A New Poem

Dead Land

By Ide Kayla

Gloomy Dead Trees stand,

Jade vines crawling over damp bark.

There used to be a time when the wind blew,

Scattering lush petals of olive, gold and lavender over

Emerald pasture.

There used to be a time when magpies tittered, hopping branch to branch

On glorious willow trees,

Limp branches waved in the breeze.

There used to be a time that was serene,

Never overtaken by glass buildings or

Silly cars running on black gravel roads.

No rubbish spilling on the street.

Until now.

No life surrounds but

A dead paradise.

Dead land.

Two Poems

Imperfect

By Ide Kayla (my 10 year old daughter)

For years I have been hiding in the shadows,

In my own shell of a life.

Tears splattering the blood-covered ground.

Knees wobbling,

Chest tightened,

I shuffle downwards to what seemed like death.

Her beady snake eyes scanned me,

Holding its icy blue stare.

Snarl that can curdle milk,

Was carved by angels to perfection.

Girls and boys gawk,

Making me sag to the ground.

For my pathetic imperfection,

Stank the school yard,

Causing the Magpies to flitter away,

In  a frenzy full of feathers.

A tear, this time,

Red with blood,

Rolled down my flushed cheeks.

It seems like the girl had damaged me with words,

Leaving the crowd to point and laugh.

I squint and almost die this time.

Familiar faces grin like demon's

In front of mine, which was pale and bitter, with frost.

Same hair, same eyes, same faces.....

I gasp with horror.

The tear of blood has repeated, leaving a mark on my other cheek.

Then, almost rapidly, a third rolled down, then a fourth,

And so on, the blood flowed at an amazing speed.

I became paler, which only added to my despicable face,

Which, now was the color of a sheet.

I took a deep breath, then accepted my tragic death.

I waited.

And waited

And waited.

I was no longer in this world anymore.

I vanished.

11/12/2011

Standing in the Rain

By Ide Kayla

O, god what have we done, to make sinners,

To change? The world is thy golden,

We are trinkets, spreading

A wildfire. Burning.

Keep Burning. The skies stained with blood of fallen

Warriors. The rain pelts like an inferno,

Stinging ‘round my neck.

Midnight looms over the silky dark sky,

Tracing bright stars.

I grip a palm. Shivering,

Dripping down my back,

Tears flow. I grip the smooth hand

Tighter, feeling a familiar warmth. My veins run ice cold.

My hard plunged in my throat.

Stubbornly, I crane my neck, seeing a man.

He, not solid, transparent with a sickly

Blue tinge. My grey eyes look in to

His warm, silver ones.

A peculiar feeling shoots through me.

No, it couldn't be...............

“F-father,”

I squeak, my voice reaching a peak.

The man does not answer,

Thy just stares at me solemnly,

As if we shared a secret.

And we did.

“Father....”

I repeat, a little most courageous.

“Is that you?”

No answer.

The man is gone.

02/04/2012

Art/Poezi

Ëndrra dhe Poezia

        Dikur poeti francez Paul Eluard shkruante: - “Rrëfimi i një ëndrre nuk mund të merret si recitim poeme. Te dyja jane realitete te jetuara; por e para është një kujtim, i konsumuar njëherazi, një aventurë; kurse prej te dytes asgjë s’humbet, asgje s’ndryshon. Poezia e naltëson universin për të përfituar vetëm qënia njerëzore me aftësite e veta, i krijon hapsira njeriut të shoh llojshmërinë e gjërave në mënyra të ndryshme.” Ne vazhdim i kemi te dyja, endrren e poezine te shkrira ne nje.

Art/Poezi

Albanian poet shares latest collection

January 25, 2010 by Amy Woodward

Black Mountain Institute welcomes Luljeta Lleshanaku


“There’s so much hugging in here!” laughed Carol Harter, executive director of the Black Mountain Institute, during her introduction for Albanian poet Luljeta Lleshanaku.

Lleshanaku, surrounded by friends and colleagues, was welcomed to Las Vegas for the reading of her most recent collection of poems, “Child of Nature.”

“I feel very emotional, very touched being back in Las Vegas… It’s my favorite city,” Lleshanaku said.

The poet, International Women’s Forum Fellow and winner of the prestigious Kristal Vilenice Prize, had previously received a nine-month residency from BMI.

During those nine months, she was able to focus on her work and thanked both BMI and UNLV for the opportunity.

Art/Poezi

As Much As You Can
C.P. Cavafy(1863-1933)

And if you cannot make your life as you want it,
at least try this
as much as you can: do not disgrace it
in the crowding contact with the word,
in the many movements and all the talk.

Do not disgrace it by taking it,
dragging around often and exposing it
to the daily folly
of relationships and associations,
till it becomes like an alien burdensome life.

C.P. Cavafy

Art/Poezi

The Guy in the Glass
Dale Wimbrow (1895-1954)

When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf,
And the world makes you King for a day,
Then go to the mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that guy has to say.

For it isn't your Father, or Mother, or Wife,
Who judgment upon you must pass,
The feller whose verdict counts most in your life

Is the guy staring back from the glass,
He's the feller to please, never mind all the rest,
For he's with you clear up to the end,
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the guy in the glass is your friend.

You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum,
And think you are a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.

You can fool the whole world down the pathway of years,
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartaches and tears
If you've cheated the guy in the glass.

(C) 1934

Art/Poezi

On the Beach at Night
Walt Whitman (1900)

On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.

Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.

Art/Poezi

Desiderata
by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.


Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.


Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.


Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.


You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.


Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.


With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.


Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.


Max Ehrmann was born in Terre Haute, Indiana on September 26, 1872, to a an emigrant family from Bavaria, Germany.

Ehrmann received his early education from the Terre Haute Fourth District School and the German Methodist Church. Upon graduation, Ehrmann studied law and philosophy at Harvard and edited 'The Rainbow', a national college fraternity magazine. It was at Harvard, that he published his first book, A Farrago, in 1898.

Ehrmann practiced law as Deputy States Attorney for two years. He then worked for a number of years as credit manager and attorney for his brother's manufacturing business.

At the age of 40, Ehrmann left the family business and returned to writing full-time. Throughout his career, he wrote more than 20 books and pamphlets and many essays and poems that were published separately in newspapers and magazines. His most acclaimed work was "Desiderata", originally published in 1927. "Desiderata" has been published in numerous magazines, newspapers, and anthologies and was produced as a single record by Warner Brothers in 1971.

Max Ehrmann died in 1945, well before "Desiderata" gained its popularity.

Art/Poezi

POETIT NICEAN

Durim poet, durim!

Qyteterimi pa shpirt,

Njerezimi nen nje barre shkence,

i shperfytyruar, i zbehte

Ne porten tende do te kthehet,

do te kthehet vella, ne vaj e lypes,

duke lutur lemoshe nje kenge.

Poet, e lexoj ne syte e tu,

endrren tende te pagjase.

Kenga jote don te ngreje,

nje Gjigand nga asgjeja,

Njeriun Nicean - ne cast e te pamate.

E nen diej, nen hapat madhore te tij,

e Ardhmja te vije.

E pastaj... po pastaj?!

Ah po, pastaj, ti don te flesh,

te flesh.

Ah pastaj, ti don vecse te flesh.

A.Topi Perkthim(i adaptuar) Pranvere 1990

Art/Poezi

DESHIRE JASHTESTINORE


Aromen e luleve ndjeva,

megjithese s'ishte stina e tyre.

Mes gjelberimit enderrues u ula e ndenja.

E stinen e jetes thirra:

Heej..., kur do te ringjallesh e embelta Pranvere!

A.Topi Dimer 1995

Art/Poezi

Rudyard Kipling shkrimtar anglez lindur ne Bombei
(1865-1936). Poezite e novelat e tij me te njohura
jane dy Librat e Xhungles 1894-1895; Kim 1901 qe
kurorezojne superioritetin a imperializmit
anglo-sakson.

NESE...

NESE arrin te ruash mendjen, kur te gjithe perreth e
kane humbur ate, duke te fajesuar ty;

NESE arrin t'i besosh vetes, kur te gjithe te tjeret
dyshojne per ty, pa harruar dyshimin e tyre;

NESE arrin te presesh, pa u lodhur se prituri, i
pergojuar, te mos pergjigjesh me pergojime, i urryer,
te mos hidhesh ne krahet e urrejtjes, e te mos
tregohesh as shume i mire, e te mos flasesh se tepermi
si mendimtar;

NESE arrin te enderrosh, pa i bere endrrat padronin
tuaj.

NESE arrin te mendosh, pa i kthyer mendimet ne
qellimin tuaj,

NESE arrin kur ndesh triumfin dhe rrenimin, t'i
trajtosh keta mashtrues njelloj;

NESE arrin te durosh te verteten e thene prej teje,te
shperfytyruar prej rrencakesh per te kurthuar te
marret, e te shkaterruara, te poshteruara t'i shohesh
gjerat qe ja kushtove jeten e te kerkosh te rindertosh
me ate qe te ka mbetur,

NESE arrin pirgun e fitoreve te tua, t'a rrezosh ne
nje cast te vetem - koke a pile, te humbasesh e te
rifillosh ku e nise, pa thene kurre nje fjale per
gjemen tende;

NESE arrin te detyrosh zemren tende, nervat e tua, te
mbahen edhe pas shume kohe kur nuk i ndjen me, te
rezistosh kur brenda teje nuk ka mbetur me asgje, vec
vullnetit tend qe i thote:"Mbahuni!"

NESE arrin te jetosh me funderrinat, pa humbur
ndershmerine tende e perballe te tjereve te mos
humbasesh arsyen e thjeshte;

NESE miqte dhe armiqte te mos mundin te lendojne,

NESE te gjithe njerezit per ty vlejne, por askush me
tepri;

NESE arrin te mbushes minuten e pameshireshme me
nje cast prej gjashtedhjet sekondash, e jotje do te
jete bota e gjithshka e saj.

E ajo c'ka vlen me shume, do te jesh Njeri, bir i im!

A.Topi Perkthyer 1990

Art/Poezi

The Eagles

Stretching the bow-bent wings in strenuous response,

erect, unterrified, in those hours of wild triumph

They graze the tempests like shafts of light.

Never conquered by the envious east winds,

flapping the waters like sodden flags,

They speed west, sweeping the broad horizon.

Whistling to the golden bullets of stars,

and braided with a chain of flashing suns,

They wheel down to Mother Earth,

where the greatest nations stay upon their crowns.

A. Topi Fall 1998

Art/Poezi

Lines of Illyria
Jane and Harry Fultz
American Embassy, Tirana 1946

1.
Lights Upon the Mountains


Hear the whispers and the buzzing
As of countless humming bees!
Tirana’ rife with speculation
Of the curious things it sees.

"Have you heard? Have you seen?
Don't you know? Where have you been?"

There are lights upon the mountains, pinpricks aglow!
Against the hillside's darkened mass they flicker to and fro
Signal fires burning, calling to clans?
Perforce some danger threatens and there is need for helpful hands.
A revolution brewing? Are troops upon the move?
There are lights upon the mountains, but what can it prove?
Plucking tautened nervous chords, arousing townsmen's ire,
Can there be something more than a shepherd's evening fire?


2.
The Highway

Beyond this gate the curved among,
Accoutrements of city's pride,
The roadway stretches from the town
To the surrounding countryside.

Past this gate the common folk,
Men possessed of various places,
Of wealth, of health, of worldly power,
Wear smooth the roadway's surface

Times may change and new feet tread;
Regimes may fall the bullets fly,
But down the roadway nags trot on
And faggot-bearers plod by.


3.
I Had a Friend

I had a friend who lives some half a world away,
Among the crags and peaks of a far land
Where white clouds drift and eagles play
With a tireless ease I could never understand.
I had a friend who new me well,
And talked of simple homely things;
Of children growing in the sun and crops to sell,
Of food to store against the winter's rains.
I had a friend who dressed in a peculiar way,
Yet sensed my every word and thought;
He laughed and joked and had his say,
And sought the same things I have sought.

Art/Poezi

Ne shoqerine e profeteve
Nga Altin Topi
Shekulli Shkurt 2004

Ishte nje nga te shtunat, nje mbasdite kafeje “starbaksi”. Nje i njohuri im amerikan, poet, pas leximit te disa prej poezive te tij e te Uolt Uitmanit, me befasoi me quiz-in e momentit. Quiz-i i tij lidhej me nje bisede te paradokohe qe kishim bere rreth poeteve shqiptare. Une i kisha lexuar disa poete shqiptare, e midis tyre poezine shume te njohur te Vaso Pashes, “Moj Shqypni, e mjera Shqypni!”, nje perkthim, improvizim i imi i momentit. – “A e di se c’kam menduar? Kam gjetur dicka te perbashket thelbesore, midis Uolt Uitmanit dhe poetit te shqiptarizmes, pashait tuaj?” - Te perbashket midis te dyve…. U mendova. Po ja, te dy jane poete kombetare te vendeve respektive, pra ajka e poeteve. Tjeter… U be nje pauze, u mendova perseri, por zor se mund te gjeja te perbashketa te tjera. Uitmani, vazhdova une, eshte poeti pararendes i poezise moderne amerikane, shume i madh, por kishte shkruar shume me ndryshe nga poeti shqiptar. Te them te drejten nuk mund te merrja me mend ndonje te perbashket tjeter.

Art/Poezi

Poezia eshte nje fazan
Alb-Club Korrik 2001

Aforizmi i Wallace Stevens "Poema eshte nje fazan", perfshire ne koleksionin e aforizmave nen titullin "Adagia", te cyt si pakuptuar ne valen e nje meditimi qe nuk te ndahet kollaj. Ndoshta disa faqe me vone te ndihmon rishfaqja e saj, por ne nje forme me te zgjeruar, - "Poezia eshte nje fazan qe zhduket ne shkurre" - Kjo sikur e zhdavarit misterin metaforik te aforizmes qe te goditi ne fillim. Por, megjithate te ngelet ne mendje qe poezia para se te zhduket ne shkurre eshte nje fazan. Kjo mjafton per te futur ne nje telash te madh, te medituarit e kesaj gjendje qe se pari shfaqet si fazan, e pastaj ne nje fazan te zhdukur ne shkurre.

Art/Poezi

THE NEWLY LOVERS

These two vanished through the lunar woods
These two cautiously smiled between the slander trees
These two edged with hope over the windy,
whirling mile of curving path.
They went down into the quite sphere,
their sphere-island shaped with green,
off into space of the silent bay.
In the distance, stretched along the waves length, I heard their cry.
It was an innocent cry,
like the cry of the children,
who, in play, stare and pursue
the darting sky-blue goddess butterfly.
And finally, they find it, at the end of the day.
I saw them at the first morning light,
two shadows against the passing
night;
with the blanket loose-folded around their knees,
two shadows huge and
calm,
like an open shell on the white sandy beach.

Altin Topi Summer 2000

Art/Poezi

ON THE PACIFIC RIM

All of a sudden, the earth was frozen.
The very emblem - the solid rock,
like a crust over a fluid
had moved overnight beneath our feet.
After the battering waves, black boiling water
seeped through the seabed opened cracks.
But now, all was strangely still.
The shore was strewn with debris of wrecked boats,
housetops lay tossed over huge rocks;
Uprooted trees, soggy seaweed,
dead animals covered the beaches.
The violent earth had been given little warning.
The first shocks had turned into curious twisting
movement,
the ground opened and than soon closed again - as on
a tomb...

Altin Topi Spring 1996

Art/Poezi

Poe vs. Baudelaire vs. Me


Every poet reminds me of other poets.
Poe reminds me of Baudelaire,
Baudelaire reminds me of Poe.
A fine poet knows a 'poor' poet.
A 'poor' poet knows a fine poet.
Every fine and 'poor' poet reminds me of me.
Every fine poet reminds me of Poe and Baudelaire
Poe and Baudelaire remind me of me.
I remind me of me,
and then I say,
A good poet and a 'poor' poet,
A bad luck and a good luck,
like fathers and sons.
They are fellows, no luck, and no blood.
But a continuum of life-line poets,
between what is more than poor
and what is less than fine.

Altin Topi Summer 2000

Art/Poezi

OUR TIME

Nowadays, we do not wait anymore.
Have we all become impatient children?
We rip our blue planet apart ourselves,
make of it a desert.
We explore the lunar desert,
add her rocks to our empty landscapes.
We lower our sky over smoking lagoons,
where trapped light lingers like false mirages.
We bulldoze our dead ancestors,
pile skyscrapers upon them.
We recapture tear-gassed squares,
filled with plastic bullets, electronic commercials,
and we burn our banners.
Their silent voice: Put your banners down, go home...
Enraged and exhausted from small skirmishes,
We turn confused and ask ourselves:
Which way is back? Which way is home?

Altin Topi Fall 1997

Art/Poezi

Poe dhe Baudelaire
Altin Topi

Baudelaire shkruan, - "Poe nepermjet poezise te tij u
perpoq me tere forcen e gjenise te tij te kape, te
ndaloje, e t'ia nenshtroje momentet djallezisht
fluturake te lumturise, vullnetit te tij." Ashtu si
Poe edhe Baudelaire nuk ishte thjesht poeti qe i
kendonte bukurise, por poeti i perpjekjes njerezore.
Te dy ato i kenduan jo vetem perpjekjeve e mundesive
te prekeshme, por atyre te enderruara si mjeti magjik
i transformimit te njeriu.