Hajk by Lumo Kolleshi ( Albania)

Hajk

The tars weep

Bring me a glass

To gather these tears.

Someone whispered:

“The bee died”

I ran but I never found its grave.

Old clock

The hands strive to eat each other

Time remains in the eyes of the blind.

Modern hairdresser’s shop

Old heads not far in the distance

Push each other in the line for wigs.

Split ripen pomegranates

In the traffic lights of the boughs

Cold rains melt away upon them.

One night I slept with the snake

I felt terribly cold

In the morning I had become Laocoön.

House of a spider

The fly comes to deliver official well wishes

A house or a grave?

Loaded with stars

The date’s bough broke

The stones of the alley get wounded.

No permissions for building in the offices of spring

The swallows

Inaugurate the illegal houses.

The bloody night

Butterflies come to die in the light

In my studio.

A beggar in the street

Called me a “Gentleman”

While in my pockets I had nothing but my soul.

At the rock spring bed

The thirst put its lips

The beautiful girls broke the ewers.

Peace often hangs the bloody shirt

At an olive bough

How many young seedlings do not grow to become old.

Poems by Marcela Villar M. ( U.S.A. )

Silent Autumns

I

It’s springtime on the other side

of the world.

Light hides in my hands

when I look at them;

there are shadows of rainy seasons

arriving,

they bring leaves, that although dry,

stare.

II

There are fractures,

roots speaking,

changing seasons

with time.

III

The world spins inside

us,

We are a Universe in our own wings.

And I feel this autumn’s leaves

fall with me,

even though spring-times

begin in other latitudes

whispering flowers and fields.

IV

The grounds are prepared,

opening their trenches with new

seeds,

speaking of other times

when love embraced them;

they are ready for my verses.

They want to be forests.

V

In my hands I hold golden

leaves,

silent autumns.

Quiet

Infertile land,

empty of territories,

as an orb of inert skin,

worn-out of words

never said.

In sterile streets

your vain voices proceed,

now senseless,

now without echoes that repeat

caresses given at other

times.

They depart motionless,

move without speaking,

remain, quiet.

Fragile

The verses fall,

from quiet branches

in golden autumns,

but it’s not my time.

They fall deeply.

Leafless.

Their descent is felt

from distances

from which my eyes

close over the earth.

That fragility of leaf

and

planet

that envelopes poetry

has spoken from the interior

of the seasons,

but only the cold responds

with silences.

Enslaved

The walls speak.

They seem to get closer

and closer,

as damned prisons where Poets

sing desolate songs deprived of voice.

Who cuts out the meter from their verses?

Who chains the freedom of verses that fly

from peaks that protect nests now empty?

Schizophrenic fears gather in the boulevards

of extinct minds,

meanwhile miserable dictators lock them up

in emaciated catacombs.

Their tortured bodies hang

from crosses with no kingdoms.

There is no resurrection in such agony,

Poetry dies without a Messiah.

Impossible anguish,

Lyrical poetry weeps.

Hypocritical muses dressed as Magdalena weep

while they hide behind red glass windows stained

with the holy blood of Poets.

Dark caverns

roar with millennial fire;

there is no peace in the mouth.

The books burn the hands

that touch secrets and mysteries,

metaphor is dressed as the bride,

white she goes up to an altar of sacrifice.

The chains of slavery lament;

mourn tears of hopelessness,

but Poets will never die.

Only freedom

will make them live.

LITERARY MAGAZINE ATUNIS NR.3 – 4 , MAY 2016

A PUBLICATION OF POETICAL GALAXY  “ ATUNIS”

Poezi nga Josif Gegprifti

Në lëndinën e dashurisë.

( 1976 )

Nuk dua asgjë,
shpirti asgjë nuk më ndjen.
kërkoj vetëm diçka!
Si dikur,
atë që desha, oh atë që desha
dua ta ndjej.
Në atë lëndinën me bar,
mes erës së pyllit,
nën këngën e bilbilit
dua vajzën ta shoh,
ta kem pranë.
Si dikur,
me atë dua të rri,
atje në Katjelin e paharuar.
aromën e barit të shijoj,
në atë lëndinë të gjelbëruar
dhe cicërimën e zogjve të dëgjoj.
Si dikur,
Pas tyre s’kam ndërmend të bredh, jo.
Nuk jam i ri,
Si atëhere dot nuk vrapoj,
por puthjen e vajzës dua të shijoj.
Me vajzën dua të jem
atje në lëndinë, në Katiel.
Të shoh dy sy që mbyllen
kur puthjen vajzës ja rrëmbej.
Si dikur,
T’i këndoj një këngë me kitarë.
Pastaj, s’ka gjë se do qaj
e lotët të më bien mbi bar.
Asgjë tjetër nuk kërkoj,
botën e thjeshtë e dua,
e dashuroj,
bukurinë e qiellit dua të shoh,
hënën të shoh në qiell kur vallzon,
ashtu siç e shihja dikur.
Dhe pastaj;
Si dikur,
Një dashuri të largët dua të kujtoj.
Të kujtoj atë lëndinë me bar,
të shtrihem mbi të
dhe nata të më mbulojë ngadalë…
dhe pastaj,
pastaj sytë e mi le të mbyllen,
me imazhin e asaj ndjenje të parë.

Poezi nga Tyran Prizren Spahiu

Prizren

..pa kulm jemi,
me ndoshta pakëz shpresë
mysafirët mirëpresim
si zogjtë shtegtarë..

Kërkojmë pakëz dritë
strehë,të krijojmë
ndërtojmë qytetin
Lidhjen të hijeshojmë…

Nesër,
Ju, në piedestal ngritur do jeni
vargje do gdhenden
PER JU
art-dashësit e qytetit…

PASURIA !

Lavire e çmuar, zonjë e jetës
endet rrugëve, shkëlqen
mashtron, e përkryer art është
tërhjek zvarr, dobëtit robëron.

MALËSOR

Fuqitë e zeza enden trojeve
Dalur janë nga thellësit e ferrit
Shoqëruar me hije, rëndë sundojnë
Mbretëritë e pangopur të krimeve.

RROTLLA

Aristokrat, shpirt pasur, bujar
Emin Pasha, vllau i Mahmud Rrotllës
Mytesarif i Prizrenit, ndërtoi xhaminë
Ne shek XVIII, ngriti medresen në oborr.