Gazmend Krasniqi was born in Shkodra and lives in Tirana (Albania). He is a writer, essayist, anthologist and literary historian; Krasniqi’s poems have been published in several anthologies of poetry, in English (New European Poets – USA); English, French, German (www.transcript-review.org); Poésie albanaise (Belgium); Italian; Hungarian, Serbian-Croatian etc. Among his publications are poetry volumes, prose works, plays and studies about the Albanian poetry.
THE HOSPITAL STREET
The same as we feared, the vise
To search for the beauty there
Where no one notices
Has survived the time
Even in the hospital streets
What does it see the sun tempting
In its way to zenith? The disquiet while
Dispersing at full speed
does not show its own end.
Not even syringe of the moment grown up to hide
once in a whimper, did not forget us.
Even the heat cantilenas in vain
Are trying to find the words – it fled
August under the August gill,
Where the song belongs to the sun
To the angelic childish joy:
Serial killers give an end to
Lives, by leaving no traces.
The same as we feared, it remained
That vice that we still dare to think
That life is interesting.
I see it comes up to the surface
As the foam in a glass of beer, one must
Have more than e single life
To kill the face of cynicism
When baby kicks of light on glass,
That announces the morning’s arrival, become
Increasingly tedious, when the girl’s toys, here and there
In the room, make noise even more than
the breaking daily news, it reminds me
that I touched in a dream the idea
of the pure being- an instant after midnight, after all books
are read, all movies are watched, after all shoes
are worn out, in all virtual landscapes of TV-s
Could I still be the king of the universe?
I ask, since I am, the river of matter flows through the fingers,
Since the discourse of gambling destiny bills occurs
and vetoes the affluence of their vocabulary,
as as large as the stalls of cheeseparing
in the middle of the square, where I pass through every day.
In moments when the body would feel strong enough as the words
– the rare, fragile, treacherous ones – I had
hoped to talk for long also about love,
so fast, so humane, as austere as
one says to death: “Good morning, dear !”,
but the fate day doesn’t come: when the sun trumpet opens
in unpleasant forms, that maybe on the pure being is
able to save, is it worth doing philosophy, I can
Socrates in my head saying: “so many things I don’t need
are here”, only that what fulminates time and again –
in my bag, it’s not a meteorite of words, but pure Greek salt.
AT PARENT’S HOME
In playful light branches, new
Parrots say old words: I know
The bizarre whistles
Asking for the instant astonishment.
Lambency coming out of copybook dust,
throughout the home spider thread,
would it reveal the great dreams
of childish verses? I push doors
The same as the tired shadows in hearts –
I come to say that the End is the Beginning.
Something similar to poetry:
wall – door; wall –door; wall – door.
I would like to be he who you wanted
me to be, but it is late for any return.
From evening to dawn, if you keep
Me again away from your invisible world,
That door bearing the word “God”,
or “Eternity”, the whole memory
can be the evidence of the attempt
if darkness is written by light,
If I would give a voice or fate,
If I am imprisoned or
in good company. That star
that brightens in the darkness layers,
It’s not the nostalgia of something:
I smoked the life cigarette,
Where are you visions, words, gestures
bearing the insistence of predecessor’s assumptions
If the house is made of sun and rain
If it is built, as Cézane did once upon a time,
with a cone, cylinder and a sphere,
the Real isn’t in crises;
the Beauty Rainbow comes to drink,
and rummage in the friendly fists
the Eternity and the Non Being
you are the one to become the Real
almost a sunny shape, the very first mimosa-flower
in the balcony of a rainy day;
we ought not walk, not talk, the time
betwen two fragile cosmic stations
is to be filled with this aestheic hour.
When talking in the family about old furniture,
The chair dreams of a volcano.
In wakefulness it might like the baroque, they are
fashionable even the abrupt, the rugged and drama.
When it supposes I am Plato, it goes slightly awry:
perhaps in its memory. Number One strikes
to the wall of my senses, where I put the shoulder,
when it awaits a a poem of glory, or to prevail
Justice and the Good, be it in the shape of the box
or a circle, or seek to manage to escape from
this bag of Beauty–a book widely opened
for the closed eyes. Probably Books of Knowledge
will grow up in it. Probably it reads to me
that everyone is born with its own wood, the Pinocchio
of dazes, which waits to be taken by hand from the Faerie
that gets tired of old furniture.
AGAIN FOR THE READER
Travellers, who have south in their eyes, just as
soldiers fall in line correctly, they were pain
of my topsy-turvy sky: they know where to aestivate.
Verses – betrayed by me – I have never seen where
they sit, if reduced, although
at start they had the jubilation of Noah.
My life has been as you liked it – a rock
that rolls, a sky that loughs – but now is silent
in front of the naive appearance of dusk. Even when
singing to the day, even when singing the night,
epic voices have addresses in the pockets: in me
grows up the voice feeding endlessly the misunderstanding –
I feel like loving even the sky, even the graves,
even the swamp, the blood that the thorn brings about,
even the poem, even the bow formed by the leaf.
This is not a Whitmanian enumeration-neither for those
that love him, nor for those who ridicule him – but I wanted
to remind you that everything, in the end, the same as pilgrims,
leaves me solely with the fall, which gets it warm,
from the the brroding hen, the egg of the first question:
where to start? Has the reader given up reading us?
Translated by: Granit Zela