Irma Kurti is an Albanian poetess, writer, lyricist, journalist, and translator naturalized Italian. She has been writing since she was a child. In 1980, she was honored with the first national prize on the 35th anniversary of the Pionieri magazine for her poem “To my homeland”. In 1989, she won the second prize in the National Competition organized by Radio Tirana on the 45th anniversary of the Liberation of Albania.
All her books are dedicated to the memory of her beloved parents Hasan Kurti and Sherife Mezini, who supported and encouraged every step of her literary path.
Kurti has won numerous literary prizes and awards in Italy and Italian Switzerland. She was awarded the “Universum Donna” International Prize IX Edition 2013 for Literature and the lifetime nomination of “Ambassador of Peace” by the University of Peace of Italian Switzerland. In 2020, she received the title of Honorary President of WikiPoesia, the Encyclopedia of Poetry.
In 2021, she was awarded the title “Liria” (Freedom) by the Arbëreshë Community in Italy.
Irma Kurti has published 22 books in Albanian and 15 in Italian. Her books have been translated into English, Spanish, French, Rumanian and Serbian. She has written about 150 lyrics for adults and children, including in Italian and English. She lives in Bergamo, Italy.
It’s the time of the fading of values,
of the loss of friends one by one,
just like the trees lose their leaves
as the season of autumn arrives.
This is the time of the angry people,
no one knows: with the moon or sun,
of the ones who cannot remain silent,
of those who speak, but say nothing.
Friends are so rare. You find one,
you are suspicious, it seems unreal,
you hold and squeeze it in your palm
as a revelation, just like a rare jewel.
You keep it with anguish and interest,
careful not to drop it from your hands,
but when you slowly open your fingers,
you discover that it is no longer there.
The regret, the affliction invades you,
you realize that you’ve held it tightly,
you condemn yourself, it’s your fault,
unintentionally you have suffocated it.
Perhaps that’s why you lost it,
because you adored that jewel …
This house is not sold
This house cannot be sold, there sleep
and wake up thousands of memories,
like colorless crumbs flicker in the air
the words that we left, all our dreams.
The corridor narrowed from solitude
with the steps of my mother was filled,
the comings and goings of my parents
resonate there as a divine symphony.
In the living room the sofas are rotten,
this one – old and decaying may seem,
but my father often leaned on it,
it keeps his presence even now vivid.
It still felt of the smell of hot coffee
two steps away, in a very small annex,
I don’t compare it with the best aromas
vended everywhere in the shops today.
The huge picture hanging on the wall
representing a big home on an island,
portrays my desire to live somewhere
with all my family, in a better world.
The memoirs give it a great value,
make it dear, not regarding the price,
but for my heart and for my feelings.
It’s not sold, it’s not bought – the house!
The naked doll
It doesn’t seem true: in a few days
the keys of my apartment I’ll have.
As fragmented echoes, the memories
do not leave me alone for a second.
My childhood dream to have a nice
and lovely house wakes me up,
with a large room for all my toys
and windows caressed by the sun.
But I did not even have the toys
except a very little and naked doll,
whom I dressed only in my dreams,
scared in bed it slept with me.
Over the passing of months, years,
the yen approached, then vanished;
it took refuge in my lines and hair,
like this, we both grew old together.
My childhood – that naked doll,
I’ve placed in a corner of a suitcase,
I’ll bring it with me to the new house
covered … with love and affection.