Agron Shele (Albania–Belgium)
The Worlds Poets Quarterly (volume – 97)
About the author
Agron Shele was born in October 7th, 1972, in the Village of Leskaj, city of Permet, Albania. Is the author of the following literary works: “The Steps of Clara” (Novel), “Beyond a grey curtain” (Novel), “Wrong Image” (Novel) , “Innocent Passage” (Poetry), White stones (poetry) RIME SPARSE -Il suono di due voci poetiche del Mediterraneo (Poesie di Agron Shele e Claudia Piccinno), “Ese-I and Ese-II) ” . Mr. Shele is also the coordinator of International Anthologies: “Open Lane- 1,” “Pegasiada , Open Lane- 2 , ATUNIS magazine ( Nr 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 )” and Atunis Galaxy Antholgy 2018. He is winner of some international literary prizes. Is a member of the Albanian Association of Writers, member of the World Writers Association, in Ohio, United States, Poetas del Mundo, WPS, Unione world Poetry and the President of the International Poetical Galaxy “Atunis”. He is published in many newspapers, national and international magazines, as well as published in many global anthologies: Almanac 2008, 2017; World Poetry Yearbook 2009, 2013, 2015, The Second Genesis -2013, Kibatek 2015-Italy, Keleno- Greece, etc. Currently Resides in Belgium and continues to dedicate his time and efforts in publishing literary works with universal values.
[China] Tongtian Jianri
The translator’s Postscript
The first time I read the poetry of Agron Shele, I was deeply impressed by the rich emotions in it. Every line came from the heart, deep and dignified, with a solid history and accumulation. In the poem At the Moment, the poet raised three questions about “why”. “Like a lonely bird abandoned when the winter comes”, he thought about the “last season”, “when the time passes”, and the eternity of a moment. In I know, the poet repeated “I know” for many times. Through questioning, describing and reflecting, he finally put forward his view about the construction of history, thinking that “scream will destroy the walls of broken memories, and what is dead will return to life”, which was also a historical hope. In white light, “kidnapped from warm verses in rebellion”, the poet was still searching for the song of hope, the song of “Rais(ing) in the high benches of thoughts”, which could be “Carved in ancient mythology of trust” and “Dissolved in the first rays of craziness”. Then the poet’s rich feelings echoed to Tirana’s autumn, which was the “soft spirits” and “skies of love”, and also was the place of “melancholy” and “death” of “love”. This kind of strong emotion was more reflected in My motherland. For the sake of the motherland, we would embrace “A challenge of fate for the brave”, because our motherland was “A hope and praying ground of your sons”. Everyone is equally affectionate towards their motherland! And this kind of deep feeling, just like “Precious white stone”, was pure and unyielding, and not afraid of sinking and “Times of timeless of turbulent fates”, “Ascending all the way to the sky, just like in Holy Spirit”. In these poems, the poet established his independent personality, which was characterized by rich feelings and righteousness for both the country and himself, just like a Xiake. Therefore, I recommend you to read these poems again, and maybe you will have more ideas and feelings. At last, thanks to the English versions of poet Peter Seth, now we are able to reproduce the essence and language of Shele’s poems.
When you hear the rain that falls over the bare trees from a bronze sky
And the rows of ravens all yellow
You ask yourself
Why only a tree stands tall?
In an empty park , lonely rotting day by day
Why do you care ?
Maybe because that reminds you the time that has passed
And you feel more older than ever
Like a lonely bird abandoned when the winter comes
Surviving is the only chance
When your thoughts are lost
And your face shows nothing more than sadness
In pale colours remained tattoo over your filthy skin
That is when you feel the touch of the last season
That is what reminds you of the long starry nights
All of this turns your spirit blue
….when the time passes
You can only see a rainbow that stares over an old church
You can only hear the whispers of monks as they go
But you can’t hear the bell
What does that mean?
You feel like an old abused statue with crossed arms
You wait for your sins to be forgiven
If only it was that easy
But no, your demons consume your soul every day
Your disgusting devious eyes only stare at one thing
The innocent saint Magdalene.
One day, you will understand
Feathers stay as proof of a flying bird
Lost far away from the horizon
No turning back
Anxiety of an escaped shadow
That this emigration has nothing in common with rainy days
Neither the blooming flowers
It is an unusual escape towards time, when the air smells the pain of earth.
Death of innocent leaves under the meaning of life until madness
that the darkness brings lonely nights
No light, that gives you hope
No dreams , that give you freedom
But only a dawn related to the shadows of life in chaos .
It feels like the poison of broken hopes
that scream will destroy the walls of broken memories
And what is dead will return to life
No more envy trapped in a spider web
And the voracious crowds and Kings without crowns.
A white light,
Wakened in the waters of my soul,
Over the wings of a flying bird
Just as once before…
A mirror of a reborn life in turmoil
Just as today…
Kidnapped from warm verses in rebellion.
A voice of life colors without borders
An open canvas of colors brighten
Just as dreams of nights of no return
Of a burning star, steaming hot.
Raised in the high benches of thoughts
Carved in ancient mythology of trust
In fiery horizons of the west.
a broken mirror of crossed fates
a deep sea of kidnapped sorrows
just as snow…
Dissolved in the first rays of craziness
Just as a leaf…
Lost in a freezing autumn universe.
Autumn in Tirana
In Tirana that is lost in water creeks,
Through extended water drips in the windows of crystals,
In the abandoned benches from all this unrest
In the naked trees all the way to forgiveness.
Even its returning tears of meditation instants,
Forgotten old romances in memory,
Returning painfully in the soft spirits
Yellow paper, of my diary.
In Tirana of the earlier steps,
Of a bench that is always naked with green flowers,
Of the last glass dropped through ridges
Pieces of lips, skies of love
And longing for passed times,
For the deeming of light in the white soul,
For the life thrown away through angles of reflections,
For the abandoned leaves from all this demise.
And traces in every heart beat
For her…for someone…for love,
Of after times that are knocked in so much noise
…and of autumn, e melancholic pentagram.
Exhausted and suffering up to the last point
Exhausted and suffering all the way to becoming drunk,
From the weight of fearful time,
And fatality of the offense of nations.
A time of screams from your centuries,
Raised over fires and fortresses of legends,
Bloody wounds by sleeping martyrs
A challenge of fate for the brave.
Twisted from the waves of our tributes
Lackeys rose over podiums of pain,
Exalted crowds all the way to craziness,
Undersigned of heretical time.
A song of the first bird in the morning
A wind of earth covered by green flowers
A muse of skies always in azure
A summer flower always shining.
A hope and praying ground of your sons
A suffer of sacrilegious raised over freedom
An ancient root of the human foundation
An eternal voice on the last passions.
Precious white stone!
Precious white stone has remained there,
Hidden after walls and fearful winter,
After the weak drapes and the heretical time,
After the turns and mountains lost in the west.
White precious stone is still there,
Amid the years and lives passed with anger,
Amid the steps that reach all the way to childhood,
Amid longing and my spiritual pain.
White precious stone forgotten there,
Perhaps after the northern ice in depth
Dissolved through the gorges of restless wolfs,
Times of timeless of turbulent fates!
White precious stone, sleeping there
Below a pretty piece of sky, stars that suffer
Descending and broken by the vibration of drunkenness
Ascending all the way to the sky, just like in Holy Spirit.
(Translated by Peter Tase)
（彼得•塞斯 英译；童天鉴日 汉译）
About the translator:
Member of Shanxi Province Writers’ Association and the Poetry Institute of China, Dr. Tongtian Jianri has many publications, including nine books on poetry, poetry translation and essays. Now he lives at Taiyuan, Shanxi Province, China, and co-edits a number of websites and journals. He is an associate editor of Chinese Poetry BBS, a co-editor of the New Poetry Archive and a guest editor of the World Poets Quarterly.
Founders: Dr Zhang Zhi