Poems by Arian Leka
|
Sonata Trio I
In the graveyard by the sea, when you drowned. We opened graves. — We planted. Blue lilies… We closed the saltworks. Death should not enter into the meal. — Speechless. The howling women… Backstroke swimming towards the shore, the death Hides the knives under the armpits — In the marine cemetery — We waited in vain… b. Children of the Southern Coast of Albania In August, on the night of the falling stars Children do not throw flowers into the sea. We beguiled the little ones, offering them plastic stars We whispered: the drowned are planted as seeds in the soil They jingle like Pinocchio's golden coins on the earth. Pennies were drowned in the sea At the bottom of the Marine Mercy’s savings box. The drowned enter the airplane quietly Dressed in black bags Similar to HUGO BOSS sheaths Protecting suits from ultraviolet rays and dust In the aircraft, coffin fridges drip on gifts Put into wheeled suitcases. Parents queue at the airport. I look forward to the end of the passport control: A European. An Albanian. A drowned. << EU PASSPORTS - LEFT • ALL OTHER PASSPORTS - RIGHT >> c. Christmas Stall At the very end, the sea brings tree trunks on the shore’s pale sand -- Everywhere. It pushes them, it pulls them until morning the torches are extinguished by the sparklers -- Because of dew. The drowned souls hush on the silt of algae’s crown --We did not know that much. Thick trunks warm-up loneliness we called them by name, they did not hear -- Tears fall down. Navigations were canceled in the marine matrix; the trunks saw the house — We recognized our people. Trio Sonata II a. Rescue Mission The animals arrived ashore, not us. A crocodile. A puma. A rhinoceros. A shark. A horse.An elephant. Even a long dog, which did not reach yet the age of death. They sailed on our clothes. Animals, embroidered on branded t-shirts, bought in third-hand clothing stores, held tightly, with hoofs and nails against the wet cotton, produced in poor countries, such as our homeland, where people drowning in sweat, like us, sew their eyelids with a thread. We saw them breaking the waves. They abandoned their t-shirts, as the sailors do with ships once they reach the shore, to bring to people the news that the sea had given us a new nationality, that our bodies would not appear on the sand, that collared doves could tie a twilight on their neck, as they sit on the ships’ chimneys, lined up to be transformed into scrap and rust, out of which, once melted, heavy ships are built again for emigrants and emigrants’ sons, who will wander in this sea late at night, t rod by our feet and deeply plowed by our legs. b. A Cut Vein That night remained clotted into my memory When I dreamed my people Poured from the matriarchy into the sea. My tribe warmed eggs on rocks Until when from the body came out boats Filled by rivers and drowned boys. — What for we wanted the rivers without the boys, Adria? — Do you remember that night? My tribe does not write down the memoirs. My tribe remembers when Women clogged their ears with clouds Remembers when men banded their cut veins with rivers. The ears heard and remembered how the world’s fates were shared: — What of Earth is, it will also be of the Sea! — Everything that of Sea is, of Earth can’t be. c. Polyphony[1] ... three months from the day when the drowned man returned home no one put fresh fish in his mouth
... my family eats fingertips for the butchery put black mussels over eyes -- can hardly make it ... whips flew into the palate - sit on your vocal cords I collected salt flowers from the dried tear glands -- you cut black marble with the arches of thick eyebrows in the quarry ... I did not go out to sea. It was not a good night for fishing I helped the drowned find their house — death is not able to walk. Translated from the Albanian by the author and Fiona Sampson Sonata Trio I
Në varrezën detare, kur u mbytët ju. Ne hapëm varre. — Mbollëm. Zambakë blu... Mbyllëm kriporet. Vdekja mos hyjë në gjellë. — Pa fjalë. Vajtoret... Drejt brigjeve vdekja në shpinë bën not. Fsheh thikat nën sqetulla — Në varrezën detare — Pritëm kot... b. Fëmijët e bregut jugor të Shqipërisë Natën e rënies së yjeve në gusht Fëmijët nuk hedhin lule mbi det. Të vegjlit gënjyem me yje plastikë Pëshpëritëm: të mbyturit mbillen si fara në tokë Tringëllijnë si monedhat e arta të Pinokios mbi dhé. Të mbyturit në det ishin qindarkat Në fund të arkës së kursimit të mëshirës detare. Të mbyturit hyjnë qetësisht në avion Veshur me thasët e zinj Të ngjashëm me këllëfë HUGO BOSS Që ruajnë kostumet nga rrezet ultraviolet dhe nga pluhuri Në hambar arkivolet – frigorifer pikojnë mbi dhuratat Futur në valixhet me rrota. Prindërit mbajnë radhë në aeroport. Presin me durim përfundimin e kontrollit të pasaportave: Një europian. Një shqiptar. Një i mbytur. << EU PASSPORTS – MAJTAS • DJATHTAS – ALL OTHER PASSPORTS >>
Në ranishtën e zbehtë fare në fund, deti nxjerr trungje — Gjithkund. I shtyn, i tërheq deri në mëngjes pishtarët shuhen nga stërkalat — Prej vesës. Shpirtrat e mbytur nemiten mbi kum kurorë prej algash — Nuk ditëm aq shumë. Trungje të trashë ngrohin vetminë i thirrëm në emra, nuk dëgjuan — Lotët bien. Lundrimet u fshinë në matrikullin detar trungjet panë shtëpinë — Njohëm njerëzit tanë. Trio Sonata II
Në breg mbërritën kafshët, jo ne. Një krokodil. Një puma. Një rinoqeront. Një peshkaqen. Një kalë. Një elefant. Madje dhe një qen i stërgjatë, që koha e vdekjes nuk i kishte ardhur endé. Lundruan mbi veshjet tona. Kafshët, qëndisur mbi bluza firmato, blerë në dyqane rrobash të përdorura të dorës së tretë, mbaheshin fort, me thundra e thonj pas pambukut të lagur, prodhuar në vende të varfëra, si atdheu ynë, ku njerëz mbytur në djersë, si ne, qepin sytë me penj. I pamë si çanë përmes dallgëve. Braktisën bluzat, siç braktisen lundrat me të prekur sterénë, për të sjellë në breg lajmin se deti na kishte dhënë kombësi të re, se trupat tanë nuk do të dilnin ranishtave, se kumritë mund ta lidhnin në grykë një muzg, teksa ulen mbi oxhaqe anijesh, vënë në radhë për t’u prerë në skrapi e ndryshk, me të cilin, pas shkrirjes, bëhen prapë anije të rënda për emigrantë dhe bij emigranti, që orëve të vona do enden në këtë det, shkelur prej shputave e pluguar thellë prej këmbëve tona. b. Prerje damarësh Mpiksur në kujtesë mbeti nata Kur pashë në ëndërr fisin tim Derdhur nga matriarkati në det Ngrohu vezë shkëmbinjsh Derisa nga trupi dolën varkat Ngarkuar me lumenj dhe djem të mbytur — Ç’i deshëm lumenjtë, pa djemtë, Adria? — E kujton atë natë? Fisi im nuk i shkruan kujtimet. Mban mend Gratë kur mbyllën veshët me re Mban mend burrat kur fashuan damarët me lumenj Veshët dëgjuan si u ndanë fatet e botës : — Ajo që është e Tokës edhe e Detit do jetë! — Gjithçka është e Detit, s’mund të jetë edhe e Tokës.
... tre muaj nga dita kur i mbyturi u kthye në shtëpi. askush nuk futi peshk të freskët në gojë. — ishin ushqyer me mishin e njerëzve të mi. ... fisi im ha mollëzat e gishtave për plojën. vendos midhje të zeza mbi sy. — ushqehet me thonj. ... trumcakë fluturuan në qiellzën e gojës – ulen mbi kordat e tua zanore. lule kripe mblodha nga gjëndrat e thara të lotit. — me harqet e vetullave të trasha ti preve mermer të zi në gurore. ... nuk dola në det. Nuk ishte natë për gjueti. ndihmova të mbyturit të gjenin shtëpinë. — vdekja të ecë nuk di. |
Born in the port city of Durrës, Arian Leka belongs to the avant-garde writers who emerged after Albania’s borders opened. His books in poetry, prose, essays, and literary studies have been honored six times with National Awards from the Ministry of Culture and Writers Association and three more International Literary Awards, among them “Opera Omnia Tudor Arghezi - 2022”, “The Poetry Scepter” (Skopje, 2018), “The Poet of the Cultural Capital of Romania,” (2019). The critic emphasizes that his vital texts devoted to “the country and the homeland” are nodes that connect the present with the history of the past in communism and transform Albania’s maritime themes and symbols into the primary metaphorical approach of his literary work, making unmistakable the voice of this author, who uses a language unique aesthetic. Through fact-fiction techniques, Arian Leka conveys fragile details between his personal history and the history of Albania, especially in his books Born in the Province, In Search of the Lost Shirt, and Mute Map for the Drowned. Arian Leka’s short story Brothers of the Blade became part of The Best European Fiction 2011 (Dalkey Archive Press, USA); in 2014, his fictional prose, The Shirt, was part of the European anthology Das Hemd (Leykam, Austria); in 2017 his story Paper Cell was included in the Glückliche Wirkungen Anthology (Ullstein Buchverlag, Berlin); in 2018, the narrative Paranoia became part of the A Good European – Anthology (Goethe Institute) and in 2020, his essay Where Does Light Come From, was part of the Circle-Surface-Sun: from somewhere in the Mediterranean (Schlebrugg E.Editor, Vienna). Different books and other texts of Arian Leka in poetry, prose, and essays have been translated and published into German, French, English, Greek, Spanish, Italian, Romanian, Bulgarian, Serbian, Slovenian, Macedonian, Bosnian, Polish, Finish, Croatian, and Chinese. Arian Leka has a PhD in Literary Studies. In 2020, he published “Socialist Realism in Albania,” and in 2022, “Consensus and Polemics” (Albanian Academy of Sciences Editions). Arian Leka is the Head of the Department of Albanian Encyclopedia, a researcher at the Albanian Academy, and a lecturer at Tirana’s University of Arts. He founded the Writers in Residence Programme “POETEKA-Tirana in Between” and editor in chief of “POETEKA” literary magazine.
|
