Ledia Dushi (Albania)


Ledia Dushi (Albania)
Ledia Dushi was born in 1978 in the northern Albanian town of Shkodra. She studied Albanian language and literature and she continued and finished her master’s and doctoral studies in ethnology-folklore. She is a researcher at the Institute of Cultural Anthropology and Art Studies in Tirana, Albania. She is also a translator. Her well-received verse is written primarily in the dialect of Shkodra, gegë. It has been published in the volumes: Ave Maria bahet lot (Ave Maria Turns to Tears), Tirana 1997; Seancë dimnash (Winter’s Session), Shkodra 1999; Me mujt me fjet me kthimin e shpendve (If I could sleep with the bird’s return…), Tirana 2009 and a volume of her verse has also appeared in Italian, Tempo di pioggia (Rainy Weather), Prishtina 2000, Rain in the dark, Transcendent Zero Press, USA 2019, N`nji fije t`thellë gjaku (In a deep thread of blood), Onufri Publishings, Tirana, Albania 2019, Femna s`asht njeri (Woman is not human), BardBooks, Prishtina, Kosovo 2020.
In the 1998 she was awarded with “The Silver Pen for First Book” from the Ministry of Culture.
Her poems are published in Lichtungen – Zeitschrift für Literatur, Kunst und Zeitkritik, Nr.103, XXVI. Jahrgang, Graz 2005, and Orte. Schweizerische Literaturzeitschrift n°186 : Lyrik aus Albanien, 2016.
She also participated with readings in Leipzig Book Fair 2011 and Frankfurt Book Fair in 2006.
She was invited in Literariches Colloquium in Berlin, Germany (2004) and in Internationales Haus der Autorinnen und Autoren, Graz, Austria 2005.
Her poems are translated into German, Polish, French, Macedonian, Greek, Serbian, Italian, Chinese etc.
who knows what’s of the water
smitten house ‘neath the stones
a musky dusk
drowned the eyes
cold dead watery things
the anguishing coast
the wailing seagulls
an unbroken moon
yet to shuck itself, solely in blood
sprinkles of liquefied words
within the mouth
the smell of grape, when trampled on
a body smashed in heat
every drop of it drains into women
a vein snatching breath
falls down to the womb
and it wastes into giggles of women
into bird crumbs water colliding
into the cliffs past the waves
there a breath chirm or a noise chirm
the pond is clumsy don’t chirm a word
for islands, the pain we unleash
surrounds it by land
it will become March
the grass will sparkle
in stringed up ties of rain
till the glinting is over
the night’ ll come
so that it’s time for stray lord to wander of
cloaked in his foggy shroud
hurling dreams into foreheads
before the final veil
to tear down all deplumed
into some veil of immolation…
nothing rises out of water
silence numbs our eyes
so that we can’t see
how smooth the grass can be
to slide our way to March
how its path
leads you to the sun
slams you knocks you down
burns you in the rush
to none other than a Human
…it’s the foggy sound of the lake in dawn
echoing on the things headed to the sun
floating floating floating entangled entangled colliding
it’s the ions bonding into one against the fog
getting in every hollow every skull
all the mornings in the world happening without me
the whole world’s now a foggy lonesome lake
of branches and nests and birds on it’s harness
taking your eyes and mind and heart and gloomily sounding a morning to the world
wooden houses distorted by the night
doors girded with rain falling into one thought
the night’s the zenith of the stars named after shadows
clenched into one thought the shadows penetrate the bodies
a discreet disease on the hunt
this is the moon of longing
bullet to the butterflies weaving around the ground
returning from a certain death
pulled the head out of hair
for they can vow amid purple
been dreaming of me holding onto two falcon feathers nearly falling
nearly in ramble nearly in the white of a nightly moon covering my head
i sing a few songs sing a few songs that sprout of a place deeper than the inside
dreamily i hold on to names women names and to sung women
women ill with a dark illness wet illness falling off the tree
and the moistened invite her to languish circling in flare
been dreaming of myself hanging onto two floating feathers in the air
eye to eye with a falcon
the language is dead and useless
to what the Soul since the beginning of time
keeps locked, since immense eternity
the sky’s no secret, he’s undisclosed
everyone’s a temple of themselves
standing under You who spring from above
their ears ought to hear you, their Souls ought to shine drawn in delirium and essences
enlightened by each and every cosmic blast
and you hang on you hang on you hang on
nearly falling you hang on to a thread of blood
in the air in the air staring at the sky of talking stars
aloft you stand in the air on a deep thread of blood
Translated into English by Genta Hodo

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