Rudina Çupi (Albania)

 
Rudina Çupi (Albania)
 
 
Rudina Çupi is an Albanian writer. She has studied Albanian Language and Literature at the University of Tirana. Her artistic activity includes four poetry books: “© All rights reserved” (2015); “®”(2010); Shkopsitje / “Unbuttoning” (2006); and “Don’t remember me the death” (1993). Rudina is the author and translator of several children’s books too and didactic book. For several media she writes critical writing, journalistic articles, interviews etc. and she love to organize reading activities with children. She worked in some main Publishing Houses.
 
 
 
Art and women are major culprits…
 
A football commentator opines like a poet.
 
1.
Art made usable!!!
After all, it’s what adults do best with
precious things: possessing.
Why should we judge them?
Perhaps a Nobel prize is more valuable
when sung in the shower… Go ahead and sing!
 
But whom to blame for the fadeing of hope,
except the ones who are able to create?
 
From “Madonna and The Child Jesus”
to “The Lady With The Dog”
there are only a few children in the arts
and, consequently in the yards,
(having kids is so classic!)
not that they aren’t interesting,
but when women saw how sons were used to fight wars,
and daughters to place guilt upon,
women began to economize creation
to teach everyone that life is given to be blissful.
People created non-adopting couples
and the world is relieved, really…
Nevertheles, art and women are major culprits…
 
2.
The family is a belly.
It and the churches emptied daily
reduced to uninhabited wombs.
The womb, a word soon to be forgotten.
“Test tube” is much more modern
and the blame cannot be placed all on science
that there would be only animals embarking Noah’s Ark,
or for the fabricated pacifiers,
audio lullabies and fairy tales,
the invented mothers for pay…
Of the weaks, only children are left.
 
The happy ending and women are major culprits …
 
My Aquatic Child
 
My aquatic baby, all white,
freedom you are now spreading
surfacing across wide-shored beaches.
Lying on his back, playing with midair toys and sailing ships,
troubled, thrilled, abyssal.
 
When the shores take you,
closing and closing upon you, threatening
to crush and dilute you like a river,
my fluid baby, do not lament or thunder,
tears will decipher you,
you will feel sweet water like all rivers
running along a path
and ironically, the nostalgia for the ships of the past,
you’ll confess to the logs on your back.
 
Learn not to lament, my aquatic son,
when you melt like snow and dissolve into steam on the glass
or passing between two slabs of soil so narrow
as if between two hands kissing in prayer
then remember you are destino: to leave …
So leave, leave constantly.
Travel to discover new oppressed forms of yourself
until you realize the advancing force you have within yourself
to carve underground rocks
to find your way with your nails carving away
until you have invented a rift and found light.
Then explode, marvolous, tall, colorfull, a waterfall;
reigning with a fog crown
a swan with a helo.
 
Translated into English by Shpresa Ymeraj
 
 
 

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