Tuesday, July 10, 2018



“Always dear to me was this lonely hill
and this edge that of a large part
of the farthest horizon
the sight excludes.
But sitting and gazing, endless
spaces beyond that and superhuman
silences, and a deepest quiet
in my thought I feign....”

from The Infinite by G. Leopardi

Giacomo Leopardi is the greatest Italian poet of the nineteen century as well as one of the most important figures in world literature. The Infinite is one of his idylls interpreted and commented over time in different ways.

I wanted to capture in the image of the edge all that is hidden from the sight and men' minds. A physical and mental boundary that inhibits the ability to investigate, to go beyond time and space preventing to feed the desire to grasp, understand beyond the limits imposed by social conventions or perhaps by the divine will itself.

There are barriers which are insurmountable, for which the various branches of the human sciences have failed to open a passage through. So everything beyond stays blurred by the fume, the mist of mystery as the idea of life after death. Someone has also tried to investigate but it just remains the final destination we all shall reach one day.

A thought we can clearly infer from some verses by W.D. Yeats, the  Irish poet, writer and dramatist  who showed a deep interest in mysticism and spirituality throughout his life:

“I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above
In balance with this life, this death”

From   An Irish Airman Foresees His Death, 1919

 Not less complex and in some ways inexplicable are the human barriers. Those that make us feel prisoners of ourselves, closed in our ideologies and convictions. The same for which anyone different from us becomes the enemy to fight, to win. And it's then that the fear of diversity makes us build walls, not only ideal, to keep him away, to reject him.

The differences of faiths, of political ideologies, or races and skin colour have so many times lead to conflicts and wars depriving millions of people to the sacrosanct right to life.

History is the perennial witness of how much blood has been shed and you can just give a look around to get the bitter awareness of how much is still paid because of barriers that reason, a mutual acceptance or love could easily break down and in their place build bridges of human solidarity in the intimate conviction of living in a common home: the world.

And it can’t surprise anyone that within the same borders, within the same community there are distinctions for social classes that also create great distances.

The reasons that alienate men, creating unbridgeable spaces among them, are manifold each of them deserving a deepening apart to understand them and seek possible remedies. One of this is homosexuality which is seen differently depending on the level of the civil rights recognition achieved by the society you aim to examine.

For some time the issue of sexual diversity, which has forced man and women to live in silence their most intimate sufferings, has opened to social debate. in the meanwhile, in many areas of the world, those who do not fall into the gender categories recognized by the masses are still regarded as individuals apart who are not granted the right to a full social participation. Their pains can be easily elicited from the pages of Oscar Wile's De Profundis. A letter written by the author during his imprisonment in Reading Gaol where he explains the reasons for 'his conscious giving himself to the ruin'. They, he says,  'are rooted in a noble motivation: love'.

But, in those days, that love was considered an offence to modesty to bee condemned. A barrier built by ignorance and hypocrisy that lead the dandy poet to forced labour, and isolation from the same society that had plaudit him in all the London theatres and world literary circles.

It is, therefore, necessary a careful reflection on the many obscure aspects of men’ choices, their fears, their individual and collective behaviours to try to understand. And I believe it is mainly the poet’s task to investigate further, to open new glimpses, to look far, over the visible to question and give answers.

OUR POETRY ARCHIVE (OPA) has always shown a deep attention and care in the choice of themes to deal with and a great sense of active participation to a harmonious growth of the world society. All that through a constructive contribution from writers and poets who, having been endowed with an unparalleled sensibility, have the duty to place their spirit of observation and creativity at the service of a wider audience.

In the past OPA dealt with some crucial topic such as peace, terrorism and racism, this time writers and poets have been called, each of them according to their own sensibility, to express their thoughts, feelings and emotions on anything is considered to be “Beyond Borders”. A charming theme which has given the chance to turn the gaze to all that is hidden from the common sight, to discover new horizons.   I believe the new anthology will offer new ideas for reflection on the individual and collective human conduct, indicating new visions that will open up to a better way to interpret life and live interpersonal relationships, to accept diversity, not to fear, a priori, what is unknown to us.

From The Editorial Desk



email us to:




Shallow breath and again I'm going in
where it's darkest. Messiah is born
everyday and he dies everyday.
third day  is the day of victory.
return to the game or welcome
in a distant messenger's house.
a house full of mirrors.

Ciąg dalszy

Płytki oddech i znowu wchodzę
gdzie najciemniej. mesjasz rodzi się
codziennie i umiera codziennie.
dzień trzeci dniem zwycięstwa.
powrót do rozgrywek lub powitanie
w odległym domu posłańca.
domu pełnym luster.


Yes, I was there. I saw these meadows, people
stuffed with happiness, the happiness full
of people. and I could change - this flash -
through all the letters of the alphabet, I say:
lightness or nothing, and still you would know.
like this, that you are and I am a God, but here,
most often, even I'm writing this poem,
the human wins in us.


Tak, byłam tam. widziałam te łąki, ludzi
wypchanych szczęściem, szczęście pełne
ludzi. i mogłabym odmienić - ten błysk -
przez wszystkie litery alfabetu, powiedzieć
lekkość lub nic, a i tak byś wiedział. jak to,
że jesteś i ja jestem bogiem, lecz tutaj,
najczęściej, choćby pisząc ten wiersz,
wygrywa w nas człowiek.


Everything has moved outside.
banners, websites, promotions call:
come to me here, come to me there.
the fastest form of pleasure - shopping
with plastic in hand. if limits are necessary?
- before the cash register ladies in white boots
get the hang of existential problems.
racing - cars, planes, slaves corporations
just a quickly, just a far away, anywhere.
weekend with family by the phone or on the phone.
call us, you will get to know the real taste of life
- provides the leaflet with Japanese food.
in this noise you and the barely audible allegations:
looking for yourself in yourself instead of me.
yes and no, I am looking for you in others, but the world
turns faster than yesterday.


Wszystko przesunęło się na zewnątrz.
banery, witryny, promocje wołają:
chodź do mnie tu, chodź do mnie tam.
najszybsza forma przyjemności - zakupy
z plastikiem w ręku. czy te limity są konieczne?
- przed kasą panienki w białych kozaczkach
rozkminiają problemy natury egzystencjonalnej.
ścigają się - samochody, samoloty, niewolnicy
korporacji byle prędzej, byle dalej, byle gdzie.
weekend z rodziną przez telefon lub na telefon.
zadzwoń, z nami poznasz prawdziwy smak życia
- zapewnia ulotka z japońskim żarciem.
a w tym szumie ty i ledwo słyszalny zarzut:
szukasz siebie w sobie zamiast mnie.
i tak, i nie, szukam ciebie w innych, lecz świat
kręci szybciej niż wczoraj.


AGNIESZKA WIKTOROWSKA-CHMIELEWSKA – polish poet, playwright, editor. The author of Poemik “and here, and here” awarded in the competition organised by the City of Krakow on a poetic's debut in 2014. And author “Szczęściodoły” and “Troika”. Published in collective works and in literary magazines.



This Time...

This time ,
When you hear the rain that falls over the bare trees from a bronze sky
And the rows of ravens all yellow
You ask yourself
Why only a tree stands tall ?
In an empty park , lonely rotting day by day
Why do you care ?
Maybe because that reminds you the time that has passed
And you feel more older than ever
Like a lonely bird abandoned when the winter comes
Surviving is the only chance

This time ,
When your thoughts are lost
And your face shows nothing more than sadness
In pale colours remained tattoo over your filthy skin
That is when you feel the touch of the last season
That is what reminds you of the long starry nights
All of this turns your spirit blue

....when the time passes
You can only see a rainbow that stares over an old church
Acrylic glass
You can only hear the whispers of monks as they go
But you can't hear the bell
What does that mean ?
You feel like an old abused statue with crossed arms
You wait for your sins to be forgiven
If only it was that easy
But no , your demons consume your soul every day
Your disgusting devious eyes only stare at one thing
The only
The innocent saint Magdalene.

I Know...

I know
One day , you will understand
Feathers stay as proof of a flying bird
Lost far away from the horizon
No turning back
No shelter
Very angry
Far away
Anxiety of an escaped shadow

I know
That this emigration has nothing in common with rainy days
Neither the blooming flowers
It is an unusual escape towards time , when the air smells the pain of earth .
Death of innocent leaves under the meaning of life until madness

I know
that the darkness brings lonely nights
No light , that gives you hope
No dreams , that give you freedom
No tomorrow
But only a dawn related to the shadows of life in chaos .
It feels like the poison of broken hopes

I know
that scream will destroy the walls of broken memories
And what is dead will return to life
No more envy trapped in a spider web
And the voracious crowds and Kings without crowns.

Never Ask A Poet

Never ask a poet about the daylight ,
How the dawn rises early
How the sun kills you with its warmness
How you can see the half paths remaining in the past where you first left them
That vision where your eyes start to sparkle and you feel more alive than ever

Never ask a poet about the days that go from the deepest twilights all covered in pity , a lonely moon drowned in a plain lake burned alive with the flames of a fallen star
like a permanent shadow of a repentant woman

Never ask a poet how sad is the world
How his pain holds the name of autumn
Like a fallen angel lost in a world he can't fit in
His pieces distributed everywhere and you can hear his scream carved as a chapter in a sad book

Most importantly , never ask a poet about love
It breaks your heart,
leaks like a sin over a rainbow full of colours
Suicidal seasons shine from the innocent spirits and gods knocked down until forever.


AGRON SHELE was born in October 7th, 1972, in the Village of Leskaj, city of Permet, Albania.  Is the author of the following literary works: “The Steps of Clara” (Novel), “Beyond a grey curtain” (Novel), “Wrong Image” (Novel) , “Innocent Passage” (Poetry) and “Ese-I ” .  Mr. Shele is also the coordinator of International Anthologies: “Open Lane- 1,” “Pegasiada , Open Lane- 2 and ATUNIS magazine ( Nr 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 )”.  Is a member of the Albanian Association of Writers, member of the World Writers Association, in Ohio, United States, Poetas del Mundo, WPS, Unione world Poetry and the President of the International Poetical Galaxy “Atunis”. He is published in many newspapers, national and international magazines, as well as published in many global anthologies: Almanac 2008, World Poetry Yearbook 2009, 2013, 2015,  The Second Genesis -2013, Kibatek 2015-Italy, Keleno- Greece,  etc.  Currently Resides in Belgium and continues to dedicate his time and efforts in publishing literary works with universal values.
Translated by Peter Tase




I built you up
From diaphanous drops
That clarify
The thin contour
Of the wind’s arms.

Those dancing
Upon my face,
Hold up and excuse
The rising of
Light stealth birds
On the horizon.

Sky wings bearing
Polyphonic aromas,
Diluting moist loams
In vetiver and bergamot,
Over your body’s

I envision you
In my silent
Barren palms,
As drops
Upon my river;
Ecstatic the open sea
Flows against formed
Verbal tide,
In ivy language.

Warp naked
Fanciful voices,
Dawning deep
Inside my skin,
Desire’s opacity.

I built you up!
While it rains.



Longing mitigates
The drunken night,
Treasuring the imprint
Abolished by desire
That breaks us
And brings together,
Intrinsic fire
Of profane verses
Under the intrigue
Of shadows.

Materiality keeps
Our bodies tied up to
The lunar instant
Of balsamic ether,
Burning desires
Falling apart
The mossy seduction
Of having the absolute void.

You’re dust in the breeze
Of my conscious being,
Bringing delightful
And melodic essences

Inside hollow fruit trees
Of worn out headings.
Imprecise and sharp legend
Of upcoming evenings,
Barking at the sap sight.

Derange me, seduce me, drive me.
Like a consonant plunging
Upon the rhetorical memory,
Dialect upsetting and chaining us up
Beyond our hands.

Dementia without sanity
Defining my earthly Nirvana,
Meanwhile, I belong to you
Under the remote
Silence glass…
By rubbing
Your timely spike.


The Path Of Your Steps

Naked and lurking
At the riverbank,
A kiss clinging on
As a vine
And climbing
Through the sap
Of my branches.

I spy on the night
In your thistles,
Adjacent meridians
In the nectar
Of your Nile.

Of  all your summers
Emanate and disappear
Crepuscular fragments,
Frosts decorate
The melodic chant
Of orioles
And blackbirds.

I invent you and lose you
In the zephyr choleric notes,
The sublime lightness
Makes silence thunder up.

Dissolving my dawns
In the hustle of memory,
Fire against the light
Of the stranger and nubile
Torso of your body.

You rain and crumble
Over my fragrant touch,
Blast that exalts
The sound of the stones
Building up my roads,
Long gone
And desolated landscapes
Blooming today
Behind your own steps.


ALICIA  MINJAREZ  RAMÍREZ: Multi-awarded poetess, writer, singer, translator, Universitary professor, broadcast radio and |T.V. She was born in Tijuana Baja California, Mexico. Her poems have been translated into: English, French, Taiwanese, Albanian, Cameroonian, Arabic, Chinese, Portuguese, Italian and Polish. And published in more than 90 International Anthologies, journals and magazines around the world.



Do Not Burn The Candles

Do not burn the candles
For me,my darling.
Do not call me.

I am the night butterfly.
I will fly to you,
Lured by warmth and flames.

My wings will burn
And I will stay forever
With you and your words.

Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu

As a child she saw the smiled saints at her book.
They handed out and invited her to them.
There were told beautiful stories about war between good and evil,
about sacrifice full of love and about fighting with weaknesses.

She followed the vocation and her dreams.
A former life, like an old dress, she left in a Macedonian city,
She went through the Irish chill to reach India,
choosing the sun-burned land for her new homeland.

In the slums of Calcutta she found the suffering God,
His torment hidden in the bleeding wounds of the poor and the lepers.
She made good deeds without the noise,
As if she was throwing a pebble into the sea
But the circles on the water spread more and more.

She turned the dark, religious habit into a sari.
The white butterfly of love and mercy hatched
And the sky painted its wings with blue ribbon.
An Albanian girl named Agnes left,
Sacred Mother Theresa from Calcutta was born.

A Child With Autism

We are in the same room,
but we inhabit different worlds.
An invisible border divides us
- the eyes do not get through it
and words turn into silence.
Your look penetrates objects,
goes far beyond the room.
Every image is blurred in your thoughts.
I disappear and become as transparent as air
I hope you might sense that I'm sitting next to you.
You look  intensely at the whirling bug
and wave nervously with your hands.
You would like to fly over a rainbow bridge of fantasy.
There to try to find shelter on your lonely island
where  all your mind’s entrusted secrets are guarded.
I smile again and give you a colourful toy,
You avoid my touch and with a cry  retract your hand quickly
I want to penetrate the barrier of our mutual pain,
To free you from a dimension filled with loneliness,
Where there is no space for another human.

Contrary To Nature

The dead, dry dragonfly in a glass case
froze stiff in its last fluttering of wings .
Wind did not break its transparent body ,
colors unfaded by the sun .
Perished young in the bloom of its beauty
it exists against nature
-  destined for immortality

Lonely Island

I often dream of  sea.
It is black and foamy.

The wind herds the waves,
by the whistling whip.

They  like mad horses rush to the shore,
tramples the fragile boats, throws  the beach.

It's war between water and earth,
between death and life.

I stand alone on a piece of land.
I can escape nowhere


It is a pity that I cannot buy a new soul.
In supermarkets, there are no special offers
- New Soul! On sale!

The old one is dysfunctional.

It is much easier to have a simple vision of the world.
Keep your feet on the ground and don’t have dreams.

Being greedy protects the heart.
Life has a physical dimension. Ideals hurt.

Gain a prominent place in the rat race,
Dispose of sentiments, tears.

My soul is able to forgive.
It cannot learn to trust again.

It says it does not enter the same river twice.
Unreasonable? Perhaps. -

It does not listen to reason.
It pulls away from people

Your Name

You said
„ A man - it sounds proudly”
and you mean
Einstain, Mozart or Rafaello

Later you added:
“A man- it sounds terribly”
and you mean
Hitler, Stalin or  Pol Pot

Now you must choose your way.
You have to decide
if your name makes people
smile or cry.

Spring Over The Lake

The sun strokes the black furrows
of ploughed fields with warmer and longer rays
The soil bulges with greenness and fecundity
Spring flows from the depths of the lake
and releases it from a dream of winter white
The ice flows shutters, opening to water.
The willows lean over the plate of the lake.
They comb and braid their hair with the wind.
The trees look at the world mirrored in water.
The wild geese come from far away
The long calipers on the sky pave the way
to their nests hidden in the reeds
Buds open up and first flowers bloom.
The waves of the lake hum a song about new life,
The mystery of rebirth begins


Early in the morning
An old woman rummages
In the garbage with a long stick.
Her stick is as long as a human life.
She is looking for something
That will bring her happiness.

Maybe there is something
Among the things she sees
Unwanted ,unloved
And useless to anyone
- Such as herself.

Together they are able to
Take comfort and survive
Another day
In a world where
There is no place for them


Indifference has
Eyes of stone and an
Unaffectionate heart,
Which beats rhythmically…
I only I - I only I.

It is better not to see
And not to sympathize.
Poverty is ugly,
Foul and fetid,
And sometimes drunk.

The easiest thing is to pass it by
And think
- It is not my business
- I have no time

The Homeless

They chose a homeless freedom.
Set instinctively to survive they live for today.
They know all the dark secrets of the city.

In the evenings, they fall like birds onto the park benches
To spend the night in the company of stars.
In the morning,
They leave the baggage of old newspapers  and wander on.

It is never too late, or too early
-The days are too similar to be afraid of anything.

Those of us, who live hurriedly and hygienically,
Pass them with revulsion and a feeling of superiority.
With dignity, we tote around stereotypes
and the day’s routine.

We hurry along other paths of life.
Sometimes, we collide - we stop pensive
Over diversity of human stories.

The Beggar

I looked deeply into the eyes of a beggar
And they told me his story.

The book of life is not closed.
It describes mistakes and failures at the beginning,
Then the monotonous days,
Struggling to survive in a hostile world.

The streets are like a swamp
They draw in and do not let go.
They promise nothing.
They provide only rarely.

He must drift on the surface of existence
On a raft built from old cartons.

Rushing cars honk loudly.
Passers-by mutter disapprovingly.
Only sometimes, someone
Throws a few coins into the tin box.


ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA – awarded Polish poetess, novelist, journalist, editor. She writes both Polish and English. She is an author of many volumes. Her poems have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines in Poland, Czech Republic, the USA, the UK, Belgium, Bulgaria, Hungary, Albania, Spain, Argentina, Chile, Israel, Canada, India, Italy, Uzbekistan,  South Korea, Taiwan and Australia. She won : medal on Nosside poetry competition in Italy, medal of European Academy Science, Arts and Letters in France, statuette in Lithuania. She was also twice nominated to the Pushcart Prize in the USA. Alicja Kuberska is a member of the Polish Writers Associations in Warsaw, Poland and IWA Bogdani, Albania. She is also a member of directors’ board of Soflay Literature Foundation.