Feature of the Week – The Magnificent Art of Hikari, a Superb Japanese Painter

Literary Revelations Journal is thrilled to bring you the magnificent art of Hikari, a wonderful Japanese painter. The drawing featured in this post was done by Hikari especially for our Literary Revelations Journal. We are honored beyond words by Hikari’s gesture.

Here is Hikari in her own words:

“I was Born in Tokyo and I lived in Paris until the age of 15, because of my parents’ business. During my stay in Paris, I often traveled in Europe with my family. The fact that the natural surroundings and the customs of Europe were so different from those of Japan had left a very big impact on me.

Since my return to Japan, I have lived in Tokyo. After graduating from university, I worked as a Certified Public Accountant. I am a painter, and my works express something that cannot be expressed in words. My passion for drawing and colors conveys a beautiful world in harmony with nature through the gradation of colors. My art is inspired by the spirit of Japanese Nohgaku, an art which I also practice.

[Nohgaku is one of the traditional styles of Japanese theater passed down from generation to generation for more than 650 years. In 2001 Nohgaku was proclaimed by UNESCO a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.” [https://www.unesco.emb-japan.go.jp/htm/nogaku.htm]]

In 2022, I was recognized during the Grand Prize Exhibition of Platinum Art Association, and I exhibited with Jiyugaoka Gallery. In October 2022, I drew an illustration for a poem written by Virginia Mateias, a Romanian-Canadian writer.  In February of this year my work is scheduled to be exhibited with Ginza Gallery Art Point.”

Again Literary Revelations Journal is deeply grateful to Hikari for this beautiful work.

Feature of the Week: Glimpses of Ralph Waldo Emerson by Brian Geiger

Literary Revelations is thrilled to feature Glimpses of Ralph Waldo Emerson by Brian Geiger, an exceptionally talented young writer. Watch this video. You will see how talent, scholarship, passion, and enthusiasm come together. You will be fascinated.

Description: From the diaries and essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nothing Divine Dies” comes the latest episode of Brian Geiger’s multimedia exploration of nature, art, and the early American spirit. This free edutainment lecture series is supported by a growing group of patrons.

Bio: Brian Geiger is the host of Glimpses of Ralph Waldo Emerson. As an independent scholar, his latest essay appeared in the Emerson Society Papers. He’s working on a novel, American Castles, that explores youth, art, and the myths of early America. You can follow his projects on his website.

Brian Geiger

Have a wonderful 2023.

Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology – Front Cover Reveal

Dear Readers,

I am thrilled to share the front cover of Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology to be released by Literary Revelations Publishing House late January 2023.

Given the high volume of submissions only 75 contributors have received news from us. Please check your email. You may be one of them.

We are still working on selecting new poems so those of you who did not hear from me, please stay tuned. I will be in touch.

Remember submissions are still open until January 3, 2023. You can find the guidelines for submission Here.

I would like to share some of my thoughts on the poems that I have already read.

Thoughts on Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology

As the editor, curator, and publisher of this this book, I am honored and humbled that so many poets entrusted me with their outstanding work. I thank everyone from the bottom of my heart.  

I am mesmerized by the talent of the contributors, and by the range of stylistic approaches used to recreate the world of childhood.  I must say from the beginning that this is not a poetry collection for children. The poems selected memorialize the beauty and magic of childhood – remembrance of love and fairytales – as well as its ugliness – abuses, poverty – that unfortunately still exist in our world. Some of the authors were brave enough to talk about the pain they endured in childhood. I salute all contributors: those who tell the world that childhood is love, and those who still bear the wounds of a very difficult childhood.

Charles Baudelaire wrote, “The child sees everything in a state of newness… Nothing more resembles what we call inspiration than the delight with which a small child absorbs form and color.” No doubt, during childhood we are first and foremost the recipients of the sensory world.  

The academic literature on childhood – as well as our common understanding – frequently defines childhood as a period of our lives that precedes adulthood.  Whatever happens during our first years is formative and important to our becoming. We tend to dissociate childhood from maturity. Most people subscribe to the dichotomy of childhood/adulthood.

Indeed, the prima facie reading of the magnificent poems we selected shows that the authors kept in mind the dichotomy of childhood/adulthood.

Yet, what strikes the reader during the second and/or third reading of those stunning poems is how present childhood is in the lives of the authors, now mature people.  For these exceptional poets, whether they know it or not, childhood is not a simple memory filled with joy or pain.  Childhood constitutes itself as an integral part of their poems, a part that continues to transform them as they write.

The strength of this poetry collection will be the capacity of its authors to blur the line between childhood and adulthood. Whether the authors talk about joyful memories, or sadly abusive childhood, the effect is stunning. We do not know anymore where childhood stops, and adulthood starts.


I look forward to reading the poems I did not, and I look forward to new submissions too.

To those of you who celebrate Christmas, a wonderful holiday filled with magic. A hundred year of love to everyone. I will update everyone soon after Christmas.

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
Award Winning Author
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author

Magic, Talent, Color, and Pain: Camellia S

Camellia S. is the author of the poetry collection entitled “The Prototype of Rebirth,” collection available on Amazon. Camellia does not call herself a poet but a humble servant of words. When she takes a break, she can be found either crooning or in front of the camera, experimenting with fashion (some childhood dreams never end.) Camellia was born in India, and lives in the Midwest. She can be found on the following platforms: Twitter and Instagram- 20_camellia, Youtube- @Camellia.S, her newest venture.

Here is Camellia in her own words:

Oh what can she say? Her heart remains chained, bound to her sentiments, excitements, and passions… But her words, a tall Prince Charming atop a bright red steed, break her free! So, she wanders through the fiery sunset… It takes her back somewhere, a place where there is joy… The birth of a baby girl, her cherubic hands and laughter… And so, a Camellia is born on a cold, December night in a colorful and beautiful land, called India. Born is she from fire, born is she to run… So, she runs and runs from a childhood she calls cruel, from a heart that always wept more… What’s this? A TV! A heroine dances inside, her long midnight hair and shiny red dress… A parallel line, a little girl that looks just like her, runs to the TV… “Oh if only I could be up there…” The little girl sighs… “Oh no, just run away!” She screams at the little girl… But it’s too late… She watches as the little girl holds the hands of her mother and father and crosses the seas, to the land of freedom and liberty…

“No!” She cries, as a little girl paints her skin white… “Dear marbles so blue, if only my eyes could be like you… Dear little rosy flower, if only I could bloom like you…they say I smell dirty, if only I could have things as nice as them… If only I looked like them, they would like me… If only I could speak like them, they would stop laughing… Believe me I’ve tried and tried to change my color, but chameleons are not very nice to look at…” The little girl laments… She steps off of her bed and looks at the mirror… She gasps as echoes ricochet through her head… “My, a deflowered beauty… A black dahlia, you’re the only one of your kind who looks as pretty as a sin…” She dances as masked hands travel up her skin… Bitter stains, but she bends in the directions they play… A destroyed painting, she laughs… “At least now they think I’m pretty…” but now, she’s hated at home by many…

And in a heartbeat, the illusion disappears… She’s caught in a tug of war between two cultures… Does she belong anywhere? A tale of two identities, she holds on to both… She knows, the land of the free, Midwest America, is where she belongs…resides… But her home of India, she doesn’t let that go… And so, she starts to paint her words…  She leaps into their colors and textures… Finally, she learns how to breathe… Finally, she catches up with her skin…

But is the chapter really over? “Welcome Home,” her transcendental dreams laugh… Now that she has found herself, is it really time to find him, the blurry sketch from her dream? The story has just started weaving…

A Thankless Prayer

Cloves and spice
On a broken table…
Spread across the plates,
A thankless prayer am I…
I watch their lips,
The champagne spills from the glass,
Like over-boiled laughter
Their chatter, leftover potatoes
Forgotten in the fridge…
Their hands shake,
They can’t pray…

Just Sold!

I pressed my nose upon the shop window,
I felt its cold glass…
The bold but delicate golden letters-
Oh no, silly me! Not this shop!
My schoolmates were admiring the large hat,
In a lush, moss green…
I had my eyes set on the tiniest orange number
They figured…
Oh, but they were wrong!
Their squirmy giggles,
How monotonous against the sways and flashes!
Looking back at me through the window,
The women from the store across the street…
The one where godless souls couldn’t go…
Attached to poles like mannequins,
They danced in naked sins,
Faceless homonyms…
But the men who lurked!
Both puppeteers and puppets…
Sweaty stains,
Their hands even repulsed shadows…
But I envied the women,
Oh how I foolishly wished to become one of them…
To dance up there,
To be touched by those men!
Their rotund fingers, fleshy…greasy…
And their brawny arms…
When I closed my eyes,
Their faces appeared chiseled…
Their warm, bushy mustaches,
Not one was clean-shaven…
Would it prick? Would it nip my skin?
And so, I made my way across the street
As whispers bled into gasps!
I loitered by the glass, stealing darkness…
Until I was the only woman up there
And the men? Dirtier…
But I smiled, as I saw more of them…

Dealing Cards…

I steal the line of Mercury…
I walk around the Sun,
Rather, I trick it into walking around me…
I paint my eyes in the colors of the galaxies,
Some say…it named itself after me…
I’ve always envied the mirror…
I can never look into it…
And so, I taught the world to look up at me…
I talk in retrograde, I age away from history…
I find the edges of the universe,
Just to abandon it…
Oh, I would stop!
I really would stop!
If only someone would say,
I looked like the flower Narcissus…
Oh my, what a horrendous color!
Just leave it be…
Catastrophe or jealousy?
I finally look up at the mirror and say,
Lust is never far away from envy…

Thank you to everyone who submitted to Literary Revelations Journal. We have received a great deal of submissions and are asking for your patience. We will respond as soon as we can. Enjoy the beauty of the season.

Feature of the Week: The Tides of Change by Dr. Linda Best

Dr. Linda Best Professor Emerita, writing/literature at Kean University, NJ, has written and published in many genres, from academic to fiction. She remains active in the field as an author, a writing coach, an editor, and an instructor of writing memoirs.

Read an exceptional excerpt from Antonio’s Story, Coming of Age on the Battlefields of WW II. For the purpose of this publication the excerpt was modified by its author.

The Tides of Change

Antonio’s greatest attribute was hidden, and it frightened him. He possessed a prescient sense of future images and scenes. From as early as he could remember, he foresaw events before they occurred with detail and clarity that disturbed him even as they served to protect him. As he braced for the next photograph, showing his grit, a thought flashed through his mind. At that moment he knew, with absolute certainty, he would never serve in Italian Forces to aid the raging tide in Europe.

And in the fullness of time, those visions and scenes came to be realized.

The chapel bells tolled in the small mountain town, causing Antonio to stir. His brain foggy after a night of revelry, he was not ready for the painful glare of a new sunrise. But his eyes opened the moment his torpor collided with a jarring reality—the day he and his family had discussed for months had come. Within twenty-four hours, he would be on his way to the Bay of Naples to board a ship to America.

An array of issues clouded his mind and wrestled with one another. Warm thoughts of his beloved Italy; his joy in working its fertile fields; the cypress trees in the distance, signposts to guide travelers on the unmarked local roads. His family—Mama, Papa, his brothers Salvatore and Mario, and his sister Francesca—the sources of light and kindheartedness in his life. But there was the country’s political environment, the factor that steeled his will. Its power thrust wholesome thoughts aside, replacing them with the darkness and anxiety spurred by the toxic Youth Group.

There is no going back, he thought. His eighteenth birthday looming before him, Antonio needed to carry out the plan devised to guard his future. Pondering those thoughts, he found peace in the sounds and scents surrounding him. They soothed his fears as though affirming the decision. The fragrant atmosphere then blanketed him, protecting him for what lay ahead. He would remember that feeling on another day in a different place.

On his final day in the country, Antonio planned to slip out of his family’s house in the quiet before dawn for a farewell walk through Settefrati, the medieval village where he lived, along the path he had strolled for close to eighteen years. He would weave through the hills to immerse himself in his surroundings and create memories for the months and years ahead. To outsiders, the sights along his path could appear ordinary, but to him they were the heart and soul of his identity. Antonio rose from his bed and was on his way within a half hour.  

He exited his family’s village house, strolled through the piazza, and headed to the medieval tower and fortifications that date to 991 A.D. The alley alongside the tower was one of Antonio’s favorite spots for its historic value and view of the three-tiered landscaping surrounding and defining the village—Val di Camino, the deep valley that rolls down to Rome in the direction of the village; the village itself; and the soaring Apennines above it, where Monte La Meta, the highest point in the region reigns. After savoring that rapturous view, Antonio moved on.

An ornate structure, he thought, as he approached the small village chapel. Entering, Antonio admired the art and stained-glass windows as he walked into a pew, knelt, and placed his head in his hands, experiencing both peace and emptiness. Minutes passed before he rose and withdrew from the side door to enter the courtyard and cemetery. The scents of the lush flowers adorning the churchyard were heady, intoxicating. He ambled along, examining each of the headstones inscribed with his family name, Buzzeo [pronounced BooTSAYoh], and the photos affixed to them, every grave expected but for the one where his sister Maria lay. Born two years after him, she succumbed to an infection at the age of two. He stood back scanning the faces in the photographs. Peering into them, he connected with the souls of his forebears, experiencing an infusion of strength.

After visiting the cemetery, Antonio continued along the one road in his village. It turned upward sharply just beyond the chapel and then curved right. Positioned at that pass, Antonio began his ascent to the mountains. He reached midpoint and enjoyed the varied topography of the Abruzzi Mountains, where rolling hills lead to high peaks that in turn descend toward the Adriatic. That juncture offers magical views of the valley below the village and hints at what exists above.

Antonio paused for a break where he usually did, sat on one of the rocks, emptied his mind, and breathed the fresh air. In time, a wistful thought about Mama touched his heart. Her telling behavior belied the strength she hoped to demonstrate to help the family prepare for his departure. Her inner turmoil was transparent—the excessive cooking and cleaning, the massive pasta production earlier in the week when she called for his assistance, her ways for finding time for the two of them. He was only too happy to indulge her—and himself. Antonio was as anxious as she and could not bear the thought of days, thousands of days perhaps, without Mama. But when they worked together, knowingly or unknowingly, she bolstered Antonio with decades of warmth to sustain him while demonstrating how important and soothing routines can be.

Together, Mama and Antonio rolled and cut the pasta that afternoon. They worked with a soothing rhythm that re-created the feeling of being rocked like a baby, and Antonio would draw from those moments often in the years ahead. Antonio admired the generations-old rolling pin Mama used, asking about its stories, and she repeated many of the age-old tales about the hands that had held the hefty tool. Antonio delighted in hearing stories about the pin’s origins. He visualized his grandfather carving the extra-large dowel from a sturdy Italian maple tree and his grandmother using the tool to roll dough for pastas and breads or stir large vats of food.

Mama’s favorite story centered on her tiny mother, who used the huge pin to blend the heavy polenta meal that she smothered with sauce and meats before serving. There were, of course, many embroidered tales about the pin. It sometimes served as a multi-purpose household tool for loosening an item stored above or for chasing an interloper. From time to time, the dowel warned an unruly young one, and more than once an unmanageable child pulled the dowel out of the pantry with the goal of wreaking havoc. Antonio registered Mama’s sense of pride and humor as she recounted those family stories and made a place for herself in them.

They continued their work, Mama lovingly preparing the pasta for Antonio’s farewell dinner. Comfort and purpose flowed from their movements, and Antonio had to admit he had not felt so peaceful in days. They were ready to separate the strands of fettuccini pasta and place them on the drying racks when Papa arrived. He had to control his reaction when noticing the vast quantity of macaroni Mama and Antonio had produced. In his heart, he knew Mama’s preoccupation was harmless since the beautiful strands would keep for a long time as would the peaceful feelings that emanated from both Mama and her son. That afternoon was been momentous for young Antonio. The beautiful scene of Mama and him was now etched in his mind as a lifelong memory.

Antonio rose from his resting place, sighing with serenity. Slowly, he scanned the countryside, drilling down on details and framing what he saw. Below, beyond, and above lay the fertile land of Italy that sustained the local people. He heard the cows, their bells ringing, as they positioned themselves to meet the rising sun. The orchards, olive groves, and wild horses dotted the scene. Antonio reached out and picked his favorite fruit, a luscious ripe peach. Silence surrounded him as he continued his ascent to the highest accessible point.

At the peak, Antonio found himself surrounded by jagged rocks that rose above him. One might expect the area to be stark and empty, but that was not the case. There were remarkable signs of life at the summit. The soaring Monte La Meta dominates the scene and draws attention for its natural formations. Standing at the apex, Antonio stopped to admire the peak and ponder its life span while also taking in the appealing features at eye level—the entrance to a national park, the large Catholic Church and Shrine, and a cozy café consisting of a coffee bar and a dining area. The atmosphere was aromatic, filled with the scent of pine.

Then Antonio set his eyes on the vastness below. He stood and turned slowly, taking in the sweeping 360o panorama of the Abruzzo region. He rotated slowly, whispering the name of every one of the twenty-four towns perched within and above the valley. Breathtaking, he thought. He turned to another site with sentimental value, the National Park of Abruzzo, the oldest park in the country and the greenest region in Europe at the time.

Antonio’s earliest memory of the park was still vivid. He recalled sitting by Lake Ladito and also swimming in it, the water cool and refreshing. He was young, his eyes wide open as he noticed wildlife larger than he was. Those were peaceful days touched by the warmth of family. Over time he discovered and observed all the wildlife native to the area, from the brown bear, golden eagle, Apennine wolf, deer, otters, and chamois, and knew he would never forget any of them. Now years older, Antonio was more fond of the park than ever and stood ready at its entrance for a memorable good-bye stroll.

Although Antonio smiled and was warmed by his memories of the park, his good cheer was short lived. Dark clouds invaded his enjoyment, transporting him to the past. He was eight years old and in his first year of the Mussolini Youth Group, already learning to use weapons. It was understood that all boys from eight through eighteen would become active members of the Group. Now in his late teens looking back at those years, Antonio realized how disturbing the organization’s philosophy was.

The Youth Group’s regimentation of young boys and mission imperative to annihilate the enemy during maneuvers affected nearly every boy Antonio knew. The ten-year-long service robbed children not only of their childhoods but time with their families, the ability to concentrate on their studies, and the opportunity to envision a future other than the military. Over time, Antonio’s family became concerned about the prescribed direction for his life, and well before he was of age, they began serious conversations about altering his future. For his brothers, who were quite a bit younger than he, there was no threat or issue yet. But for Antonio, each year brought him closer to mandatory service in the Italian Army and the transition from theoretical training to the implementation of Mussolini’s plans. On his eighteenth birthday, Antonio would reach the point of no return for his future if he were not sailing to America.

Antonio was deep in thought about his past and his future as he walked. He recollected a conversation with his brother Salvatore that enabled Antonio to feel comfortable about leaving. He could never deny loving Italy and the village’s way of life, but something within told Antonio he could achieve more in a place where opportunities other than farming existed. One day he explained his view to his Salvatore by pointing out a small bush that grew along the countryside.

 “My brother, here in Italy, I feel like one of those low-lying bushes in the fields that grows out rather than up. They do not respond to the sun, they bear nothing, and they don’t change much. What is their purpose? And I ask myself, what is my purpose? Some trees grow tall. Think of the beautiful fig trees in our orchards. They soar up and out, seeking the sun and soaking up its energy. The trees thrive in every way. They produce beautiful foliage, their deep emerald leaves broad and bright. They produce the succulent figs that fill our tables and provide our community with delicious cookies and biscuits, pastes and jellies, bruschetta, and fig bread. I want to be tall and productive as a fig tree is, taller and brighter than any tree around it.”

Salvatore is moved by his brother’s story. “Antonio, my brother and best friend, I have always known this ambitious side of you. I see it clearly, and it’s something most people cannot ignore. You are someone everyone can count on. You have ideas and solutions. You are grander than this small village. It brings tears to my eyes that you are leaving, but you have la grande forza, la volontà, e il coraggio [the great strength, the will, and the courage] to travel to the United States on your own. I envy you. I don’t know if I would have the courage to leave. You are the promise in our family, and you may well bring all of us to America in time.”

Antonio’s recollection of that day steadied him, and he felt strong. Then a distraction, a good one, came his way. Someone called to him from a distance. Walking briskly up the hill were Salvatore, Antonio’s youngest brother Mario, and several cousins. Antonio could sense their energy and excitement. Unlike him, they were singularly focused on the upcoming celebration. While he walked and pondered, they were on their way to the orchards to pick fresh ripe fruit for the feast that would begin in a few hours. The event would not only serve as Antonio’s send-off, but it would also celebrate his upcoming 18th birthday, which would occur on the ship.

Pulled back into the day by his brothers and cousins, Antonio picked up his pace. He walked briskly to town satisfied with the memories he was now carrying with him and fortified by the recollection of his conversation with Salvatore a few months ago. When the road curved, the village came into view and more signs of life were visible. The figures in the distance, the farmhands heading to the family’s pastures, orchards, and groves created a beautiful tableau of his land and the farm’s industry. He tucked that scene in his memories, too.

A Modified Excerpt from Antonio’s Story, Coming of Age on the Battlefields of WW II

Copyright Linda Best, 2022

From Science to Poetry: Swarn Gill

Dear Readers,

It is with great please that our Literary Revelations Journal brings you the mesmerizing poetry and recitation of Swarn Gill. The power of Swarn’s metaphors, the aesthetics of his verses, and the philosophy behind them are fabulous. I hope you enjoy this feature.

First, let’s drill into his bio.

Swarn Gill was originally born in Edmonton, Canada. He came to the U.S. for graduate school to pursue his dream of being a meteorology professor. His passion for poetry and writing was rekindled during his PhD. when he realized he had been so focused on one thing that he had neglected other avenues of joy and creativity in his life. Writing enabled him to explore the human condition, reflect on his own life experiences, and capture the beauty of nature through poetry. Initially his journey into writing poetry came from a love of words. The way they dance, play, and flow and the way they sound when spoken aloud.  So he began reciting his favorite poems.

Swarn’s writing is also very much informed by his scientific mind. He believes science and nature are constant sources of art and inspiration and it shows in his prose. He takes pride in weaving it into his poetry and prose when possible, braiding his two passions together. Swarn considers himself more of a storyteller than a poet, always favoring a first-person perspective when he writes. This lends his prose to offer his readers an adopted perspective which allows them journey through his evocative narrative as if it is their own. Though not formally trained in literature, Swarn attributes his growth in his writing ability to a strong, supporting writing community online. Swarn describes the community as “a place of truly remarkable people who have helped him improve his poetry skills greatly.” Swarn spends his days teaching, writing, going on walks in nature, and sharing those moments with his friends and family. Currently, he resides in southwest Pennsylvania with his wife and two sons where he is still very active in the local poetry community.

The Appetite of Time

I have a hunger
I am taking your moments
nothing you do
goes unnoticed
your memories
sit in my belly, digesting
you will never stop feeding me
the happy, the sad
it is all my nutrition
I have a hunger
for your physical attrition
My tongue slathering
around your ligaments
teeth gnawing on your bones
my hands
pulling down your skin
your heart, gripped like a vice
between fattened thighs
I have a hunger
for the demise of all that’s been made
it shall crack and crumble
mountains will flatten to plains
another extinction
so delicious
sorry evolution
it’s the end of your revolution
I shall have things my way
I have a hunger
even the universe, my prey
stars will blink out
like city lights bereft of power
I pull and stretch
at the very fabric of existence
all will be dark and lifeless
then it will only be me
full and content

In The Beginning…

daytime heat wanes
an ape sees a rock
red-orange beams
soften its hardness
she turns around
and for the first time
in the existence
of this unusual species
she cannot communicate
her eyes drink the sky
and she sits. in silence
in the background
she hears day-weary life
scurrying to hide
for a night’s rest
while simpler beasts prepare
watchful eyes peering
to take advantage
of darkness’ boon
no creature but that ape
is gazing at the sunset
she knows that the world
is both exactly the same
and forever changed
that there is something
special. happening to her
oh, to be there
at that moment
at the inception
of beauty

An English Poet: Eric Daniel Clarke

Eric Daniel Clarke – Scientist & Writer

Eric Daniel Clarke is an Englishman, raised in the West Country close to Hardy’s Wessex. He’s lived his adult life near London, working as a scientist in the physical and life sciences, and is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Chemistry. In recent years he began writing poetry and prose. His first collection of poems ‘Shorts: A Take on Poetry’ was published in 2020 by Potter’s Grove Press. His work has appeared in anthologies, most notably two poems ‘Erin’ and ‘A Beginning of An End’ in ‘Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women’ published in 2022 by Experiments in Fiction.

Eric writes contemporary poems on life and relationships in a simple yet thought provoking style. He is currently collating a second collection of poetry. His labor of love is the near completed novella ‘You Can Call Me Erin’ – the story of an online relationship told in verse through the voice of one – the titular Erin.

Notice how Eric’s economy of words enhances the beauty of his pieces. It makes them powerful. It makes them shine.

Today Literary Revelations brings you two poems by Eric and two examples to illustrate the poetry of his verse novella currently titled ‘You Can Call Me Erin.’

When Eyes Blink Images

Can you see a memory,
sketch it and colour in,
can you tell if daybreak,
as shades of dark thin,
can you be still, be present,
when eyes blink images
of where been, who with.

I’ll Ask You

The night we met, in truth
I couldn’t tell, the night we first
danced, time and place recall,
less so the detail, of what said,
how long we were in hold, I’ll ask
you, you’re still dancing, my feet
kind of moving, much as before.

You Can Call Me Erin: Verse Examples

# 1

Goodness, do you mean that?
No, I don’t think you talk too much.
Guys who reach out to me don’t
use words the way you do.

I’ll not tell you much about me?
What’s a girl to do, you’ve not asked
me anything. Yes, you can get
to know me, I like that you want to.

Hello Sam, you can call me Erin.
I like a man who’s lived, your smile
tells me you have, whoever took that
photograph knows your angles well.

Yes, you’re the first man I’ve spoken
to seriously on here, I got more than
I bargained for when I messaged you.
You got me asking, are you for real?

The things you say to me, it’s as if you
know me. I feel at ease with you, I like
your understated manner, you’re good
at this aren’t you.


I know that we need to meet,
I want to, it’s not a case of having
to, okay. We need to get the timing
right, next week doesn’t work for me.

Excuse me, what am I supposed to
have realised? You’re the one who needs
to look. It feels to me as if you’re trying
to tell me what to do, I don’t like it, Sam.

You may not think you’re having a dig,
but it seems like it to me. It’s obviously
not helping you going away again,
it’s putting pressure on us both.

I appreciate you’re only asking for a coffee
and a chat to begin with, I think it’s a good
idea, but please can we sort this out when
you get back. How long will it be?

A few weeks! I’d no idea you’d be away
that long. My head is pounding, Sam. I can’t
take all this in. I’m so unsure what to do.
I can’t make sense of the feelings I’ve for you.

An American Poet: M. Taggart

First thing Matt Taggart is going to tell you about himself is that he is a loving husband and father. His accomplishments as an author always come second. Taggart is an award winning American author. His piece, “Bodies in the Basement,” was selected publication of the year (non-poetic) at SpillWords Press in 2019. His poetry was published in several anthologies among which the #1 Bestselling Anthology, “Pain & Renewal,” Vita Brevis Press, and “Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women,” Experiments in Fiction. His work was also published in various poetry journals and sites.

Why does Taggart start his bios with: “I am a loving loving husband and father?” I can only speculate. Perhaps because he always carries his childhood with him. Perhaps because as Graham Greene contended: “There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.” Regardless, Taggart’s poetry is a poetry of high caliber. In the writings below the talent of maturity shines through the eyes of a child.

The Abandoned Dawn

He wished the door wouldn’t again open;
knowing he’d be forced to become another
version of himself. Placed unto him from a
variation of life not meant to be seen, or felt,
or lived. Now- the footsteps, so very light,
unheard by the household so late at night,
but felt by the boy, each and every vibration,
knowing it would be soon time to close his
eyes and beckon the rising moon to please take
him along with its translucent majesty high
above where his being felt the covers being lifted.

The Dawn

The ravine leading to the brook was steep
and beautifully built by nature. The oaks,
birch, pines, and maple trees did their best
to provide cover from prying eyes. The path
leading steeply downward was just on the
right hand side of a mostly hidden oak tree
and once passed the initial arms of the welcoming
foliage, a peace settled inside his body, having
started with sight but becoming deeply more
while traveling through to his heart and mind.
As he rushed, and slid, the young boy grimaced
a grimace meant for the gurgling brook. Now,
standing here, by the moving stream, he was alone,
free, and well. And didn’t it seem that it was always
this way.

Interview with Gaetano Camillo Nobel Prize Nominee

Dear Readers, 

It is our pleasure to bring you an interview with Gaetano Camillo, a fabulous poet, who was nominated for the Nobel Prize. The interview was conducted by Virginia Mateias https://twitter.com/MateiasVirginia, poet and journalist, living in Montreal, Canada.

Gaetano Camillo has been living in Rome for over 90 years. He has been a football player, a coach, a lyricist. In 1995 Gaetano Camillo was nominated for the Nobel Prize for literature.  He was designated by L’UNIPAX as “The Peace Messenger Poet,” and called “Mr Poetry,” or “The Poet of Love.”

He kindly accepted to give Virginia Mateias an interview for our Literary Revelations Journal. We are honored to publish the interview.


V.M.: I’m glad to meet you again, Gaetano. I think that the wisdom and the beauty of the poems you have written are keys to the inner light we all need. However, let’s first talk about the long journey to becoming a poet. You were born in Rome, and, when the Second World War started, you were just 7 years old. How was your childhood in a war-torn city? What did you dream of as a child? What impressed you at that time?

G.C.: First, I would like to thank you for still remembering me after almost 29 years since I had the honor to meet you. I was born in Rome, in a modest family. We lived near the football field where my father was a caretaker. So football was my first toy. The only toy, I can say. When the war started, the bombings, the death, the raids, the 100-gram bread daily ration, deeply marked me at an age when playing should have been my only concern. My dreams as a child… peace, serenity, smiling faces, and the possibility that one day I shall play football on the field I helped my father to tend to.

V.M.: Adolescence is mainly the age of searching for one’s identity. You were a football player and then a coach. How did you turn from a sportsman into a poet? How did poetry appear in your life? Was this the time when your friends called you “Mister Poeta”?  

G.C.: When the war ended, poverty forced me to work to help my family. But finally football matches were played again on “my field” and I was there, first as a mascot and then as a player on the same team with those I looked up to. As years went by, my job and my football playing became one. Together with my family, they became the cardinal points of my life. As one cannot be a football player forever, after my retirement I started training almost all the football teams around Rome (Castelli Romani). At that time I had a wish: to write lyrics for the tunes I was humming during the training. I was lucky to meet some people who introduced me to a new “job,” that of a lyricist. In time, showbiz proved a disappointment to me, so I started writing poetry. This proved to be my calling and got me the ”Mister Poeta” nickname.

V.M.: Your poetry has been compared to King Solomon’s “Canticle of Canticles“; to Rabindranath Tagore’s poems; to the great Japanese poetry. Personally, I associate you with Kahlil Gibran. Your poetry, just like Gibran’s, synthesizes eternal human endeavors. Your style is quite elegant in its simplicity. Which of these comparisons do you find to be best?

G.C.: To be honest, I don’t know what to say. I ‘met’ Tagore, Japanese poetry, and Gibran after I had my first books published, when critics compared my poetry to theirs. I cannot say which one I feel closer to because what I write comes from the depth of my soul. In fact, the last poem in “The Song of Nature” – “My poetry is written by the Universe/I just copy it.” .” („La mia poesia la scrive l’Universo / io non faccio che copiare.”) – expresses my “reality” most genuinely.

V.M.: “The Song of Nature” brought you the nomination for the Nobel Prize for literature in 1995. You have received numerous national and international prizes since then. You are considered one of the great modern Italian poets. What is the social role of the poet in the early 21st century?

G.C.: For some time now poetry has been of a secondary importance for people. There are fewer and fewer poetry readers, poetry lovers. In the age of speed, of time spent in front of TV, or on social media, I feel that poetry does not find a place in the readers’ heart as it used to. Nevertheless, I still think that the poet’s role is to write about all those things that give life a sense, about love, about friendship, and never to lose hope.

V.M.: What are the poetic themes you find challenging? Which ones do you love most?

G.C. Love, freedom, and nature. In fact, on the internet, I am often called “The Poet of Love.”

V.M.: Although both your personality and your work embrace the whole world, there are two places that are precious to you: India and Romania. Would you tell us why do you hold these two countries so dear to your heart?

G.C. First there was India, a country that I visited many times, which entered my soul with all her colors and contrasts. The result? In 1992 I had “A Flower from India” published in Hindu and translated in English. Then, after 1998, I had two poetry books translated and published in Romania: “The Flute of Silence” and “The Tree of the Wise Man.” I went to Bucharest for the release of the books, and I got to know a country and people that I felt close to my heart. On that occasion I met my wife, Doina.

V.M.: What brings you joy, and what brings you sadness nowadays?

G.C.: During the last two years there have been, unfortunately, a lot of things that have saddened me: this pandemic that has brought about so much death, climate changes causing disasters all over the world (remember what happened in the Western Europe, in Germany,) the wars in the Middle East, the migrants who died trying to cross the Mediterranean Sea, animals killed as a trophy, forests foolishly felled. Daily there are people, children, dying of starvation. And there are people who pay millions just for space tourism.

The things that fill my heart with joy are fewer and simpler: a scientific breakthrough which can save lives, a peace treaty, children playing in a park, a field with flowers, the health of the people I know, and, last but not least, Italy winning the UEFA.

V.M. One of my favorite books of poetry is “The Tree of the Wise Man.” In 1998 you wrote: “The earth is bleeding…/All living beings are weeping. / Woods are weeping/Rivers are weeping/The man would weep/But he cannot find his tears.”  When I read this I thought that empathy is a must for an accomplished poet.

G.C.: Since I was a child, the hardships during the war caused me to pay attention to everything around me, to suffer not only for my family but also for those less fortunate than us. As I’ve grown older, this attention to the world surrounding me kept growing in me, and more than once I’ve put the common good above my own personal good. You are right. I think that, in order to offer full, universal love, it is important to enter the heart and the soul of those around you, to understand their feelings and their trials.

V.M.: Trees have always fascinated us. Where does this magic come from? The art critic Carlo Savini said that your book “Love in the Shadow of the Linden Tree” (Sempre Publishing House, 2001) is “a stone of light.”

G.C.: For me, the trees are sons of Mother Earth just as we are. Their green leaves are full of hope because they know they will be reborn every spring.

V.M.: If you could be reincarnated as a tree, what would you choose? Would you be a fruit tree, a scented tree, or a beautiful blossom tree?

G.C.: That’s easy. If possible, I would be a blossom tree with the scent of the future fruit.

V.M.: Thank you, Gaetano Camillo for the richness and the beauty of the verses you have offered us. I would also like to thank Mrs. Doina Sanda for her help and for being by your side.  

A poem by Gaetano Camillo

Love is a zero without walls

Love said,
“When you see
a snowflake
turn into a tear,
I’ll be there.
When you see
a little flower
smiling in the sun,
I’ll be there.
When you close your eyes
to look for my light
behind your lids,
I’ll be there. “

Gaetano Camillo – Selected Publications

Roma in saccoccia (1980, 1982, 1984)
Roma pazzo pazzo amore (1989)
Amore e spicchi de pallone (1990)
Spicchi de pallone (1990, 1992)
L’amore e uno zero senza pareti (1992)
Une fiore dall »India (1992)
Il canto della natura (1994)
Quando il calcio diventa amore (1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2006, 2011)
L’amore sotto l’albero del tiglio (2001, 2002, 2009)
Il pentathlon della vita (2003)
Il flauto del silenzio (1998)
L’albero del saggio (1999, 2000, 2005, 2006, 2007)
Giochi di colore (2002)
A flower from India (2002)
Mejo de me solo io (2011)
Amate l’amore – Riflessioni dell’animo (2011)

Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology – Call for Submissions

Welcome to Literary Revelations.

We are excited to open our publishing house with a call for submission to a poetry anthology entitled: Hidden in Childhood.

Are you ready to explore your childhood and tell us what you see there? Are you ready to bring us the magic, the joy, and perhaps the pain of your childhood?

Every life is a miracle. Every child is a spring bud. Bring us the whispers of the spring bud you were, the mysteries and the happiness of any festive days celebrated in your culture. Remember your mother’s lullaby, your innocence, and the eagerness with which your eyes absorbed the world. Remember your father, and your grandparents. Behind your childhood memories is the person you are today. Childhood always comes first. Maturity comes later. Childhood is the pit of the fruit. The fleshy part is maturity.

We are aware that returning to childhood is not always easy. Sometimes innocence with her spring eyes and cuddling dreams is accompanied by pain. We are aware that there are millions of children who suffer in this world. There is poverty, orphanages, child abuse. If your childhood was difficult we understand it is painful to write about it. However, if you feel comfortable writing about, we will eagerly read your story.

To those of you who want to undertake this journey:
Pick up your pens. Tap your keyboards. Mesmerize us. Immerse yourself in your memories and give us your best poems.

Some quotes to inspire you.

As a small child, I felt in my heart two contradictory feelings, the horror of life and the ecstasy of life.
― Charles Baudelaire

For in every adult there dwells the child that was, and in every child there lies the adult that will be.
― John Connolly, The Book of Lost Things

The child, in love with prints and maps,
Holds the whole world in his vast appetite.
How large the earth is under the lamplight!
But in the eyes of memory, how the world is cramped!

― Charles Baudelaire

Guidelines for Submission

Title your submission Literary Revelations Anthology Submissions. Please note that any other title will land your submission in the wrong email folder, and your submission will not be read.

Email your submission at literaryrevelations@pm.me

Do not submit more than 3 poems.

Submit your poems in a Word Document, together with a short bio written in the third person. Each poem should not exceed 150 words. We reserve the right to shorten your bio if it exceeds 40 words. For your submission you should use Times New Roman 12, double space.

By submitting to the Hidden in Childhood (called here anthology) you, as a contributor, affirm that you own the rights to your piece(s) submitted and/or accepted for publication by Literary Revelations LLC and give Literary Revelations LLC permission to publish your work.

You attest that you are 18 years or older.

If you commit plagiarism Literary Revelations LLC is discharged from any liabilities.

You retain the right to your work. Literary Revelations LLC retains the right to the anthology and it remains its exclusive publisher in perpetuity.

Literary Revelations LLC reserve the right to correct any grammatical mistakes that may occur in your work and to change any complex formatting of your work without your consent. We also reserve the right to operated modifications in your bio if longer than 40 words.

Pieces accepted for the anthology may be used by Literary Revelations LLC in whole or in part to promote the anthology.  Writers and artists will be appropriately credited in all promotional materials.

Read the About section before submitting. You will find the Terms and Conditions under which we operate there.

Example of submission:

Dear Editor,
Name: (please use the exact name you want to appear in the anthology)
Bio: no more than 40 words.
Attached please find my submission.

Submissions will close on January 3, 2023.


Next week Literary Revelations will bring you an exciting interview with a Nobel Prize nominee together with his fabulous poetry. Please follow our site and stay tuned.

Thank you.