Translated in English

[Leila]

Lindita Arapi

-------------------------------------------------------------

Diseased colour

A halo
Of sanctitude
Trembles
In the neon light.

Lemon
Yellow.

Diseased, yet so fair,
I dare not
Look it in the eye,
Afraid I might cause it to perish,
Not a breath of wind, breath of wind, breath of wind,
There is no pink more feeble
Than that which warmly floods in now,
Diseased colour
Rages
With a temperature, but no fever, no fever, no fever,
Here lies salvation.

[Ngjyrë e sëmurë, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onfuri 1985, p. 11, 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: Onfuri 1985, p. 67, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]



Energies of colour

Oh innocence, disrobed yet white
And you
Sincerity, scarlet yet sinful
Is there any shadow in your colours,
Where you can take refuge and rest your thoughts for a moment?
Has this foolhardiness
Any meaning at all
Or will it come to rest like silk when the wind dies down,
Seductive silk settling soft and slow.
I am afraid, afraid for you,
Oh white.

White is murderous
It will cut down your cleanliness
Oozing
Little drops of blood
From severed fingers,
Breathless, but with ambiance.

Red,
Red is a cold colour,
Lost energy,
Stunning dissonance,
It is a colour which offers everything... while in your hand.
So naive
Though it gives nothing
Without fear of black,
Burns you in scarlet reflection,
And comes to rest only when rain recovered,
Unquenched without water.

Oh innocence, disrobed yet white
And you
Sincerity, scarlet yet sinful
Insensitive, you stand to one side,
Punished and obedient
You raise the intensity of colour.
A line of perfection with crippling barriers.

[Energji të ngjyrës, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onfuri 1985, p. 61, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]



Bloodstain

To recline
In a room of white
On cushions of white
They enter,
The natives in their skullcaps of white,
And sit,
Wiping their brows with kerchiefs of white,
And drink
Coffee from scalding cups of white,
They greet
The bride all dressed in white
And wish her offspring
On frosty days of white,
Then to the feast
They rise
And slay sheep of white.

[Njollë gjaku, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onfuri 1985, p. 49, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]



The mauve nun

Lilacs, lilacs, lilacs.
Sitting in the window,
Decolleté revealed,
Is the Mauve Nun.
In the afternoon from behind the windowpane she dreams of glory
Until the stars come out,
She goes out
Into the limelight of her shabby dream,
But never gets beyond
The corner,
There she stands,
Breathless
Raising her arms
To the age-old sky.
Lilacs, lilacs, lilacs,
Untied they burgeon
In delirium,
A jumble
Of fragrance, stems, petals
Which release her energy
That she may die.

[Murgesha violë, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onfuri 1985, p. 63, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]



Girls are made of water

Girls have only
Moonlit paths
Where they tread like the strains of a violin
Towards the forbidden fruit
urged on by the wind,
the clement, warm wind
which brings the rain,
To and fro in their white and slender veils
They swing and sway to the azure heavens.
And onwards they tread
Like the strains of a violin.

Girls have wondrous worlds
in their watery imagination.
They perish in your hands.
They never find the only way
There is to dream.
No one feeds them.
They hurry forth,
Growing up so terribly fast.
Disrobing in rundown lodgings
They sacrifice themselves,
For girls perish
As soon as they are grown...
Despite their earthly
Urges
They remain UNATTAINABLE
For
They live no longer than a sigh.

[Vajzat janë prej uji, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onfuri 1985, p. 33, 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: Onfuri 1985, p. 24, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]



Memory

The aging stations of memory
Drip in the rain
So far away, like the lonely.
The walls have lost their colour,
For the weather has turned cold.
Images of time gone by rusting on open platforms
Unattended.
Memory,
Holes in my head,
Empty
Sad-looking trains,
They leave the stations, but never arrive.
Only their lights quiver in the distance.
Relieved of the weight in my head,
That unearthed ancient skull,
Only echoes
Resound.

[Kujtesë, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onfuri 1985, p. 75, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]



Belief

The broken vase
Grows cold
A solitude of petals
Opened in glass
Have withered in my hands,
However much the splinters of glass may weep
I still don't believe in the sincerity of bloody hands,
Silence is a grave
From which the truth will sprout.

I believe only
In the broken vase.

[Besimi, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onfuri 1985, p. 32, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

[s0ni]

Ku ke gerrumar per ti gjetur keto moj Leila :)

[*~Rexhina~*]

shume vjersha te bukura leila

[Leila]

Njeri version i poemes se Pashko Vases.
S'me pelqen dhe aq shume, po nejse.

Oh Albania, poor Albania

Oh Albania, poor Albania,
Who has shoved your head in the ashes?
Once you were a great lady,
The men of the world called you mother.
Once you had such goodness and such wealth,
With fair maidens and youthful men,
Herds and land, fields and produce,
With flashing weapons, with Italian rifles,
With heroic men, with pure women,
You were the best of companions.

At the rifle's blast, at lightning's flash
The Albanian was always master
In battle, and in battle he died
Leaving never a misdeed behind him.
Whenever an Albanian swore an oath
The whole of the Balkans trembled before him,
Everywhere he charged into savage battle,
And always did he return a victor.

But today, Albania, tell me, how are you faring now?
Like an oak tree, felled to the ground!
The world walks over you, tramples you underfoot,
And no one has a kind word for you.
Like the snow-covered mountains, like blooming fields
You were clothed, today you are in rags.
Neither your reputation nor your oaths remain,
You yourself have destroyed them in your own misfortune.

Albanians, you are killing your brothers,
Into a hundred factions you are divided,
Some say 'I believe in God,' others 'I in Allah,'
Some say 'I am Turk,' others 'I am Latin,'
Some 'I am Greek,' others 'I am Slav,'
But you are brothers, all of you, my hapless people!
The priests and the hodjas have deceived you
To divide you and keep you poor.
When the foreigner comes, you sit back at the hearth
As he puts you to shame with your wife and your sister,
And for how little money you are willing to serve him,
Forgetting the oaths of your ancestors,
Making yourselves serfs to the foreigners
Who have neither your language nor your blood!

Weep, oh swords and rifles,
The Albanian has been snared like a bird in a t.r.a.p! s'e lejojne kete fjale ketu :D
Weep with us, oh heroes,
For Albania has fallen with her face in the dirt.
Neither bread nor meat remain,
Neither fire in the hearth, nor light, nor pine torch,
Neither blood in the face, nor honour among friends,
For she has fallen and is defiled!

Gather round, maidens, gather round, women
Who with your fair eyes know what weeping is,
Come, let us lament poor Albania,
Who is without honour and reputation,
She has become a widow, a woman with no husband,
She is like a mother who has never had a son!

Who has the heart to let her die,
Once such a heroine, and today so weak?
This beloved mother, are we to abandon her
To be trampled underfoot by the foreigners?

No, no! No one wishes such shame,
All dread such misfortune!
Before Albania is thus forlorn
Let all our heroes perish with rifle in hand.

Awaken, Albania, wake from your slumber,
Let us all, as brothers, swear a common oath
And not look to church or mosque,
The faith of the Albanian is Albanianism!

From Bar down to Preveza
Everywhere let the sun spend its warmth and rays,
This is our land, left to us by our forefathers,
Let no one touch us for we are all to die!
Let us die like men as our forefathers once did
And not bring shame upon ourselves before God!

[O moj Shqypni, ca. 1878, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in History of Albanian literature, New York 1995, vol. 1, p. 265-267]

[Leila]

Vaso Pasha

Tjeter version ky.

O Albania, poor Albania!

O poor Albania wearing patches!
Who's thrown your head into ashes?
Once you were o mighty fair lady,
Mother of men fighting so bravely;
you're rich in blessings and nobility,
Fine girls and young lads: What a property!
You had many sheep and plenty of land,
you had silver weapons and guns in hand;
Your man so daring and your woman so tender,
Of all your friends, you were the best!
When bullets were falling like autumn rain,
Albanian valour never poured in vain:
Her sons fought the battle and often died,
For liberty which proved to be their pride!
If your warrior gave his pledge of honor
He was the hero of fierceful battles
and never threw mud on glorious banners!

But today, Albania tell me how you are?
Once a high tree, but now a broken car;
The world is trampling her feet on you,
and none utters sweet words of your Dew!

Once you were like a snow-covered mountain,
A flowered field you were, but now only a fountain
with neither water, nor fame, nor a good name,
you ruined them and for this you are the blame!
Albanians! You're killing each-other without mercy,
you divided into a hundred groups: it's no fancy;
Some assert to be religious and other to be honest;
One claim to be Turkish, the other to be Latin,
Some call themselves Greek, the other Serb,
But we are all brothers, o poor wretched birds!
Religions has provided you with apples of discord,
To ride on your back freely and make your life short!
There comes the foreigner and occupies your hearth
you are given money and then begin to forget
Ancestor, their advice, blood and honest pledge,
thus your wear the yoke of a ruthless invader
Becoming obedient preys once and for ever!
Wail your sword and weep your guns everywhere
For Albania is caught in **** like a hare!
Let valour has fallen down on the ground!
She is so poor and totally starving,
She doesn't have fire or light and is blinding,
Her face is pale and she got no friends,
Her pain is severe and perhaps never ends!
Unite you lasses, come close you women,
Let your pretty tearful eyes speak,
and cry your hearts out for Albania's poor,
She's empty, nameless and devastated, for sure;
She's like a widow abandoned for ever,
She's like a mother without children so ever,
Who's so ruthless as to let her pass away?
She is too brave, but she is so ill today,
Shall we allow the iron heel to kick her face?
She is our beloved mother and deserves no disgrace.
No, No Nobody is ugly enough to love such shame,
Only rascals could involve in this dirty game;
Better die fighting on her glorious behalf,
than watch her die and burst into a bloody laugh!
Arise you Albanians, from sleep arise,
Unite around each-other and open your eyes,
Leave aside religion and break the chains:
Albania is yours, do away with her pains.
The land lying between Tivari and Preveze,
Where the sun sparkles down bright hot rays,
Is ours t'was our ancestor's as well,
None can touch it, we'll send him to hell
Let us die manly and never kneel down
And tell GOD we abhor shame and being undone!!

(s'e di kush e perktheu)

[Leila]

Versioni qe me pelqen me shume. Gjithashtu, i njejti qe kam ne mur (fotoja me poshte).

Albania

Oh, poor Albania, bruised from lashes
Who dared push your face in ashes?
Hailed once a woman of noble birth,
Mother you were called by men of this Earth.
Rich you were, to tell the truth.
With lovely girls and handsome youth,
With lots of cattle, gardens, farms
With Latin rifle and other arms
With men of courage and women of cheer
In all the world you had no peer.
***
When guns boomed like the crack of thunder
Albania’s men rushed out of yonder,
And always fought well, till the end came,
And never soiled their name with shame.
When men of Albania pledged to fight,
All of Rumelia shivered with fright,
In fierce battles they fought and died,
With honor their memory inscribed.
***
But now, Albania, you’re a sight of woe
Just like an oak tree brought down low!
All step on you as if you were dead,
And not one kind word to you is said.
Once you dressed well, like a woman high-born,
Today, your fine robes are badly torn,
You’ve lost your name, your faith, too,
And none is to blame for it but you.
***
Albanians, you are slaying one another,
Some shout for country, some against sin,
One says I’m Turk, another Latin,
Others Greeks or Slavs profess to be,
Fools! You are brothers can’t you see?
***
Priests and mullas have made you mute
To keep you split and destitute.
Foreigners sit by your fireplace,
Your wives and sisters they disgrace,
And if money comes knocking on your door
The faith of your father you ignore,
You become slaves of alien boors,
Whose race and tongue differ from yours.
***
Weep, oh your rifles and you who care
Albanians, like birds, are caught in a snare,
Weep with us, you warriors all around,
For Mother Albania, lying on ground;
She has no bread or meat to eat,
Nor fire in the hearth, not light or heat,
Pale of cheek and unrespected,
She lies broken and neglected!
Gather you women, so pretty and spry,
Who know so well to weep and cry.
For she’s shorn of honor and forlorn,
She’s like a widow whose man is gone,
She’s like a mother without a son!
***
Who has the heart to let cruel death,
Take this brave women, panting for breath?
Can we allow aliens to smother
And trample on our cherished Mother?
No, no! Such shame no one can beat,
Such vile conduct all men forswear!
Let warriors die carrying the banner
Before Albania is lost in this manner
***
Awake, Albania, it’s time to rise
And bind yourselves with brotherly ties;
Look not to church or mosque for pietism,
The faith of Albanians is Albanianism!
***
From Tivar all the way to Preveze
The sun sends down its light and rays;
It’s our land, the land of our ancestors,
To the death we’ll defend it from predators
Better to die for it like the man of old,
Than in shame before the Lord!

The poem "Albania" was written by Vaso Pasha in Albanian (1887) ans is beautifuly translated into English by Professor Peter Prifti, USA!

[Leila]

Ditero Agolli

----------------------------------------------

The cynic's monologue

I loved you,
I love you no longer!
Worse can happen in life.
There are those who remain lovers
until they grow old,
There are those who are lovers
for but a month.
I loved you,
I love you no longer!
You were born to suffer,
so suffer!
I am an honest man,
I respect the truth.
There are those
who do not love
but lie
all their life.
I am straight to the point
and blunt in tone,
I tell you
"I don't love you"
on the telephone!

[Monologu i cinikut, from the volume Poezi, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1979, p. 226, 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. 46]



The petty bourgeoisie

What's all the uproar?
we can sit in the kitchen;
The food smells good, we won't go hungry;
If we are thirsty,
we can drink;
If our nails are getting long,
we can cut them!

[Mikroborgjezi, from the volume Mesditë, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1969, 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. 47]



The heart

Mountains, mountains, mountains,
Full of iron, heroism and grain!
No measure can contain you,
Only my heart, that has room for everything!

[Zemra, from the volume Poezi, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1979, p. 119, 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. 48]



The cow

The cow chews her cud in the hay-filled barn,
I lean my face against her great flank
Feeling from her inner depths the warmth,
The warmth of hay gathered in the meadows.
Over her black horns hangs an electric light
Shining down into the pail of milk.
I cannot leave the cow.
With my face against her flank, I smell the foaming milk.
The milkmaid gently removes the pail
And waits a moment, her hands dripping.
She says:
"Are you a vet?"
I lift my face from the cow:
"No, a poet."
She smiles and studies me with her blue eyes,
Lovely, wise and peaceful.
She reflects for a while and realises
I cannot write a line without a cow...

[Lopa, from the volume Fjala gdhend gurin, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1977, 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. 49]



The vineyard

The rows of crates are lined up in the vineyard,
Crates where raki and exquisite wines lie sleeping,
Rows like lines of verse,
Sometimes scanned, sometimes free.

No one asks the grape-pickers
Why the lines are long or short.
It's enough if they produce
A heavy wine or a twenty-percent raki.

[Vreshti, from the volume Fjala gdhend gurin, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1977, 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. 50]



The foundations

Here are the foundations of my old house,
The house I left once upon a time,
And here too is the old doorstep,
More than a doorstep - a stone.
Tender grass has covered both the doorstep and the foundations,
And above the grass, apple trees wave their branches,
Trees unknown to me when I was a child,
Apple trees that friends planted the day of my departure.
Under the grass together with the chiselled doorstep
Sleep old verses from school notebooks.
They sleep and the dense grass grows over them,
The apple blossoms cast their petals.
Visions of these one-time verses come alive
Whenever the road brings me back here,
And they rustle with the grass and apple leaves
And flutter past...
Then I sit down under a tree and talk to myself,
A blade of grass between my lips:
It is true that I have written poems in the city,
But deep down inside I am a farmer...
And I need not blush at having hung onto this lifeblood,
Lifeblood of good dreams,
Upon which I have built other dreams,
Beautiful, delirious dreams...

[Themelet, from the volume Fjala gdhend gurin, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1977, 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. 51]



First nostalgia

'You who leave your first hearth,
Do you know that it burns with
fiery nostalgia?'

On the boulevard I stop for a moment in silence
In front of my old apartment building.
There is light in the windows
Where someone else now lives happily.

Greetings, brother, I say to myself,
Looking in the window from afar,
From the trees along the pavement a leaf
Falls onto the collar of my jacket.

So many years I lived there in peace and in excitement,
Where the lights are shining in the windows tonight.
I wrote many poems and articles,
Got married and raised children.

How many sleepless nights I spent
Pondering over my notes and books,
And entertaining friends who arrived at the door,
Entertaining them leisurely and hospitably.

And my friends - wise, noisy, audacious,
Read whatever I had written
With pleasure or turning up their noses,
Saying, "We expect real verse!"

And who knows how often with them
I took to the roads of Albania!
To hell with the kitchen, cups and saucers and spoons,
Let us look for verse together on our way!

And again with books and notes
I returned to that small apartment,
With my trousers full of burrs,
And juniper needles in my hair...
On the boulevard I stop and light a cigarette
In front of my old apartment building.
The glow in the windows burns with a first nostalgia
That can never be transferred elsewhere.

[Malli i parë, from the volume Fjala gdhend gurin, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1977, 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. 52]



In the ancient city

The two of us stroll through the ancient city,
With its many windows and orchards,
From every window we hear a ballad,
From every portal we hear a poem.
Can you feel the sound of verse?
It comes with a warm breeze from the city's ancient past,
It comes from the mouths of statues sleeping under the doorsteps,
And under the roots of vines hanging from the trellises.
Had you come two thousand years ago,
The ancient sculptors
Would have fashioned you in Alpine marble
And you would have slept under the foundations of a doorway,
Undiscovered for a long time,
And I would have arrived two thousand years later
To discover you and carry you off in marble to the Art Gallery...
Don't laugh!
That is certainly the way it would have happened.
How fortunate it is that you were not born two thousand years ago
And that we could now meet.
In my arms you will be warmer
Than as a statue in the gallery.

[Në qytetin e lashtë, from the volume Fjala gdhend gurin, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1977, 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. 54]



A couple of words to poets to come

We had no time to write of love
Though we were impetuous lovers,
The country needed songs of freedom,
The country needed songs of grain ripening in the fields.
The country demanded of us poor poets,
That we teach courses to fight illiteracy,
That we build dams on the rivers,
That we light the flame of socialism in the mountains.
Do not wonder, oh poets yet to be born,
And do not judge us for what we have not accomplished.
Compared to you, we will look like simple monks
Laden with grain and heavy iron chains.
We, who spent many a sleepless night,
We, who accomplished many a great deed,
Could we not at least have written a couple of love poems,
Could we not have stammered, "Oh, my beloved?"
Do not believe we were heartless! If only you could have seen
The passions we felt for the girls we loved and heard
What sweet nothings we whispered in their ears on those radiant evenings!
But we lacked the time to publish those sweet nothings.
Our printers were busy with more important things.

[Dy fjalë poetëve që vijnë, from the volume Fjala gdhend gurin, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1977, 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. 55]



Work

Under his nails the dirt was dark blue,
Dirt from the fields and meadows,
Blue like the lines on the globe,
Like the strings of a violin.
Nor can it be washed out
With soap and water in the bath.
Dirt entered the furrows of those hands silently
Like a plough breaking through the soil.
I know those warm fingers,
Those good fingers.
My father's nails were blue with dirt
Even as he lay in his coffin.
He looked as if he were not dead at all,
But simply dozing before setting out for the fields
As he would do at dawn,
Lying back with his head in the palms of his hands.

[Puna, from the volume Fjala gdhend gurin, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1977, 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. 56]

[Leila]

Mimoza Ahmeti

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Song

Were you to rise
Not like a flower
But like a volcano,

Were you to soar
Not like a bird
But like the sun,

Were you to fall
Not like a leaf
But like lightning,

Let me be
The flower, the bird and the leaf.

[Këngë, from the volume Sidomos nesër, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1989, p. 24, 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. 202]



Rhetorical question for comrade x

You know well how to disguise
The pallor of your cheeks with rouge,
But how do you intend to disguise
The pallor of your soul?

[Pyetje retorike shoqes X, from the volume Sidomos nesër, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1989, p. 39, 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. 203]



Paper

I do not want you to write about your separation,
Separation is not worthy of your muse
For your verse exchanges signals
Even with the coldest, the most distant star.

A white piece of paper, completely white,
With a blue smudge, a blue smudge in the corner
Is the verse you should devote
To her departure...

[Letër, from the volume Sidomos nesër, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1989, p. 58, 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. 204]



It would be awful

It would be awful
Waking up the same every morning.

But if would be even worse
Seeing the end of the day
With morning eyes.

[E tmerrshme do të ish, from the volume Sidomos nesër, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1989, p. 13, 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. 205]



Outside and inside me

Outside me
The whole world reels in battle and dream.

But inside me too
Its voice resounds.

Outside me
They are loving, killing, giving birth
To millions.

But inside me too
Love
Murder
Birth
Are just as active.

[Jashtë dhe brenda meje, from the volume Sidomos nesër, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1989, p. 38, 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. 206]



Extinction

You were once blue-coloured. You have grown dark.
Do you not know what this means?
Remember how my ray
Shot into your sky like an arrow.
- Remember.
The satisfaction of security has darkened you.
Now with your hands in your pockets you make fun of the others,
But why does your face
No longer bear that lordly smile of tranquility?

As a warning on those April evenings
You interrupted my every word with a leaden silence.
Blue-coloured, you blue egoist,
Slowly you went out in my hands.

[Fikje, from the volume Sidomos nesër, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1989, p. 40, 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. 207]



Mental asylum with open doors

You are going, you are leaving us,
Thinking it’s "forever."
Fleeing from this, which is yours, ours,
Which is our mental asylum,
Our beloved, moving asylum
With skulls dismembered.

Oh, my sacred madmen,
How I love you,
Though I never speak to you,
Though you never speak to me
And I cannot stand you
And you cannot stand me.
But such are the rites:
We never look each other in the eye
Without hating one another,
And such is the motive
For loving one another mad,
While smiling in exaltation,
And all the while
Tears flow down our cheeks
Tears.

Fellow sufferers
Of our unique madness,
You who are setting off into exile,
With eyes fixed
On one sole idea,
Oh, only on one sole idea,
Which has never been seen, never been found
And I doubt if it ever will be found.

Be off, depart, disappear.
From place to place, from country to country...
Oh, what shrieking echoes
Out of our asylum
As the sun sets late in the west,
When longing lingers for its children in the West...

What sorrow!
Bare walls... Walls which always
block the horizon
And leave an infinite sky above.

There, after midnight, the sobbing subsides,
Someone is talking to himself:
Nonetheless, the Albanians
Wherever they may be,
Make do with their own madness...

[Çmendina me portë hapur, from the volume Delirium, Tirana: Marin Barleti 1994, p. 12, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in filling Station, Calgary, 22 (2001), p. 55]

[Leila]

Fatos Arapi

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On the shoulders of my times

On the shoulders of my times
I rested my head.
I did not sleep. I did not doze.
On the shoulders of my times,
As on Her shoulder
I was lost in thought.

[Mbi supët e kohës sime, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1966, p. 57, 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. 38]



If I die young...

Like the linden tree, words spread their fragrance through the twilight,
Deep in the words I have spoken,
As in the depths of the Ionian,
I see my face.

I feel no pity for myself,
I do not lament my fate.

And if I die young,
Do not close my eyes...
I wish no candles... just let me watch
The stars come out in the heavens above me.

If I die young.

[Në vdeksha i ri..., from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1966, p. 58, 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. 39]



Life

Life is a railway station of partings and meetings.
We are constant travellers,
Holding in our hands our inseparable baggage,
A little suitcase
Of struggles, onslaughts and memories.

[Jeta, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1966, p. 59, 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. 40]



I dived into the waters of the Ionian Sea

I dived into the waters of the Ionian Sea,
Into its hues and light.
I swim in a blaze of mirages,
Their sparkle captivates me,
Makes me quiver... And I feel:
Shooting through my soul,
Like azure currents of joy,
The very light and hues of the Ionian Sea.

Like azure currents of joy.

[U krodha në ujrat e Jonit, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1966, p. 62, 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. 41]



Do not hate me

Do not hate me.
The two of us were once
Like sky and sea:
If one clouded over, the other grew dark,
If one cleared, the other turned azure.
You and I were once
Like two logs on the fire:
Separated we died out,
United we raged.
But how soon love
Turned to hatred...

Do not hate me...

[Mos më urre, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1966, p. 66, 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. 42]



The workers

They are constantly entering poems,
day and night.
They do not wait for the heavy gates to be opened
By intellectual love, by refined, delicate thinking.
They enter poems as they enter factories, plants,
Full of energy,
noise and passion.
They ring the sirens, turn on the motors, begin work.
The facade of the poem resounds with drills, with lathes.
The grey, metallic air shudders with the vibrations.
They mount the scaffolding,
the verses.
With a soldering-tool in hand they solder
iron and rhythms and tender rimes,
They test the calibres and the strength
Of our thoughts
and of our loves.

[Punëtorët, from the volume Ritme të hekurta, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1968, 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. 43]



Sultan Murat and the Albanian

Sultan Murat sat astride his steed
And observed the prisoner bound hand and foot:
His advanced age, his wounds, his chains...
‘Albanian,’ he inquired, ‘Why do you fight
When you could live differently?’
‘Because, Padishah,’ replied the prisoner,
‘Every man has a piece of the sky in his breast,
And in it flies a swallow.’

[Sulltan Murati dhe Shqiptari, from the volume Poezi, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1983, p. 207, 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. 44]

[Leila]

Asdreni

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To the Adriatic

I have beheld you, Adriatic, I have beheld you,
A nymph from the twinkling heavens
Sparkling with pearls, your breasts
Heaving gracefully like a sylph's.

I knelt before you as before a goddess,
An apparition of untold beauty.
The rapture I felt, I could not endure,
And departed, tears streaming down my cheeks.

Like molten gold you shimmer,
A fabled palace full of magic,
You sway like maidens in the meadow.

Of youthful grace is your rise and fall,
Sweet memories, a world of wonder
Like a vision of divinity itself.

[Adriatikut, written in December 1912, published in the volume Psallme murgu, Bucharest 1930, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English by Robert Elsie in History of Albanian literature, New York 1995, vol. 1, p. 362-363]