Κατηγορία: Intercultural Poetry

Winter

From today my spirit is a recluse,
And banished is all my joy.
Long has it been that snow has lain
Over mountain and over wood.
Snowflakes come drifting one by one
Down upon the deserted village
And, shivering beneath the snow,
Earth slumbers, buried once again.

Slowly my spirit too sinks to the ground
In mourning, falling like a leaf.
Nary a soul is to be heard,
No people, no sign of life.

In such peace and tranquillity
I hear a bird lament,
Letting out a faint sigh,
Frightened to leave this life.

[Dimër, from the volume Vdekja e nositit, Prishtina: Rilindja 1986, p. 84, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 5]

And when my memory

And when my fading memory,
Like the after-midnight trams,
Stops only at the main stations,
I will not forget you.

I will remember
That quiet evening, endless in your eyes,
The stifled sob upon my shoulder,
Like snow that cannot be brushed off.

The separation came
And I departed, far from you.
Nothing unusual,
But some night
Someone’s fingers will weave themselves into your hair,
My distant fingers, stretching across the miles.

Poetry

How did you find your way to me?
My mother does not know Albanian well,
She writes letters like Aragon, without commas and periods,
My father roamed the seas in his youth,
But you have come,
Walking down the pavement of my quiet city of stone,
And knocked timidly at the door of my three-storey house,
At Number 16.

There are many things I have loved and hated in life,
For many a problem I have been an ‘open city’,
But anyway…
Like a young man returning home late at night,
Exhausted and broken by his nocturnal wanderings,
Here too am I, returning to you,
Worn out after another escapade.

And you,
Not holding my infidelity against me,
Stroke my hair tenderly,
My last stop,
Poetry.

(Yalta 1959)

The child and us

My child,
Your child,
Our child
Has taken its first steps.

My child,
Your child,
Our child
Has learned to run.

My child,
Your child,
Our child
Has arisen and gone.

We have grown old!

[Fëmija dhe ne, from the volume Vargje të përfolura, Tirana 1994, p. 27. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Perfection

God… male
In his tear he created the world.
World… female,
In her pain she reached perfection.

[from the volume Vargje të përfolura, Tirana 1994, p. 3. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Monotony

In that same street,
With those same steps,
Under those same trees
We meet,
With the very same expressions
On that most monotonous and
Most genuine of mornings.

Grey hair,
The only change
In the heavy air of time.

[Monotoni, from the volume Festë me ankthin, Elbasan: Onufri, 1997, p. 45, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Oblivion

I have forgotten how to sing of love
Since that moment when
It betrayed me
With its silence.

[Harrim, from the volume Kurth’ i diellit, Tirana: Skanderbeg Books, 2003, p. 61, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Walls

And if a wall, long and thick,
A high wall
Should rise in front of you….
What would you do?

I would close my eyes, I would crouch
And rest my cheek against it,
I would find peace in its cool serenity.

And if this wall were death…

[Muret, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 67, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

My land

This land
Mutilated
With streets and fixed purposes
To expedite its people
Once and for all
Somewhere and nowhere.

For the streets
Here
All end in doubtful crossroads
I am searching for a Land
Which I can have
As my own country.
My land is far away
And
It is there, in that country,
That I will be born.

Somewhere it will exist
This new Land,
Oh earth of mine, though not of earth.
My home awaits me,
Unknown and buried,
There
In the midst of an Empire of Winds.

[Toka ime, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 24, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Oh mountains of Albania

Oh mountains of Albania and you, oh trees so lofty,
Broad plains with all your flowers, day and night I contemplate you,
You highlands so exquisite, and you streams and rivers sparkling,
Oh peaks and promontories, and you slopes, cliffs, verdant forests,
Of the herds and flocks I’ll sing out which you hold and which you nourish.
Oh you blessed, sacred places, you inspire and delight me!
You, Albania, give me honour, and you name me as Albanian,
And my heart you have replenished both with ardour and desire.
Albania! Oh my mother! Though in exile I am longing,
My heart has ne’er forgotten all the love you’ve given to me.
When a lambkin from its flock strays and does hear its mother’s bleating,
Once or twice it will give answer and will flee in her direction,
Were others, twenty-thirty fold, to block its path and scare it,
Despite its fright it would return, pass through them like an arrow,
Thus my wretched heart in exile, here in foreign land awaiting,
Hastens back unto that country, swift advancing and in longing.
Where cold spring water bubbles and cool breezes blow in summer,
Where the foliage grows so fairly, where the flowers have such fragrance,
Where the shepherd plays his reed pipe to the grazing of the cattle,
Where the goats, their bells resounding, rest, yes ’tis the land I long for.

…

[excerpt from O Malet’ e Shqipërisë, from the volume Bagëti e bujqësija, Bucharest 1886. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

O malet’ e Shqipërisë

O malet’ e Shqipërisë e ju o lisat’ e gjatë!
Fushat e gjëra me lule, q’u kam ndër mënt dit’ e natë!
Ju bregore bukuroshe e ju lumenjt’ e kulluar!
Çuka, kodra, brinja, gërxhe dhe pylle të gjelbëruar!
Do të këndonj bagëtinë që mbani ju e ushqeni,
O vendëthit e bekuar, ju mëndjen ma dëfreni.

Ti Shqipëri, më ep nderë, më ep emrin shqipëtar,
Zëmrën ti ma gatove plot me dëshirë dhe me zjarr.
Shqipëri, o mëma ime, ndonëse jam i mërguar,
Dashurinë tënde kurrë zemëra s’e ka harruar.

Kur dëgjon zëthin e s’ëmës qysh e le qengji kopenë,
Blegërin dy a tri herë edhe ikën e merr dhenë,
Edhe në i prefshin udhën njëzet a tridhjetë vetë,
E ta trëmbin, ajy s’kthehet, po shkon në mes si shigjetë,
Ashtu dhe zëmëra ime më le këtu tek jam mua,
Vjen me vrap e me dëshirë aty nër viset e tua.

Tek buron ujët e ftohtë edhe fryn veriu në verë,
Tek mbin lulja me gas shumë dhe me bukuri e m’erë,
Ku i fryn bariu xhurasë, tek kullosin bagëtija,
Ku mërzen cjapi me zile, atje i kam ment e mija.

Be off, swallow

Farewell, for spring has come,
Be off, swallow, on your flight,
From Egypt to other lands,
Searching over hill and plain
Be off to Albania on your flight,
Off to Shkodra, my native town!

Convey my greetings
To the old house where I was born,
And greet the lands around it
Where I spent my early years;
Be off thither on your flight,
And greet my native town!

…

And when you come to Fush’ e Rmajit,
Swallow, stop there and take your rest;
In that land of sorrow are the graves
Of the mother and father who raised me;
Weep in your exquisite voice
And lament them with your song!

For ages I have not been to Albania
To attend those graves;
You, swallow, robed in black,
Weep there on my behalf,
With that exquisite voice of yours
Lament them with your song!

[Shko, dallndryshë, from the volume Zani i zemrës, Tirana 1933, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in History of Albanian literature, New York 1995, vol. 1, p. 275-275]

Shko, dallndryshë

Udha e mbarë se erdh pranvera,
Shko, dallndryshë, tue fluturue,
Prej Misirit, n’dhena tjera,
Fusha e male tue kërkue;
N’Shqypni shko pra fluturim,
Shkon në Shkodër, n’gjytet tim!

Shndet prej meje të m’i falesh
‘saj shpisë vjetër ku kam le,
Me ato vende rreth t’përfalesh
Ku kam shkue kohën e re;
Atje shko, pra, fluturim,
Fal me shndet gjytetin tim!

Me ato male, me ato kodra,
Me ato prroje rreth t’përfalesh
N’ ato fusha që m’ka Shkodra
Të lulzueme, aty t’ndalesh;
Tue kndue me ambelcim,
Fal me shndet qytetit tim.

T’mujsha dhe un’ me fluturue
Dojsha dhe un’ me u nisë me ty,
Dojsha n’Shkodër me kalue,
M’ e pa prap at’ vend me sy!
Por… ti shko atje… fluturim
E ti qajma fatin tim.

Dhe kur t’mërrish në Fush’ t’Rmajit,
Dallndryshë ulu me pushue;
Kam dy vorre n’at vend vajit,
T’nanës e t’babës qi m’kanë mjerue;
Qaj me za t’përmallshëm shqim
Nji kangë tanden gjith vajtim!

Ka shumë kohë qi s’jam n’Shqypni,
N’ato vorre me vajtue;
Ti, dallndryshë, veshun në zi,
Ti aty pra qaj për mue,
Me nj’at za t’përmallshëm shqim
Kangën tande për vajtim!

Fragment

…
On the mercy of the merciless
The little beggar survived.
His life ran its course
In dirty streets,
In dark corners,
In cold doorways,
Among fallacious faiths.
But one day, when the world’s pity dried up
He felt in his breast the stab
Of a new pain, which contempt
Fosters in the hearts
Of the poor.
And – though yesterday a little beggar,
He now became something new.
An avenger of the past,
He conceived an imprecation
To pronounce to the world,
His throat strained
To bring out the word
Which his rage had gripped
And smothered on his lips.
Speechless he sat
At the crossroads,
When the wheels of a passing car
Quickly crushed
And… silenced him.

[Fragment, from the volume Vargjet e lira, Tirana: Ismail Mal’ Osmani 1944, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, published in English in Migjeni, Free Verse, Peja: Dukagjini 2001, p. 77]

Autumn on parade

Autumn in nature and autumn in our faces.
The sultry breeze enfeebles, the glowering sun
Oppresses the ailing spirit in our breasts,
Shrivels the life trembling among the twigs of a poplar.
The yellow colours twirl in the final dance,
(A frantic desire of leaves dying one by one).
Our joys, passions, our ultimate desires
Fall and are trampled in the autumn mud.

An oak tree, reflected in the tears of heaven,
Tosses and bleeds in gigantic passion.
“To live! I want to live!” – it fights for breath,
Piercing the storm with cries of grief.

The horizon, drowned in fog, joins in
The lamentation. In prayer dejected fruit trees
Fold imploring branches – but in vain, they know.
Tomorrow they will die… Is there nowhere hope?

The eye is saddened. Saddened, too, the heart
At the hour of death, when silent fall the veins
And from the grave to the highest heavens soar
Despairing cries of long-unheeded pain.

Autumn in nature and autumn in our faces.
Moan, desires, offspring of poverty,
Groan in lamentation, bewail the corpses,
That adorn this autumn among the withered branches.

[Vjeshta në parakalim, from the volume Vargjet e lira, Tirana: Ismail Mal’ Osmani 1944, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, published in English in Migjeni, Free Verse, Peja: Dukagjini 2001, p. 71]