Enrico Robusti

Robusti was born in Parma in 1956. After completing a classical studies diploma and a degree in Law, he dedicated himself to the study of the pictorial technique, with particular reference to the seventeenth century school of van Dick and Rubens.
In 1986 his first exhibition, "De rerum natura" took place in the Consigli Arte, Parma. In 1991, in the same gallery, he contributed to an exhibition of portraits, introduced by Federico Zeri. Since then he has been mainly dedicating himself to portrait painting.



 For More Information >https://sites.google.com/site/enricorobusti/

  FB >https://www.facebook.com/pages/ENRICO-ROBUSTI/236342603100160



Wang Yuanling

 born in 1980, Chongqing Municipality , China. 
Graduated from Southwest China Normal University, Chinese Language and Literature.
Worked for Chongqing Times as a photojournalist.
Now as a freelance photographer and living in Chongqing.

For More Information >http://wangyuanling.com/

Anne Sexton

Sexton, Anne Gray Harvey (9 Nov. 1928-4 Oct. 1974), poet and playwright, was born in Newton, Massachusetts, the daughter of Ralph Harvey, a successful woolen manufacturer, and Mary Gray Staples. Anne was raised in comfortable middle-class circumstances in Weston, Massachusetts, and at the summer compound on Squirrel Island in Maine, but she was never at ease with the life prescribed for her. Her father was an alcoholic, and her mother's literary aspirations had been frustrated by family life. Anne took refuge from her dysfunctional family in her close relationship with "Nana" (Anna Dingley), her maiden great-aunt who lived with the family during Anne's adolescence. Sexton's biographer, Diane Middlebrook, recounts possible sexual abuse by Anne's parents during her childhood; at the very least, Anne felt that her parents were hostile to her and feared that they might abandon her. Her aunt's later breakdown and hospitalization also traumatized her.
Anne disliked school. Her inability to concentrate and occasional disobedience prompted teachers to urge her parents to seek counseling for her--advice her parents did not take. In 1945 they sent her to Rogers Hall, a boarding school in Lowell, Massachusetts, where she began to write poetry and to act. After graduation she briefly attended what she called a "finishing" school. Anne's beauty and sense of daring attracted many men, and at nineteen she eloped with Alfred "Kayo" Sexton II, even though she was engaged to someone else at the time. Then followed years of living as college student newlyweds, sometimes with their parents. Later, during Kayo's service in Korea, Anne became a fashion model. Her infidelities during her husband's absence led to her entering therapy. In 1953 Anne gave birth to a daughter, and Kayo took a job as a traveling salesman in Anne's father's business.
Depressed after the death of her beloved Nana in 1954 and the birth of her second daughter in 1955, Sexton went back into therapy. Her depression worsened, however, and during times when her husband was gone, she occasionally abused the children. Several attempts at suicide led to intermittent institutionalization, of which her parents disapproved. During these years, Sexton's therapist encouraged her to write.

    For More Information >      http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/s_z/sexton/sexton.htm

Loving me with my shows off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.

There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot wench for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls kill fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark 
More Than Myself
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me . . .
I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.
It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself. 

Anna Who Was Mad
Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.

Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.

Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.

As It Was Written

Earth, earth,
riding your merry-go-round
toward extinction,
right to the roots,
thickening the oceans like gravy,
festering in your caves,
you are becoming a latrine.
Your trees are twisted chairs.
Your flowers moan at their mirrors,
and cry for a sun that doesn't wear a mask.

Your clouds wear white,
trying to become nuns
and say novenas to the sky.
The sky is yellow with its jaundice,
and its veins spill into the rivers
where the fish kneel down
to swallow hair and goat's eyes.

All in all, I'd say,
the world is strangling.
And I, in my bed each night,
listen to my twenty shoes
converse about it.
And the moon,
under its dark hood,
falls out of the sky each night,
with its hungry red mouth
to suck at my scars. 

Edgar Allan Poe


From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. 

  • Edgar Allan Poe, born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1809, live a life filled with tragedy. Poe was an American writer, considered part of the Romantic Movement, and became an accomplished poet, short story writer, editor, and literary critic, and gained worldwide fame for his dark, macabre tales of horror.

Although his writings were well received, Poe struggled financially and was also plagued with "bouts of depression and madness." Edgar Allen Poe was orphaned at a young age after his mother died and his father abandoned the family. He was taken in by John and Frances Allan of Richmond, Virginia, but Poe was never formally adopted by them. He went to the University of Virginia for a term before running out of money, then enlisted in the Army, where he failed as an officer's cadet at West Point.

  • Poe was one of the earliest American writers to focus on the short story and is credited with inventing the detective fiction genre. But it is for his horror stories that he is world famous today, great short stories that are widely known, including;The Pit and the Pendulum, The Cask of Amontillado, The Tell-Tale Heart and The Purloined Letter are amongst his most popular short stories. [also see the great short stories below this text that feature illustrations]Poe published his first work, an anonymous collection of poems, Tamerlane and Other Poems in 1827. Poe changed his focus to prose, and after many years of writing for periodicals and journals he became known for his own style of literary criticism. All the while Poe moved around between Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York City.Edgar Allen Poe’s epic poem The Raven, was published when he was in Baltimore in 1835, and became an instant success. Poe planned to produce his own journal, The Stylus, but he died in 1849 of unknown causes at the young age of 40, before he could make that project a reality.Poe had many imitators, and after his death clairvoyants often claimed to "receive" Poe's spirit and "channel" his poems and stories in attempts to cash-in on his fame and talent. The attempt to cash in on his fame was rather ironic considering that Poe died penniless. His work also influenced science fiction, namely Jules Verne, who wrote a sequel to Poe's novel The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket called An Antarctic Mystery.Considered the quintessential American Gothic writer, Poe's epic story, The Fall of the House of Usher (1839) reveals the tragedy of Rodrick Usher, who suffers from a variety of mental health disorders not even invented or named by modern psychology when Poe wrote about them: hyperethesia (sensory overload), hypochondria, and acute anxiety. It’s a stellar tale sure to disturb and delight the reader. 

Forugh Farrokhzad

 she was born on January 5, 1935 in Tehran into a middle class family of seven children (the third of seven children). She attended public schools through the ninth grade, thereafter graduating from junior high school at the age of fifteen; 
she transferred to Kamalolmolk Technical School, where she studied dressmaking and painting. 

In 1951 at sixteen Forough married her cousin Parviz Shapour over the objections of families mainly because of Shapour's age. And a year later Forough's first and only son "Kamyar" was born. Frough separated from Parviz Shapour in 1954. Forough relinquished her son to her ex-husband's family in order to pursue her calling in poetry and independent life style. 

In 1955 Forough's first collection, titled Asir (The Captive), contains forty-four poems was published. And in September that year she suffered a nervous breakdown and was taken to a psychiatric clinic. 

In July 1956 Forough left Iran for the first time on a nine-months trip to Europe. In this year her second volume of verse, containing twenty-five short lyrics, called Divar (The Wall), was published, dedicated to her former husband. 

In 1958 Forough's third collection Esian (Rebellion), appeared and securely established her as promising yet notorious poet. Forough's relationship with the controversial writer and cinematographer Ebrahim Golestan began and remained important in the poet's personal life until her death. 

Forough Farrokhzad
as film maker
In 1962 she made a documentary movie about a leper's colony, titled "The House Is Black". The movie was acclaimed internationally and won several prizes. 

In 1963 UNESCO produced a thirty minutes movie about Forough. Also Bernardo Bertolucci came to Iran to Interview her and decided to produce a fifteen minutes movie about the poet's life. 

In 1964 Forough's fourth poetry collection, Tavallodi Digar (Another Birth), contained thirty-five poems which the poet had composed over a period of nearly six years was published. 

In 1965 Forough's fifth collection of verse called "Let Us Believe In The Beginning Of The Cold Season" is in print and was published after her death. 

On Monday February 14, 1967 Forough visited her mother, who later recalled their conversation over lunch as the nicest that they ever had. From her mother's home, on the way back, with Forough driving, at the intersection of Marvdasht and Loqumanoddowleh Streets in Darrus, her jeep station wagon swerved to avoid an oncoming vehicle and struck a wall. Thrown from her car, at the height of her creativity and barely thirty-two Forough Farrokhzad died of head injuries. She was buried beneath the falling snow in the Zahiro-Doleh in Tehran. 

She clearly voices her feelings in the mid-1950s about conventional marriage, the plight of women in Iran, and her own situation as a wife and mother no longer able to live a conventional life in such poems as "The Captive", "The Wedding Band", "Call to Arms", and "To My Sister". As a divorcee poet in Tehran, Farrokhzad attracted much attention and considerable disapproval. She had several short lived relationships with men, and "The Sin" describes one of them. 

by Iran Chamber Society

Someone Who Is Not Like Anyone (1966)

I've had a dream that someone is coming.
I've dreamt of a red star,
and my eyes lids keep twitching
and my shoes keep snapping to attention
and may I go blind
if I'm lying.

I've dreamt of that red star
when I wasn't asleep.

Someone is coming,
someone is coming
someone better,
someone who is like no one,
not like Father,
not like Ensi,
not like Yahya
not like Mother,
and is like the person who he ought to be.
and his height is greater than the trees
around the overseer's house,
and his face is brighter
than the face of the mahdi,
and he's not even afraid
Of Sayyed Javad's brother
who has gone
and put on a policeman's uniform.
and he's not even afraid of Sayyed Javad himself
who owns all the rooms of our house.
and his name just like Mother
says it at the beginning
and at the end of prayers
is either 'judge of judges'
or 'need of needs'.

And with his eyes closed
he can recite
all the hard words
in the third grade book,
and he can even take away a thousand
from twenty million without coming up short.
and he can buy on credit
however much he needs
from Sayyed Javad's store.
And he can do something
so that the neon Allah sign
which was as green as dawn
will shine again
in the sky above the Meftahiyan Mosque.

how good bright light is,
how good bright light is,
and I want so much
for Yahya
to have a cart
and a small lantern,
and I want so much
to sit on Yahya's cart
in the middle of the melons
and ride around Mohammadiyeh Square.

how great it is to ride around the square,
how great it is to sleep on the roof,
how great going to Melli Park is,
how good going to test of Pepsi is
how wonderful Fardin's movies are,
and how I like all good things.
and I want so much
to pull Sayyed Javad's daughter's hair.

why am I so small
that I can get lost on the streets?
why doesn't my father
who isn't this small
and who doesn't get lost on the streets
do something so that the person
who has appeared in my dreams
will speed up his arrival?
And the people in the slaughter-house
where even the earth in their gardens
is bloody
and even the water in their courtyard pools
is bloody
and even their shoe soles are bloody,
why don't they do something ?
how lazy the winter sunshine is.

I've swept the stairs to the roof
and I've washed the windows too.
How come Father has to the dream
Only in his sleep?
I've swept the stairs to the roof
and I've washed the windows too.

Someone is coming,
someone is coming,
someone who in his heart is with us,
in his breathing is with us,
in his voice is with us,
someone whose coming
can't be stopped
and handcuffed and thrown in jail,
someone who's been born
under Yahya's old clothes,
and day by day
grows bigger and bigger,
someone from the rain,
from the sound of rain splashing,
from among the whispering petunias.
someone is coming from the sky
at Tupkhaneh Square
on the night of the fireworks
to spread out the table cloth
and divide up the bread
and pass out the Pepsi
and divide up Melli Park
and pass out the whooping cough syrup
and pass out the slips on registration day
and give everybody hospital
waiting room numbers
and distribute the rubber boots
and pass out Fardin movie tickets
and give away Sayyed Javad's
daughter's dresses
and give away whatever doesn't sell
and even give us our share.
I've had a dream.

by Michael Hillmann 

My whole being is a dark chant 
which will carry you 
perpetuating you 
to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming 
in this chant I sighed you sighed 
in this chant 
I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.

Life is perhaps 
a long street through which a woman holding 
a basket passes every day

Life is perhaps
a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
life is perhaps a child returning home from school.

Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette
in the narcotic repose between two love makings
or the absent gaze of a passerby
who takes off his hat to another passerby
with a meaningless smile and a good morning .

Life is perhaps that enclosed moment
when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes
and it is in the feeling
which I will put into the Moon's impression
and the Night's perception.

In a room as big as loneliness
my heart
which is as big as love
looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness
at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase
at the sapling you planted in our garden
and the song of canaries
which sing to the size of a window.

this is my lot
this is my lot
my lot is
a sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain
my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs
a regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia
my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories
and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me
I love
your hands.

I will plant my hands in the garden
I will grow I know I know I know
and swallows will lay eggs
in the hollow of my ink-stained hands.

I shall wear
a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings
and I shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails
there is an alley
where the boys who were in live with me
still loiter with the same unkempt hair
thin necks and bony legs
and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
who was blown away by the wind one night.

There is an alley
which my heart has stolen
from the streets of my childhood.

The journey of a form along the line of time
inseminating the line of time with the form
a form conscious of an image
coming back from a feast in a mirror

And it is in this way
that someone dies
and someone lives on.

No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook
which empties into a pool.

I know a sad little fairy
who lives in an ocean
and ever so softly
plays her heart into a magic flute
a sad little fairy
who dies with one kiss each night
and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.

Karim Emami

The Wind Will Take Us

In my small night, ah
the wind has a date with the leaves of the trees
in my small night there is agony of destruction
do you hear the darkness blowing?
I look upon this bliss as a stranger
I am addicted to my despair.

listen do you hear the darkness blowing?
something is passing in the night
the moon is restless and red
and over this rooftop
where crumbling is a constant fear
clouds, like a procession of mourners
seem to be waiting for the moment of rain.
a moment
and then nothing
night shudders beyond this window
and the earth winds to a halt
beyond this window
something unknown is watching you and me.

O green from head to foot
place your hands like a burning memory
in my loving hands
give your lips to the caresses
of my loving lips like the warm perception of being 
the wind will take us
the wind will take us.

By: Ahmad Karimi Hakkak

Sopho Chkhikvadze

Born Tbilisi, Georgia 1972.
Sopho has exhibited every year since 2000 in the principal galleries of Georgia including the National Gallery of Georgia.
In 2004 she exhibited at the Contemporary Art Museum of Moscow, the museum retained five of her paintings for their permanent collection.