped out. Got burned and skin slide down like taking clothes off
Hand and leg were torn off and scattered away in the space
No body was rescued because
Soon after a big fire broken out.

I signed the explanation paper
Before my receiving radiotherapy to the breast
1) acute trouble
inflammation of the skin, heat, sometimes keloid
may be contracting radioactive pneumonia
2) after several years
changing to cell lose in lung, changing to black of skin, becoming atrophied
extending of a capillary, inflammation of the ribs, fracture of ribs
3) If getting it to left breast
According to the USA report, a rate of incidence of myocardial infarction will go up

Doctor said with self-confidence that
But if you have a rate less than this survival rate, this radiotherapy must be best way for relieving pain.

And doctor explained
Do not worry, even though we will have another cancer again, 20 or 30 may be 60
Years later from now

At 61 years after suffering from bombing
Are you OK now who survived two atomic bombs?

Doctor continued
The big point about different from atomic bomb is not genetic damage cause by radioactivity 
Because it is just irradiation for intensive care to one point not all body.

Oh my God!
How are your son and your daughter?
And your grand child?

© Taki Yuriko

Maurus Young


Dr. Maurus Young also known as Yun-da Yang, was born in 1933 in Wuhan, China.
He graduated at the National Taiwan University, obtained a B.A. degree in 1957; and from the Graduate School of Journalism of the National Chengchi University, obtained a M.A. degree in 1959. He also obtained a doctorate degree from the National Paris University in France in 1986.

He started to write poems at age 15 in Taiwan and his poems were published for the first time on the Chuan Ming Daily News, the former United Daily News in Taipei in 1949, when he was a student of Taipei's Chien Kuo Junior High School. He enrolled into Taipei's Cheng Kung Senior High School in 1950, at age 16, followed his teacher, Prof. Chi Hsuan, and became one of the founding members of the Hsien Dai (Modernist) Poetry Society.

As a poet, writer, journalist and historian, he has published 11 books, namely: "When We Return" (1971), "A Glance of the Beautiful Land and People of Ethiopia" (1972), "Lover of Rainbow" (1972), "A Selection of Poems by Maurus Young" (1972), "Dreams in Paris" (1984), "Collector of Stars" (1984), "Western Sightseeings" (1986), "Li Jin Fa, Pioneer of Modern Symbolism Poetry in China" (1986), "A Jar of Wine" (1993) and "Chants of a Stranger" (Written in Chinese, English and French), 1993, "La Vie et l'Oeuvre de Li Jin Fa," (Written in French), 1996.

He has been serving as Secretary General of the World Congress of Poets (WCP) and the World Academy of Arts & Cultural (WAAC) since 1994 and attended VIII WCP in Corfu, Greece 1985; IX WCP in Madras, India 1986; XI WCP in Cairo, Egypt 1990; XII WCP in Istanbul, Turkey 1991; XIII WCP in Haifa, Israel 1992; XIV WCP in Monterey, Mexico 1993; XV WCP in Taipei, Taiwan 1994; XVII WCP in Seoul, South Korea 1997; XVIII WCP in Bratislava, Slovakia 1998; XIX WCP in Acapulco, Mexico 1999; XX WCP in Thesaloniki, Greece 2000; XXIII WCP in Taipei, Taiwan 2003; XXIV WCP in Seoul, South Korea 2004;
XXV WCP in Los Angeles, U.S.A. in 2005 ; and XXVI WCP in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia in 2006.

As a journalist, he has served as a reporter and foreign correspondent for the Central News Agency, Inc. of Taiwan for 40 years and was based in Addis Abeba, Ethiopia (March 1965- Sept. 1969), Paris, France (March 1973-Dec. 1983, May 1989-June 1992), Johannesbourg, South Africa (Dec. 1986-May 1989), and Geneva, Switzerland (Oct. 1994-Dec. 1998). During the period from November 1969 to March 1973, he served for the Associated Press of the United States of America as it's correspondent in Taipei, covering the exciting historical events of severance of diplomatic ties between Japan and Taiwan, former U.S. President Richard Nixon's visit to Beijing, and the withdrawal of Taiwan from the United Nations. Presently he lives in the suburbs of Paris on the left bank of Seine, writing his autobiography of 50 years' literary careers with contentment.

1. A Pigeon

From the top
A pigeon
Is raising its neck
Looking downward

It is watching the people
Who are walking with their heads bent down

It is listening to the cars
Which are roaring past so quickly

It is playing with the dust flying in the air
While looking downward

It is smelling the polluted air
From the top

Looking downward
Raising its neck
A pigeon
From the top

Oct. 30, 2005, Paris

2. Birthday

On my 72nd anniversary of birthday
My son invited me to a dinner

His five-year-old daughter Chia-lan
My half-chinese-and-half-french granddaughter

Gave me a piece of paper
To convey her greeting message

On the paper
She drew a heart in red

Then, she cut a piece of green paper shaped in a tree
And pasted it aside the heart

Then, she drew again in red
A half-opened lips

And then, signed her name
Lan Young in french

At last, she sung in chinese:
Happy birthday to you

February 22, 2006, Paris

3. Mirror

I am standing
In front of the mirror
Looking from this side
Into the other side

My childhood
Went into mirror

My boyhood
Went into mirror

My middle age
Went into mirror too

How do I appear
In the mirror today?
My naivete disappeared 60 years ago
My handsomeness 40 years ago
My pride 20 years ago

In front of the mirror today
Is standing a silver-haired
Old man
The expression in his eyes
Is so deep, unmeasurable

June 30, 2005, Paris

4. Sunset and Grief

The setting Sun
Has been holding by the ocean
Casting golden light at sea and rosy clouds in the sky

Spring thunders in rain
Has been blockaded by the mountain when traveling in valley
Made the world shaking and frightening

Your sorrow
Being caught by me
Left bloody marks in my heart

My grief
Being taken away by wind
Drifting away as cloud

Dec. 12, 2001, Paris

5. A Fish in Meditation

Lying on grass field in an afternoon
The sky in early Spring
Looks clear and blue as ocean

A jet plane flying over my head
Quietly from afar
Tailed by a chain of cloud

It looks like a boat sailing
In the high sea
Followed by white-crested waves

Another jet plane is coming
Slowly on top
Stirred up with long waves

Hiding in seaweeds
As a fish in meditation
I am in the bottom of sea

February 1, 2006, Paris

© Maurus Young (Yun-da Yang)