There have been times in the past when I’ve written a lot, beginning very young, and these texts have been ordered into eight collections.

I’ve always written in a direct, spontaneous way, without thinking poetry as a form of independent research, but instead as a material to be used for other works. I see poetry not as a text to be published and to be read on a page, but rather as something to be contaminated with other languages ​​and media, letting words become vision, body, voice.


Here below a selection of LIUBA poems from various past collections.

The original poems are in italian. To read them please go here






This boisterous stormy wandering port

vibrates every now and then

in the robe of souls.








Madness is to let madness continue.

Folly any choice you are forced to do.

Like a candle threatened by wind is the heart who does not know

wounded torn in the deep

soaked in crazy love

and longing from freedom,

desire to be there

and not to be there.

You could slowly sink …

Painful vacillation

perhaps of the existence essence:

two shortcomings, two opposites,

but you wouldn’t do without either of them.








The birds are singing

it’s 4.30 in the morning on this first day of Spring

breaking the silence looming this night almost Restlessness and loss

I do not recognize it: identity passes as calyx of the flower: what’s inside? what’s left?

The relativity of the possibilities and the conscious openness

to diversity

acted to the point of dropping to empty indifference

Who else knows the secret of the Holy Graal? And who does not know what it does?

Who was beaten or robbed or looted, while he was innocent?






Glimmers in the night


Nothing special

Usual stuff

so much love

perhaps a little coffee

and the usual

turns into colorful more than ever.

Browse daisy goblets

and find colored perfumes

feverish dancing in the rhythm of the veins.

I do not know what it is.

It’s like magic after diluted suffering

 in paths of choice

magic of transparency

magic of metamorphosis

and everything is in its place.

Nothing special but a profound freedom

that flies like a bird in the sky hovering sounds of wonders

of the multifaceted country of the sparkling arc.

Everything is in place – Because it starts from the inside

Mature love of an incredible flavor browsed everywhere

and maybe surprised and perhaps incredulous

I let myself slipping on the warm leaves on the body sea

I look at things shining

and I dance full of nothing.






The Buoy and the Sea


Sometimes I wish that everything is decided by someone else

so that there were no more doubts, choices, research, outbursts.

Obey to someone or something …

Strange, this is a word that I have never touched

and from which I flee shocked if not to obey to  ourselves.

And yet sometimes it would be so refreshimg to obey to someone or something from outside

Rules to follow, if they were how to get where you want to go.

But where I want to go

is the bottom of the rulesless abyss

where chaos is the invited prince.

But luckily there is an order of the chaos

and only from the chaos

we get order.

But the chaos is not only frightening, it is also exhausting.

You swim and swim and swim

but you do not know when – and if –

you will reach the shore.

Certainly easier is to sit attacked to a BUOY

without seeing any land but but not so weary.

The world revolves around the buoys

and the human network is itself a buoy.

Some dive to scout the sea, others not

others have fallen and panicked

swim toward the buoy

the only lifeline available.

And just a few

swim towards the shore

wherever it may be.





In the city


Do we remember sometimes

Which is the color of the leaves,

which scent gives off the grass,

How’s the roar of the sea

that shapes the sand as the wind when it messes up the hairs.

We live in a plastic world.

Pure feelings are made of plastic.

And the fight gets tough.

A lot of imagination is necessary.







The octopus


Like a monstrous octopus  

the social adaptation  sucks

the wild flowers which we don’t ever remember to have.

Like a relentlessly clock

commitments cut dreams

that many have forgotten to do.

Like a cap of wax

purchases bundle heart

preventing it from what it wants.

But I SCREAM that I’m not.

Yell to live in

Wonderful colorful worlds

where life is blowing impetuous

where passions caress chills

of sparkling enthusiasm.

I SCREAM that I’m not there.

And I say this in the face this faceless octopus

that ultimately

it does not exist.







Poor souls


Where are you going

poor souls, locked up

in the hospitals of yours ordered god shelves a

built in a row and from where you can not exit if not

by the unique senses  previously scheduled?

Where are you going 

from an alley to the other

of the plastic web stuck to your brain?

Hope you’ll get an earthquake,

Poor Souls,

That’ll destroy your papery safety

for then maybe