Poems by Maria Miraglia
Educationist, poet, translator, essayist, peace activist, Maria A. Miraglia was born and lives in Italy. For a long time an active member of Amnesty International, of Ican, of the International Observatory for Human Rights, Deputy President – Coordination, at the child rights global organization, United World Movement for Children (UWMC), she herself founder and chairwoman of World Foundation for Peace. She is a founding member and the literary director of the Italian cultural association P. Neruda, honorary member of Nationes Unidas de las Letras, president de la Organization Mundial de los Trovatores, Italy; Vice President of IWA Bodgani, member of several international editorial boards. She collaborates for poetry with numerous national and international newspapers and magazines. Her poems have been translated into many foreign languages and are collected in numberless anthologies all over the world. Author of anthologies in Italian, English or both languages She has received numerous national and international awards and recognitions.
Appearances
Perched on a cherry branch
not far away
a sparrow
spread the wings
his flight resumes
nimble in his movements
as a dancer
of the opera theaters
free to flutter
master of the air
appears
ruler of the space
He is there
after a while
on the sill of my window
next to a vase of violets
looking for protection
in the shade of their leaves
small
tender
fragile
Quite a different thing he appeared
from a distance.
A Battle Field
You can’t kick Love
out of your life
say it goodbye
or throw it away
for fear it can hurt
make you suffer
your heart beat faster
You can even try
to get rid of it
to soon get the knowledge
of how stubborn it is
just turn your face around
and it is still there
to give you good mornings
and kiss you good nights
Love a tireless fighter
declares war on reason
that focusing on logic
plans defense strategies
confident to be the winner
innocent as it is
on emotions and feelings
A huge fight begins
an elephant against a bird
that can even harass
as mosquitoes in summer or
bees sucking nectar
from flowers
And you on the meanwhile
a spectator
your heart a battle field.
Promenade Des Anglais
The sky streaked
with the colors of the sunset
the air mild
not a leaf moves
and the cicalas untired
of their morning singing
go on chirping
My soul longs for peace
that my gaze searches
in the reassuring shades
of the coming night
but the faces of the murdered people
like slides of a movie
stubbornly cross my mind
and their lives I can see
as light colored soap bubbles
gracefully rising up
to quickly vanish
and hear cries
of grief and pain
for the violated bodies
coming from anywhere
feel the mothers’ pain
their endless mourning
their silent tears
once off on them the spotlights
the front pages of
newspapers and magazines will have
new blood deeds to tell
perhaps tomorrow
or the day after tomorrow and
soon the Promenade des Anglais
will be crowded
of smiling people
forgetful of the dead
children will be playing
in the near parks and meadows
and romantic tunes played
in the cafes along the city boulevards.
Colorful Butterflies
Words are magic
I love their sound
their meanings
fascinated I am
to see them
composed in expressions
read them and
dwell upon full poins and comas
guess from the pauses
the reflections in the minds
of the people that once
penned them
through them grasp
the thought and emotions
because messengers they are
coming from obscure
unknown paths
conscious subconscious
from anything touching
men’s hearts
even just for a while
but that weave bonds
between you and me
among us
and then…. linger on intonations
that tell what words
fail to say
if visible they ‘d be
colorful butterflies
My Mother
The streets have no asphalt
my feet sink into the sand
and with effort I go
along illuminated paths
and dark
I carry on me
as a boulder
the pains of a lifetime
dears of ever
lost and never forgotten
like shadows in the night the memories
Impalpable and fleeting
Tormented my thoughts
looking for unknown truths
My mother
maybe now a child
reborn to new life
somewhere far away
are you oblivious proceeding
along an infinite journey
Or did your spirit,
noble and pure,
in the air dissolve
as candle smoke
at the same moment
of your last breath
But
I don’t feel your scent
in the breaths of wind
© Maria Miraglia