Postari

Secțiunea Poezie

Premiul 1 Anda Petrache

Premiul 2 Verginia Buzdrug

Premiul 3 Cristina Serghiescu

Premiul,,România culturală’’- Mircea Marcel Petcu

Premiul,,Fii tu România’’ - Mioara Baciu

Premiul,,World Literary Union’’ - Valentina Ștefan

Premiul,,Arhiva literară’’ - Nicolae Mitricel Sîrbu

Premiul,,World poets and their poetry’’ - Ioana Ilieși

Premiul,,World Union of Poets - Romania’’ - Viorica Țigănescu

Premiul,,Poetry’’ - Zamfir Anghel Dan

Secțiunea Pamflet, Epigramă, Haiku

Premiul 1 Leliana Mihaela Rădulescu

Premiul 2 Arpad Toth

Premiul 3 Georgeta Giurea

Secțiunea Proză și Eseu

Premiul 1 Ana Ghiaur

Premiul 2 Angela Dumbravă

Premiul 3 Janet Nica

Premii speciale ale editurii Liric Graph

Munteanu Gina Nicoleta

Mimi Rotariu

Carmen Pinte

Vasile Didoacă Dojană

Doina Sandu

Ludmila Sochircă

Ștefan Dima 

Ion Sima Delagaleș

Dan Cioată

Monica Paicu

Alina Călin

Premii speciale ale Editurii Scriitorilor Europeni

Loredana Zeller

Victor Defta

Constantin Sandu Gabriel

Elena Ciobanu

Dessy Tsvetkova

Dzani Hot

Georgiana Laura Gheorghe

Veronica Simionica Hasnaș

Premii speciale ale World Poets Association

Sonja Haxhia

Svetlana Budimir

Mihaela CD

Vaseliuka Markovik

Mihai Bărbulescu

Nermina Adzovic Mustagrudic

Eliza Segiet

Jasmina Saljic

Fadhila Messai

Premii speciale ale revistei "Grai Românesc"

Giurea Maria Magdalena

Luminița Cruceru

Ionescu Cioată

John Karajoli

Marcela Dorina Șerban

Corina Ligia Pătrașcu

Gina Bafane

Victor Manole

Gordana Saric

Daniel Gavrilă

Ecaterina Rolea

Ela Bălescu

Premii de excelentă în literatură

Georgeta Prodan

Corina Ligia Pătrașcu

Damir Maras Mali Bogec

Lucia Elena Popa

Pica Boștină

Liliana Roibu

Sofia Codin

Monica Paicu

Ana Iosub 

Premii speciale

Milica Paulus

Dimarys Aquila Garcia

Juriul Olimpiadei Mondiale de Literatură 2024

1.Madalin Almăjanu - președinte

2.Janosne Horvat - Ungaria

3..Niloy Rafiq - Bangladesh

4.Aleksei Kalakutin - Rusia

5.Anddrea Enciso Ruiz – Columbia

***

Festivitatea de premiere a autorilor participanți la cea de- a 5- a ediție a Olimpiadei Mondiale de Literatură organizată de "World Poets Association" în colaborare cu editurile "Liric graph" și "Editura Scriitorilor Europeni", va avea loc la Sinaia în data de 20 aprilie 2024, cu începere de la ora 12, în sala de festivități a pensiunii "Casa noastră" din Bulevardul republicii, nr. 9.

Autorii sunt rugați să-și rezerve independent și din timp, cazarea, la unul dintre următoarele numere de telefon, sau pe adresa de e-mail mai jos indicată :

00244 314556 0745 655895 0735 843550 sau : rezervari@casanoastrasinaia.ro

făcând neapărat mențiunea " pentru festivalul literar".

După efectuarea rezervării, așteptăm confirmarea sau infirmarea participării la eveniment, pe adresa de email a editurii Liric graph : edituraliricgraph@gmail.com

Vă rugăm să rețineți că Asociația Poeților Mondiali nu-și asumă obligația de a trimite poștal premiile obținute și exemplarele de Antologie aferente către fiecare dintre autorii absenți la festival.

Bineînțeles că aceștia pot delega colegi de condei care să le ridice premiile sau le pot lua personal de la sediul editurii Liric graph, după eveniment, timp de 30 de zile.

Esențial este însă că aceia care înțeleg să-și ridice premiile prin delegație, să ne anunțe despre aceasta în timp util pe adresa de e-mail sus indicată, deoarece, altfel, diplomele și cărțile vor rămâne de la sine în editură, așteptând să fie de acolo ridicate!

Tot cu gând să scap de el -

Cât era, un firicel,

Și durea atât de tare -

Am legat dorul de-o floare.

Floarea dă să se usuce.

Tristă-a zis: ”- Eu nu-l pot duce.

Ia-l ‘napoi, strașnic mă strânge;

Nu sunt învățată a plânge.”

Am legat dorul de-un pom;

Să simtă ce simte-un om.

Pomul nu mai înflorește,

N-are rod, nu mai umbrește...

M-am jurat că nu-l mai vreu,

Că-i născut să facă rău.

Cum de fel nu are stare

Nu îl vrea nici pom nici floare.

Mă îndur să-l țin în piept.

El mă-nvârte când pe-n deșt

Și când pe altul; rob mă face,

Dar și mie ce-mi mai place...

Limba română este sfântă,
Pițigoiul despre iubire cântă,
Vedem clar frumusețile naturii,
Adăugăm o pagină în cartea vieții.

Un pios omagiu îți aduc poeții,
În inimă te poartă toți românii,
Uniți suntem prin limbă și cultură,
Din operele tale dobândim învățătură.

Copyright Gheorghe Laura
Toate Drepturile Rezervate.
15.01.2024

Sursă fotografie: arhiva personală

In Your Presence, Eminescu

The Romanian language is holy,
The great tit is singing about love,
We’re seeing nature’s beauties clearly,
We’re adding a page in the book of life.

The poets are paying a humble homage to you,
All Romanians are cherishing you in their heart,
United we are through language and culture,
We’re learning lessons from your literary works.

Copyright Gheorghe Laura
All Rights Reserved.
January 15th, 2024.

Photo downloaded from the personal archive.

Tarana Turan Rahimli

SOT ISHTE DITA E DHJETË

Nuk marr dot frymë, zot,
Kam një nyjë në fyt.
Dhjetë qytete të gëlltitura nga toka,
Sot ishte dita e dhjetë.

E tokave që janë rrënuar
Duke vajtuar mbi të motër.
Të bardhët ecin në re
Osmani, Katedrale.

Shembje në Gaziantep
Një kështjellë dy mijë vjeçare.
Kush do të kishte thënë Mali i Dritës
Gjysma e rrugës në dy vende?!

Në Afshin nga ugult
Ashabi-prangat u zgjuan.
24 ouch qafë
Kanceri i tij është lyer me gjak.

Gjyshërit e mi për njëqind vjet
E ngriti ngadalë,
Adıyaman ka rënë,
Betoni, guri mbeti në tokë.

Kahramanmara i Madh ş
Tani sapo ra në tokë.
Vetëm se foshnjat kanë vdekur
Dhe engjëjt u turpëruan.

Mbetur nga periudha e parë e tuncit
Historia është vendosur në Hatay.
Në mjegullën e pluhurit që ngrihet
O Zot, ai u fsheh dhe humbi.

Kurrë nuk kam parë një dhimbje të tillë
Që një mijë vjet më parë
Në përrallën e bilgamusit
Adana që e mori emrin.

Liqeni i peshkut gjendet në mjegull
Në Shanlıurfën e madhe.
Pey ğəmb ərl ər şəh əri
Zemra ka shumë dhimbje.

Malatya, Diyarbakir –
Gjurmë gjaku në çdo gur.
Isgandari është nën ujë,
Ai është një pastrues deti.

Ju dogj gjoksi, moj Turqi,
Ku ishte një luftë.
Sa mizor është fati
Ju e keni zotëruar luftën tuaj…

Ai që nuk lë gur
Unë do të vdisja për gurin tënd!
Ajo që nuk i thahet syri kurrë
Do të isha viktimë e moshës tënde!

15.02.2023.

Përkthyer në shqiptare nga:  Gjin Musa

Zemfira Maharramli (Azerbaijan)

IT IS A SMALL WORLD, AFTER ALL

Aghgul sat on the sofa, leaning against small mattress felt unburdened. It was Sunday and she didn’t go to work, she's busy around the house all day. She cooked, cleaned the house, and tired a little bit. The fridge didn’t work, so they called the repair person home in the morning.
The beginning of February was harsh. Hard frost of the grey month gave no rest. She didn’t even think to go anywhere with her family and find a place to enjoy. Despite the whim of the weather her daughter Gunel and son Azer were on their way to visit their fellow students who were in the hospital.
It was already midday. She opened her cell phone which was quiet since this morning. She was just starting to look through the news on social media.
“Oh my God, there’s a lot of stuff on the Internet right now!” she whispered.
In this cold northern city she’s been living in since long years, she was highly sensitive and responsive to events and people around her, and tried to understand everything or to follow somebody's example. When she lived in her native country she went to Russian school and now, knowledge of Russian made her feel better. She had received her higher education in Moscow called “a big village” by the people of former republics during Soviet times. She was married to a fellow villager who also studied at a university in the capital. They had two children, her husband was a university teacher. But she herself worked in a literary publication in Moscow.
Somehow they got used to the life of a strange city, but they were missing their native land and sometimes they come to the village. Maybe living in a strange country made Aghgul a poet. So, she kept writing gentle poems, harrowing lyrics about Motherland. His poetry appeared in newspapers and magazines, she was known by her signature.

•
Aghgul heard the doorbell ring and her dreams flied away. “It must be the master” she thought. She was usually right about her guess. She walked up to the door, and looked through the peephole of the door.
“Who's there?” she asked and opened the door without waiting for an answer.
A man of about forty-forty five, in a black jacket entered the room. By removing boots that were wet from the snow, he asked:
“Did you wait for the repairman?”
When he heard “yes” he put his iron box on the floor and gathered the courage to speak to her.
“I am so sorry that I'm late, that was snow became heavy, and frost too…and buses, it was like they'd been vaporized.”
His cheeks were red from the cold. Stretching his cold hands, he added:
“Let me see the fridge!”
He followed her and walked into the kitchen. Aghgul turned to her husband who was reading newspaper, said:
“This is our repairman, just came”, she opened the fridge, then added:
“It doesn’t work since yesterday! It doesn”t almost freezes”.
“They say that the best blaze brightest when circumstances are at their worst,” said her husband, checking the master out through his glasses. Then he came up to him, added:
“My name is Sarvar. Our neighbors and my workmates call me Sasha”
“And I’m Dmitri, just Dima”
They shook hands.
“It must be freezing out. It's a winter with storm, complete with violent wind and snow...with icicles. We just get fed up with them… We won’t be able to get used to this cold, even though we’ve been here a long time. How good our heat is! I mean our homeland – Azerbaijan!”
The master’s attention was at the owner of the house, though he opened the lower part of the fridge, and then assembled it. Dima liked this grey-haired and welcomed man, his Russian dialect was a little bit felt, but it seemed good to him. He also paid attention to their talks in their native language sometimes. And when he heard the word “Azerbaijan” he only turned back for a second and stood up, saying in Azerbaijan:
“I love your country too. Baku is my home town, too”
The husband and wife looked at him with surprise and they asked how he learned the Azerbaijani language. Dima sighed and thought for a while. Then he said:
“It is an old-fashioned talk. It’s connected to the story of my childhood”
He finished the repairing and packed his things into the box. Aghgul brought cups of tea. They invited the master to the table.
“You should drink tea with lemon and jam in a snowy and frosty weather like this,” said Aghgul. “That's a totally different taste”.
All three were just speaking in Azeri language. Dima started to tell them his life story, it seemed he was so close to this kind and sincere family.

•
“Most of my best memories of growing up are from this place. They are so alive now. I was at a children’s home in Ufa. I was in this house from an early age. I kept looking at the door and waiting for someone, even though we were surrounded by very nice and so eloquent nannies and educators. When I was six or seven years old, I was thinking: when will at last this sad heavy metal door open? When will my parents come to me? Alas! As a child, I realized that it was impossible to realize my dream.
Every time I asked what and why my parents wouldn”t come, they cheered up me and I have been told:
“Your parents will come for you some day, get you back home.”
Dima looked at an uncertain point and kept quiet, then continued:
“Months and years have passed by, but that snub-nosed Russian child was looking forward to the arrival of someone and languished in the waiting for parents, like those abandoned and forgotten children around him. Though we were full sometimes they treated us like an animal. They called us “orphans” or “skag” and “rogue”. It was hurting us. We haven’t understood these phrases since we were little, but we knew that they were bad words and more or less when we realized it, that was a hard blow for us.
A bit later a boy Ruslan by name had been brought to our sorrowful house. He was a pretty child, but a little gruff and didn't light up. Seeing him so sad employees of the orphanage as well as children tried to cheer up him. I felt sorry for Ruslan too, and I used to cheer up him, I almost forgot about my grief.
One day I walked up to Ruslan and hugged him, and patted him on the head. I said:
“Can we please be friends?” He got fragile and started to weep. To calm him down was impossible. Our nanny Aunt Manya came up to us and she warned me not to ask him anything. “Because if you ask him anything he starts to cry.”
Later we heard that this poor boy has no father, no mother. They both died in a car accident. When I heard about it I had weeped myself. I cried for Ruslan, even though I didn’t have any idea of my parents either. I often asked myself:
“How does he take this terrible loss? How can you forget your parents that you know and love? This pain is intolerable!”
Turns out it was true, his parents died in a car accident when they visited their relatives living in Ufa. So, Ruslan had to come here to stay with us when he was orphaned.

•
That was a long time ago, but as if she’d seen this painful tragedy with her own eyes, and Aghgul used to enquire Dima about everything.
“You must have been really very little, helpless, right? Probably you didn’t know it was time to teach you to forget all your grief, at least partially. Everything needs time. Well, and what was the fate of your friend Ruslan?”
“Our greatest dream was to live among our families. Our unapproachable dreams never left us. It was already time to go to school. We were taught and studied well. My friend learned Russian and I learned from him Azeri language. When we were ten years old Ruslan and I decided to run away from the orphanage. It happened like this: after many years Ruslan’s uncle Niyaz in Ufa found out that he was at orphanage, he had come to orphanage.
After an interview with Ruslan, his uncle gave him his address and that kind man even offered to live at his house.
The next day after a walk in the yard without warning anyone we went outside and left the house. It’s a good thing we left a letter and indicated where we were going. Before that, Ruslan told me he couldn’t go anywhere without me, and I couldn”t let him stay alone, he was my best friend and he's also a friend in need.”
And somehow, in that moment, something changed for her and Aghgul felt so sad, she just couldn”t handle it for a second. All three of them were sad. All's well that ends well, it's better late than never, they felt confident in their future, uncle Niyaz met them warmly.
“The late Uncle Niyaz loved us, raised us and gave us a chance to survive. Due to his blessings we have been brought up”. Dima used to turn the next pages of his life story. “We never forgot his wife’s concern for us. Aunt Masuma took care of us like a mother. Ruslan studied, received higher education, he is now an economist engineer. And I graduated from vocational school for the specialty of the repairing on household appliances.”
When we were teenagers and young we have visited Azerbaijan many times together with Uncle Niyaz. Baku is so beautiful! How I loved your language! I have even taught my son your language.”
When Aghgul and Sarvar found out that these friends in need were married and living and working in Moscow, they were happy. At this point, Dima stood up and said:
“Well, I should go, first to the hospital, and then home. For three days now, my son has had surgery”
At that time Gunel and Azer entered the house, they were smiling and very joyful. And her cheeks went red, she was like a snowbird, her hair was pure white from the snow. Gunel was delightful and told her mother happily:
“I never imagined that my classmate Igor was so good at Azerbaijani”. Then she saw her father and mother are going to say goodbye to a guest, said:
“Iqor told me that it was his father who taught him our language”.
Upon hearing these words, the guest was excited and joyfully asked in a trembling voice:
“What did you say? Igor is your classmate? Did you go to the hospital? Emergency section?”
Gunel shook her head, that meant “yes’.
“He is my son!”
Everyone was frozen, looking at each other with wonder.
It is a small world, after all!

Translated into English by Kamran Nazirli

Ah, ce ger cumplit e-afară!

Fulgi mărunți din cer coboară.

Eu, desculță pe covoare

Mă arăt plină de soare.

În căldura mea din acasă

Îți ofer un loc la masa.

Reci fiori îți trec prin trunchi,

Mă și vezi pe-al meu genunchi...

Fug. Dau zor să pun de ceai,

Tu, ce-ascund în sân ocheai.

Eu, miros a scorțișoară...

Tu, a ger cumplit de-afară.

Îți dă ghes un gând întruna

Peste trup să îți treci mâna.

Ochii-ți fug pe sub mătase;

Mă dezbraci până la oase.

Coapsa-mi netedă, e-un chin,

Te îndeamnă să-mi ceri vin.

Nu-ți las timpul să te dumeri

Și din zbor te prind de umeri.

Pe sub bluza albă spumă

Sânii-mi tremură; nu în glumă

Ba de-a dreptu-mi zici, așa

Nemilos, de ce m-ai vrea.

Orb de lacom, fără frică,

Muști din gura mea piersică.

Eu te cert fără cuvinte;

Sorbi din ceai; ah, ce fierbinte!..

Dar, ce ger!!! Iar eu, ce fiară!

Cum pot să te dau afară

Când în piept încă îți zburdă

Iezii, ca în primăvara crudă?!

Stands silently on the windowsill
Of the humble woodcarver’s room
Watching the cherry trees bloom,
Wishing to not always stand still
And gambol around in the sunshine.

Gets his wish granted by The Almighty,
That advises him to not be all high and mighty,
But to be kind and wise like his creator
And never lower himself at the level of a tormentor
On his quest to find his purpose in the world.

As each grain of sand from the hourglass
Slowly flows, he becomes top of the class
In the school of life without forgetting His advice
To never be tempted by the demon’s device
To stain himself with worldly delights.

Helps the family business thrive,
Guides the brave souls that strive
To make the world a better place,
Where all will live life at their own pace
Without being forced to make hasty decisions.

Copyright Gheorghe Laura
All Rights Reserved.
October 7th, 2023.
Photo downloaded from the internet.

Dragonul de Lemn

Stă liniștit pe pervazul ferestrei
Din camera cioplitorului de lemn umil
Observând cum cireșii înfloresc,
Vrând să nu stea mereu nemișcat,
Ci să zburde prin curte în lumina soarelui.

Atotputernicul îi îndeplinește dorința,
Sfătuindu-l să nu fie semeț și arogant,
Ci bun și înțelept asemeni sculptorului
Și să nu coboare niciodată la nivelul unei asupritor
În căutarea propriului țel în lume.

În timp ce fiecare grăunte de nisip din clepsidră
Curge încet, el devine primul din clasă la învățătură
În școala vieții fără să uite sfatul Lui
De a nu se lăsa ispitit de uneltirea demonului
Să se păteze cu plăcerile lumești.

Ajută afacerea familiei să prospere,
Ghidează sufletele îndrăznețe care se străduiesc
Să facă lumea să fie un loc mai bun,
Unde toți își vor trăi viața în ritmul lor
Fără să fie forțați să ia decizii pripite.

Copyright Gheorghe Laura
Toate Drepturile Rezervate.
07.10.2023
Sursă fotografie: Internet