Poetry: Claudia Piccinno (Italy)

Exclusive European Poetry: Curated by Agron Shele
Claudia Piccinno

Claudia Piccinno

Claudia Piccinno born in Lecce in 1970, she moved very young in Lombardy and then in Emilia Romagna (north east of Italy) where he she currently lives and teaches in a primary school. Operating in more than sixty anthologies, she’s a former member of the jury in many national and international literary prizes. She has published “La sfinge e il pierrot”, Aletti Editore, 2011 “Potando l’euforbia” in Transiti Diversi, Rupe Mutevole Edizioni, 2012 “Il soffitto, cortometraggi d’altrove”, La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni, 2013 With english version also “Il soffitto, cortometraggi d’altrove” La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni maggio 2014 – in serbian “Tabahnha” ed.Majdah luglio 2014. – “Ragnatele Cremisi”- La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni, settembre 2015.Honorary member of the non-profit “With the eyes of Geggio” association.she chaired the jury of the contest of drawings “From your eyes to the pencil”facing the young patients of the children’s hospitals throughout the country and ended in April 2015.She has participated in numerous poetry readings and marathons, including those held in Bologna for the International 100 poets for change.Author foreground with effect in June 2015 the World Group Pentasi B ,she works to promote poetry based on respect and appreciation of differences. Scholastic referent land for education at reading. She has received awards in major national and international competitions of poetry, (including a mention of honour in the Paris 1st Word Literary Prize); her poem “In Blue” is on a majolica stele posted on the seafront in Santa Caterina di Nardo (Le).

And now it's winter

She didn't deserve sloth or sadness.
But by now she knows that
her triumph of emotions
never knew reciprocity.
It was the dazzling
of another dimension,
an inthymate need for an escape.
And it will pass
like a meteor on an August night,
because the happiness
is the illusion of fools.
And now it's winter.

Roaring rails

Filters the light from the cirrus
in the interspace of parallel solitudes.
Accomplice the sea to muffle silences
to the looks of the absent-minded traveler
his nose is overlooking from roaring rails
to steal any lost perfumes.
The fence reminds me how long the winter is
in the heart of our Europe ...


If I could sit in the hollow of your arms
like a mollusk in a concave shell
without thoughts or anxieties to obey.
If I could believe in fairy tales,
in Trilly's magic dust.
If only I could count happy commitments,
instead of filling out health bulletins.
If ... If ... If ...
Infinite and the ramble of mind
when prospects are others.
I have counted the reserves for the winter
that you had accumulated in the garage
and I wonder if they will be enough
until the hour x.
What a heavy load you left us,
the preparations for another farewell.

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