Merita Paparisto (Albania – Canada)

 
Merita Paparisto (Albania – Canada)
 
Merita Paparisto was born and grew up in Elbasan City. She has a Bachelor degree in Finance from the University of Tirana. Writing is her hobby and her passion. She has published three books: “Cristal in the fog”(2005) “Beyond… “(2018), “Solstice” (2020) as well a book with short stories written by her “The foolishness of broken years” (2020)
Merita has also translated and published a book with short stories, from well-known authors such as Joyce, Capote, Chopin, Virginia Wolf, O’ Henry, Poe, etc. titled “Selected short stories”( 2005).
Other poetry translations have been published in different online magazines or portals.
She has a blog,( http://www.kamomila-kamomila.blogspot.com) where she posts her creative works as well as her translated works.
 
 
A ballade for my grandma
 
I combed your hair and braided your grey dreams
on petite braids that become thinner and thinner every day
I touched your sight, that curious one…. under your eyes…
I polished your nails that were getting as old,
as the arthritis joints of your hands.
And yet, your silent, frozen sight over this world
that whirled much faster than can be perceived by you…
 
your sorrow was sealed in your chest’s box
the box that you entombed under the rose tree.
The last memory of touching your perfectly weakened bones
and your white delicate skin
is crackling on my fingertips
like the whisper that you had borrowed
from the running wind.
 
But I remember you having those warm blue circles of energy
that poured over and surrounded me forever.
Those warm waves that I miss so much
in this cold and wild world
I was crumbled in in hundreds white dots of hope
over the black sorrow of your dress
I was clinging to you with my baby hands
to shelter myself in your generous grey caves.
………………………………………………..
The white and black buds that you planted in me
are missing your blue light so much grandma.
 
 
Drunk
 
One bottle of wine is too much for my tiny body
Alcohol is flowing with blood in the same veins
but in two entirely deferent riverbeds, without mixing.
When the streams go to the brain, the party starts.
The gutsy neurons dance in the cortex
I too, dance along.
 
Certainly, there are two things
that happen to me when I drink:
I hug everyone around me
and I always forget the second one.
 
My skin is already turned green
whereas my eyes, are trying to catch
the sight of your eyes
in the same colour of my skin.
You’re ostensibly acting like you are not looking at me
but there is no escape.
I reach for you and murmur in your ear
“you are the only love of my life
and I am going to love you till death do us apart”
You answer with a “thank you” to every affirmation
with a smile on your face.
 
In my head, the whole time, I want to write this poem
but I don’t have hands.
It feels like they’ve been snapped
first the forearms to the elbows
latter the arms up to shoulders.
I would’ve preferred,
my inner bowels at once with the stomach,
had been uprooted, instead
 
The bottle of wine and the cortex party
is coming to an end
the neurons stumble on charred stumps
and fall atop each other, sleeping.
 
I turn off the radio of the car
as we are driving home,
being convinced now
that I am musical notes on the pentagram
I am afraid
that I might fly simultaneously
with the tune and the lyrics of the song
out of the car window.
 
The stream of alcohol and blood, are finally mixed
I feel like I am drowning in that darkly liquid with no name
I can’t even swim without arms.
A densely gloomy longing fog
falls suddenly, on the riverbanks of blood,
It brings a suffocating stuffiness humidity.
The breeze of forgetfulness is sleeping.
 
“A turkish coffee would make you feel better “said the host
In the background, the music again
and the monotone voice of the fortune-teller
looking at the hieroglyphs on the walls of coffee cup
“I see a black dog biting your leg “ –
that’s all that my brain could process…
Then I enter into a forest in flames
I’m dehydrated… burning.
 
 
Would you be able…
 
Would you be able, letting me
be planted into your brain?
 
Me, the tiny wild earthy seed…
chestnut with the thorny skin
 
Your brain is white coral
cliffs and caves, cliffs and caves
 
The famished roots of seed
debilitated in the darkness of the abyss
 
The sloppy, murky thoughts speaking
With the little voice: whispering in my ears
“You’re seeking to be planted
in the wrong place…
the brain is not the heart”
 
Hence:
“swallow the darkness and survive,
swallow the darkness and survive”
 
 

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