\nRead also<\/b>:<\/p>\n
- \n
- Gjon Buzuku<\/a><\/li>\n
- Frang Bardhi<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
\n![\"Gjek\u00eb](\"http:\/\/shkoder.net\/images\/shkodra\/marinaj.jpg\")
<\/p>\n- \n
- Ernest Koliqi<\/a><\/li>\n
- Filip Shiroka<\/a><\/li>\n
- Gjergj Fishta<\/a><\/li>\n
- Lazer Shantoja<\/a><\/li>\n
- Martin Camaj<\/a><\/li>\n
- Migjeni (poetry)<\/a><\/li>\n
- Migjeni (prose)<\/a><\/li>\n
- Ndre Mjeda<\/a><\/li>\n
- Pashko Vasa<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
\n- \n
- Gjek\u00eb Marinaj<\/strong><\/li>\n
- Kolec Traboini<\/a><\/li>\n
- Ridvan Dibra<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
\n\n
To Dusitsa – Unawares<\/strong><\/h3>\n
The planets have lost nothing of importance
\nIn their semi-intoxicated revolutions.
\nFrom the quaint standpoint of man,
\nThey seem equidistant, indifferent…<\/p>\nMajestic like grand pyramids,
\nThey are nonetheless overwhelmed by your candid nature,
\nAnd cast off the weariness of age,
\nlike a fine nylon decollete,
\nEager to behold themselves in the mirror of
\nyour surpassing beauty.<\/p>\nYour beauty is so ravishing
\nThat the planets seem like beads on your neck.
\n…And, even as they take pleasure in themselves,
\nThey eye each other with envy, my beloved.<\/p>\nLooking out from where I stand,
\nStraddling the gap between being a man
\nAnd elected by fate to be your lover,
\nIt\u2019s odd that down there on earth,
\nhumans don\u2019t identify you with space.
\nBut then, how can those poor wretches discern your world…!<\/p>\nEarthlings send up astronauts, space ships, Apollo 13…
\nTo find life on other planets, beloved.
\nUnaware that something magical occurred
\nWith your birth,
\nAnd that all those planets are aligned
\nAnd hang like fabulous ornaments around your neck.<\/p>\nThe Girls of California<\/strong><\/h2>\n
They walk tiptoe on the muscular arms of mother earth,
\nSpinning magic webs with the shifting shadows
\nof their movements,
\nTranslucent wonders – glances that ensnare
\nTouch them, and the universe is transformed into crystal domes.<\/p>\nThe girls of California,
\nSoft-spoken and sweet-voiced,
\nThe language of their bodies suffices to cause earth tremors;
\nWhile with young men – spectacles through whom the sea
\nappears like a rose in bloom –
\nThey use honeyed words;
\nAnd the sound of their voices reverberates like
\nan oncoming echo
\nFrom a virginal star-studded realm.<\/p>\nCalifornia is a perennial Greenland of girls.
\nHence,
\nThe stagnant clouds linger in confusion between them
\nand the heavens.
\nHence,
\nThe frustrated volcanoes of Hawaii angrily vomit
\nthe fire in their belly
\nTo singe the salty lips of the waters.
\nTruly,
\nWithout the girls of California, beauty itself would feel
\nlike an orphan.<\/p>\nThose beautiful, honey-tongued blondes
\nTransform the lives of boys into dreams of long duration
\nAnd breast-feed those dreams to merry manhood.<\/p>\nHORSES<\/strong><\/h3>\n
We spend our lives running
\nWe see only what\u2019s ahead of us
\nWe don\u2019t care what happens behind us.
\nWe are nameless;
\n\u201cHorses\u201d is what everybody calls us.
\nWe don\u2019t weep.
\nWe don\u2019t laugh.
\nWe keep quiet.
\nWe listen.
\nEat what is set before us,
\nGo where we are told.
\nNone of us is keen of mind.
\nThe steed mounted by a king
\nHad a lofty post.
\nThe steed mounted by a princess
\nHad a saddle of gold.
\nThe peasant\u2019s horse
\nHad a saddle of straw.
\nThe wild horse
\nSlept outdoors all his life.
\nBut vis-\u00e0-vis man, we have been and remain just horses!<\/p>\nAlbania<\/strong><\/h3>\n
Tonight I shall furtively arise from slumber
\nwearing the lovely mask of a dream.
\nI entreat you, my Albania, to do likewise –
\nYou, the breath that blew the breeze of life
\nto evoke painful chimes of love…
\nLet us toy with the minutes the way the years toy with us
\nin this unique moment of parching thirst.
\nTonight let us meet at the crossroads of the heavens.
\nYou shall have no difficulty spotting me…
\nFor we are so much alike, my precious.
\nIn my locks reside the citizens of the future.
\nEach strand is a dwelling without barred windows.
\nThe cries of children and the laughter of tired mothers
\nare lullabyes I use to lull stale evenings to sleep.
\nFor the first time, the silence shall generate white bedsheets
\nto soak up the fluids of hardened skins of pain…
\nSeclusion will dissolve the modern veil of nakedness.
\nI shall resemble your tattered flag smelling of foul odors,
\ndusty like the ashen soil of the moon, perhaps Butrint…
\noh, Albania!
\nThe letters of your name keep me from becoming destitute.
\nYour voice lights up shattered cities of antiquity
\nlike hot sands in flight,
\nwhere the dappled spine of my laughter lies scorched.
\nI want to meet you face to face, beloved!
\nAnd should it happen that I\u2019m blinded by your splendor,
\nI shall the better see myself and others.<\/p>\nWHICH ONE OF US IS ME?<\/strong><\/h3>\n
On the wings of polished noises
\nthe full face of the miraculous
\nyou revealed to me in the dark pit that was my home.
\nThe soft rains of your tender love
\ninundated the meadows of my renewed spirit.
\nAll of the fowls of the world took off
\nfrom the verses of Neruda
\nand showed up to give meaning to the skies
\nthat are even now washing clean the powder of the rebel years
\nand the thick locks of my grief.
\nWe are kneaded so seamlessly
\none with the other, beloved,
\nthat I\u2019ve become a stranger to precision;
\nwhich one of us is me,
\nin the all-too-often glass-fragile Globe of love?<\/p>\nA MOTHER SPEAKS TO HER POET SON<\/strong><\/h3>\n
Your infantile face opened up
\nwith the blossoming of peach trees…
\nWhom you resembled. But I wanted you
\nmore handsome still.
\nWithin my eyes I hid you
\nso your evolution from blossom
\nto fruit
\nmight be ever so brief.
\nYour growth left no footprints on my apron.
\nEven as a toddler you yearned to catch the rainbow
\nwith your hand;
\nbut each time the rainbow drifted away
\nwith the hoary locks of the sky.
\nYou came back crying.
\nNow you neither cry nor run
\nafter it.
\nBecause you have your own rainbow \u2013 of words.
\nIs this not a rare thing of beauty?
\nOnce I measured your growth by the palms of my hands.
\nWhile now others measure it
\nby the lines of poetry you write.
\nYou are a poet
\nand the poets reach extends beyond the boundaries of space.<\/p>\nYOUR EYES<\/strong><\/h3>\n
As ambassador to the realm of marine life
\nI answer for the loss of lips in fishes.
\nSince
\nSecrets reveal themselves above all in dreams,
\nSince
\nYour eyes charge the batteries for the transition from
\nday-to-night and night-to-day,
\nSince,
\nWere your eyes for a moment to become a darkened sky,
\nMine would become sockets in the skull of an empty ocean,
\nFor,
\nAt times, love is perversely fated to see with Homer\u2019s eyes.
\nThis was the speech I gave before the creatures of the deep,
\nIn the \u201csea\u201d chamber.
\nPerhaps from that day onward,
\nThe crocodiles took umbrage at man…
\nThe icebergs no longer publish poems about seagulls,
\nAnd crabs plod along without the aid of their eyes!
\nFishes alone remained open-mouthed and lipless…
\nWonder-struck by your eyes, making me hesitate
\nTo tell other people…
\nYour eyes
\nThey are the abode where my soul hangs on a nail
\nits winter garments.<\/p>\nYOU SHALL SENSE MY HALTING STEP<\/strong><\/h3>\n
(To my native land<\/em>)<\/p>\n
How may other children have you driven into exile since then…
\nYou, my gray-stone cradle, my summer magic.
\nWhat remains, and
\nWhat has been scorched within my body from longing for you,
\nI do not know:
\nMy shoes, headed your way, are leaving ashen footprints on the road
\nYour landscapes are daring to revive and let go of the rot
\nof yesteryears.
\nYou have mellowed the cold wind blasts of separation!
\nAware that I have outgrown my leaf-green diapers,
\nKnitted with rainbow fingers wielding thin pine needles…
\nMuch time has passed since last we saw each other, but still we
\nkeep alive the memory, dear soul.
\nI shall tread in trepidation…
\nYet, I know that you shall not let me weep in the
\nmeadows reserved for welcoming your offspring,
\nOnce again you shall proffer me your medallion of reconciliation;
\nIn daytime, the racing eye of the sun,
\nSucceeded at night by the face of the moon,
\nHang on the delicate chain of my being.
\nI am pouring out my heart in defiance of the word \u201coblivion\u201d!
\nSee, how you\u2019ve shriveled, along with me:
\nThe trees that once shed tears,
\nTo make fables come alive,
\nAre hardly more than stumps…
\nNow, they can relate only ballads…
\nThe wretched grass has drooped to the ground.
\n(how could it keep fresh and green?)
\nTherefore, knowing that my native lands are your welcoming arms,
\nI shall transform myself into a bird
\nAnd come to revive your withered dreams in the life-giving
\nrains of your caring mothers.
\nWith you in my soul, I cannot die on my feet.
\nYou shall sense my halting step, as I wait for the fulfillment
\nof this vision.<\/p>\nWe Were Adolescents And Put Off Love<\/strong><\/h3>\n
Till Tomorrow<\/em><\/p>\n
At the time, the air resounded with the sounds of the city.
\nYonder, the forest waited graciously to envelop
\nus with its green veil.
\nWe felt that our first encounter called for quieter places
\nThe sky was blue; no fog was in the offng.
\nIt was noon. Yet, it seemed like dusk somehow!
\nWe hadn’t touched liquor, yet felt intoxicated.
\nHow could we fathom the thirst for the unknown?
\nOr ignore the devouring looks of people…?
\nHow could we trust the open spaces of the plains?
\nOr the eavesdroppmg of birds…?
\nOr the sly glances of the sunflowers?
\nWasn’t it a sin to make the leaves of the forest
\nyearn with longing when they looked upon us…?
\nWhat if the grass …where we frolicked …caught fire
\nFrom our torrid passion and burned up?
\nHm? We were adolescents,
\nWhich is why we put off love till tomorrow.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"[ The Official Website of Dr. Gjek\u00eb Marinaj ] & [ Culture & Arts ] Read also: Gjon Buzuku Frang Bardhi Ernest Koliqi Filip Shiroka Gjergj Fishta Lazer Shantoja Martin Camaj Migjeni (poetry) Migjeni (prose) Ndre Mjeda Pashko Vasa Gjek\u00eb Marinaj Kolec Traboini Ridvan Dibra To Dusitsa – Unawares The planets have lost nothing of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":869,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-145","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-literature"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/145","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=145"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/145\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":870,"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/145\/revisions\/870"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/869"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=145"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=145"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/shkoder.net\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=145"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
- Kolec Traboini<\/a><\/li>\n
- Filip Shiroka<\/a><\/li>\n
- Frang Bardhi<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n