Poems by Dashamir Malo / Translated from the Albanian by Merita Paparisto

Poems by Dashamir Malo

 

SHE

She left just in time
When I was hired
at that farther Border police station
Later I’ve been told
That she came early every morning
Took her espresso coffee
And smoked “slims” cigarettes
On the table where she used to work
Remained the calendar and her handwritten notes
The book “ Alexander the Great” and
The poetry of Charls Bukowski.
She liked soul music.
She preferred the movie and the stars
Gérard Depardieu and Orlando Bloom.
She did not like “Big brother”
Or “Beatty Pageants”
She always wore the perfume “Obsession”
She was a brunet.
Had never tried to become a blonde
Some times her nails were painted in violet
She passionately loved the longing sunsets
And sweet-attractive mornings
She was a fan of the colour green,
But liked the white and black as well

I never meet her,
I never even saw her
However, I got to know her very well

 

THE LAST MIGRATION OF OLD FISHERMAN

More than one year has passed
That the fishing boat “ the seagull of the blues”
Laying, anchored at the harbor
It sits there, quite silent
It’s black flag, was ripped off in stripes
Like the mane of a horse
Frozen by the longing for their master.
They were saying that the fisherman
Was bedridden for a year, as well
But suddenly on a fall’s morning
He was seen walking the street of the city
Going to the sea shore
He paused. He watched the Ionian sea
It was a sea of rip currents that day
Dangerous even for young sailors
But it looked quiet on the surface
Like the fever of a child
That a caring mother realises
Only in the morning
The fisherman, went to the boat
He untied the ropes
And with his thin trembling hands
Caressed the bow of the boat
Like it was a live thing
And than pushed it into the blue sea
“ go on now, my seagull, sail into the deep blue”

Then he was making his way back home,
Walking on autumn’s sidewalk
He paused for a moment,
He turned his gazeto the sky
He threw his hands up,
Like he was talking to the gods
To those gods that helped him
Through all his long journey
He waved in the air his walking cane
And the grey clouds of that fall sky
Like obedient sheep, strolled
To the valley.
The fall, this mischievous blond woman
Angry at August
Continually plucked the leafs of the trees
And threw them on the sidewalks.
The old fisherman, was talking to himself
“ how, much like leaves we are,
how similar.”

The next day
On the notice board in front of the port
I read a notice, about the fisherman’s last migration.

 

THE OWL

The owl, perched on an oak
starts his old song
now that the vague sunset is coming
the night brings a fake peace
the night watches with wicked eyes
the night listens with the thief’s ears
The old sleepy mountain
Rests there
With a disfigured sky
On top of it’s head
The moon in the dark sky
Grieves as it eats itself
This night that embraces anxiety
Dissolved our paths in the darkness
The wild January wind
Waves a torn blanket of clouds
Like a flag after a lost battle.
Hush, don’t say a word
Someone is passing by
Or is the barefoot rain dripping
On the foliage
Shhhhhh, quiet!
Someone is passing by
But even if there is someone,
It might be a passenger that’s
lost his way.

 

Translated from the Albanian by Merita Paparisto

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