Irena Gjoni (Albania)

Irena Gjoni (Albania)

 

Irena Gjoni was born in Saranda, Albania (Europe).
She has a degree as a Doctor of Science in Literature (the University of Tirana, year 2012).
She is currently a part-time professor at the University of Tirana, Saranda Branch. She also teaches at the “Hasan Tahsini” Gymnasium.

Irena has worked as a journalist in the print and audio-visual media for many years.
She teaches at the University “Aleksandër Moisiu”, Durrës, and she’s a member of the League of Writers and Artists of Albania; member of the association of professional journalists, vice president of the association “Club of Ionian creators”, member of the Artistic Council of the Municipality of Saranda.

Since high school, Irena has published poetry, prose, as well as critical and study writings in various periodicals in the Albanian language and in foreign languages. She is a participant in many scientific conferences at home and outside her home country.
Mostly, she participated in many poetic manifestations in different countries of Europe where she has won first prizes. She is a participant in several poetic anthologies in her native language, Albanian, and foreign languages.

Irena has published several books, which is…

1. “Tattoo in the spirit of the sea” poetry, year 2003
2. “Relationship of myths and cults of the Ionian Coast with those across the border” study 2008
3. “Half of the love” a fiction volume, year 2010
4. “Mountain peaks and ionic magma” poetry, year 2011.
5. “Poetry” poems, year 2013.

This author has also been translated into several foreign languages ​​(English, French, Croatian, Romanian, Greek, Turkish, Swedish, Italian, etc.).

 

LOVE NEAR THE ABYSS

We made love at the edge of an abyss.
On the tips of your fingers,
Felt by the moon’s slice.

I am in love with you angel,
With you the darkness of the abyss,
With you the familiar moon as a thief of hearts.

I don’t know who to sadden!

The Abyss attracts you with its mysterious depth:
Swallows a piece of abyss.
The moon lusts you with a piece of hers’:
Swallow a piece of the moon.
Would you think that I attract you with the unshared Secrets:
Swallow a secret of mine.

I have to rescue you
From myself, the abyss and the moon,
While preserving you in a soul shape aquarium
Which may not penetrated by many pairs of eyes altogether,

Because love swallows heads…

 

MY OAK TREE

You have the smell of an oak
Where above you a bird with a human’s voice,
Articulated the discourse
Since there should have been raised an oracle to Zeus.

You are alive in the oak’s soul
Since the world placed the first stone.
I eat thanks to you my Pelasgian God
Almonds and juice from your dreams.
Chew and grind them with the teeth of my soul
In order to live thanks to your wheat
And mixed the bread of the Sun.

The scroll of the water’s creek,
Are the tears of breath
And the murmuring of your leaves,
Which meditates even in the dead languages
Hugs of branches and roots in the distance.

And the articulated fate through their resonance,
It says that even when you won’t be,
You will continue to grind almonds of dreams with me
And arrives with the odor of the oak…

 

FROM A TIGER CAGE HANGING IN THE SKY

From a tiger cage hanging in the sky,
In this carnivore night of dreams
Before Jon with its ancient longing chorus of waves,
Feel the wind that enters frivolously
Through the tiger’s respire.

With her tongue tries to dry her tear,
A tear that has made
Her road of years and years in order to appear once
And it needs centuries to dry),
While raising discourses by mountain peaks.

O darling, on what side are you looking at the moon today?
Or from what side is she looking at you?
On the sword of the soul, she saw her broken limbs
And blind eyes from your absence.

The dark cloth of the sky is turned into
An unbroken crystal, unpunctuated
For taking – giving divine discourses…

 

THE DARK CLOTH LADY FROM THE SHORES

The dark rag of the lady from the shores,
Is kidnapped from one angle by the crazy storm,
Even though it is heavy from the weight of the “load”
Made more sustainable thanks to her,
(An old tradition, when she had someone for a gift).

The other angle of the rag,
Tangled in a pile of dark firewood,
Who knows how many winters they were abandoned,
Since there is no one to burn them in the fire place.

Tries to bring her out of her solitude,
With the irreverence of mumbling:
“Hope that you would never tear apart!”

With the lips that vibrate,
Poured like a cross, was hanged over the shoulder.
Without it would not begin “the longing of oneself”
Seen from beyond the life, from outside of time….

 

Translated by Peter Tase

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