Ilir Paja (Albania)
Ilir Paja was born in Durres in 20.09.1971 .
In the period of time 1991 to 1995 he was graduated from the faculty of philology at the University of Tirana, branch of Albanian language and literature.
While in 2009 to 2011 he accomplished the studies for MND at UT (literary studies) where he graduated with the thesis on: “Poet Zef Zorba between hermetic obscuration and modern illumination.”
Actually, since 1995 onwards he is exercising the profession of the Albanian language and literature teacher. Since 2003 and so far he is teaching in the high school “Naim Frashëri” of Durres city.
1. He started my literary composition when he was a college student (in high school) to continue during university as a student (which I continue at present), in poetry, prose, essays and scientific articles.
While from 1995 onwards (without interruption) he was practicing the profession of the Albanian language and literature teacher at the public high school “Naim Frashëri” in Durres city.
He have published poetic works in volumes of poetry:
“Not being silent” published in 1996, by the publishing house “Marin Barleti”.
“The leaves are approaching” published in 2006, by the publishing house “Ideart”.
“The stars are dripping” published in 2010, by the publishing house “Ideart”.
While in the literary press, from journalism bodies in literary magazines he have published periodically creativity, as in the magazine “Poeteka”, “ Mehr Licht”, “ Obelisk”,” Literary Visions”, in “The Voice of Youth”, “The Light”, “National” , “The Twilight”, “Milosao” etc.
2. Resarch literary writings he have published in literary magazines like “Poeteka”, where he have published a chapter of the diploma thesis asserting MND with the subject “: “Poet Zef Zorba between hermetic obscuration and modern illumination.”,”Obelisk”, where two of them are published, one on Hemingway prose and the other on Kadare’s novel “The clerk of the Dream Palace”. While in “Nacional” was published a study writing for F.Kafka prose, about the novel “Process” and finally a fragment from micro-thesis about the poetry of Zef Zorba poet.
He is a member in editions “Poeteka” held in Durres in 2005-2010 where he have published poetic composition in a foreign language (English) in one of the International Festival editions “Poeteka”.
In 2011 he participated in the activity with the topic: “Mediterranean poetic” in Palermo, Italy, where the event had the motto “ Mediterraneo in luce” where I represented the poetry of our country in the presence of many countries bordering from the Mediterranean sea. And in 2013 with the Albanian painter Alfred Milot he took part again in Rome, he with a work of art in painting, whereas I with my poetry was accompanying his work in honor of the 150th anniversary of the Austrian artist Klimt Gystav.
Actually in the newspaper “The Century “, ” Boulevard “, he write about different topics from social, artistic, educational and political life in the field of “Opinion”.
Email address: email@example.com
I put out my arms through the sleeves of flames.
By hands I hugged the body.
When I was buttonholing the life coals΄ buttons
I remained silent …
Being dressed in fire
the fingering of others,
even though had the ashen color and softness
they liked my undressing.
Being dressed in fire
I don’t need to choose weapons for the duel!
A curious child…
Were been removed the sheets curtains of dusk.
The sun as a lighting scene
was hidden to begin the fairy tale of the star.
Suddenly came in on the scene the other stars …
Somewhere in the room the child approaches to his mother,
still doesn’t believe that the sky is not just
a great tale but even the only one
When you’re apologizing to Melos
Emotions weave a cradle of solitary happiness.
Head is slightly fallen on the baby violin …
Above us, a large body of heaven, not of blood, nor of earth
but entirely of milk …
To leave at least quiet at that moment the breasts …
The violin remains a prattler, because guests
want to be a mother to her…
The sounds, this stream of milk, are set on fire
there, where the musician, this evening
donated his spirit to the fingerings.
Heaven is waiting over there, outside…
Tired, wacked till in the veins of winds, haggard,
broken till into the pith of the bone,
chewed through the constructions’ trowels and scaffolding
If heaven must stuck up in a cabin lift …
stretches oneself out there, under the ground …
The rains get poured over it as self-sacrifice from the watershed’s heights .
In the invisibility of the telephone cables
the human voice hasn’t been pecked like the birds do…
Jumps from the clouds as a knight,
Goes down from their pad as an autumn … the hero Don Quixote … …
Puts on its shoulders trees’ mantels.
Hides the palms into the rains …
I know, that leaves aren’t neither charity …
The man “handcuffs” with lacing his legs, as hands expelled from the body.
In the field, the haystacks are punches’ virility, because the earth is shrinking as a baby.
Icy whiteness are sprawling in the twilights…
They are heaven’s muscles lividly perpetuated.
Heaven is waiting over there, outside …
Even fleshy is invisible
granted beyond a Tartuffe’s fraud and the Don Juan’s passion,
but in the heights remains a woman.
Heaven is the entertainer of all expectations …
But the man still the heaven knocks
senses by clips – those game birds…
The silence of the sea
The Sea hushes through the waves’ lips.
It gasps in malleable way.
The wind donates to it the airy palate.
Then the sea is yearning
to remain an unbitten mouth.
Only the kiss manages to touch all the shores …
The hunger of sea seems like is biting
now and then the heavens in incoming flight…
The night dreams of a sleepless poet.
In the Moony garret his verse
is putting names into the cells of the stars
to find the most distant day …
From downstairs, a woman
goes up to the poet
with a cup of tea, a little butter,
some toasted bread,
and fed up breasts …
Buying sky with the coins of stars…
Without heaven you cannot buy even your shadow.
The death in person donates itself because believes
in a pending sky …
If the poet Ungaretti was fed up
with infinity: that’s his statement!
With the coins of stars
we can buy his commencement …
To exchange with stars the paupers,
which would be in the markets of heaven
the price of riches?
It appears that misery a coin of star
will forge a ferrule for candles quencher…
A Poet buys sky with coins of metaphors.
But it seems that this figure is the star,
now a wintery chestnut …
Without heaven the day cannot be food
and the night neither digestion!
With the coins of stars I ban buy
the absolute solitude …
Oh! How many human heavens would like
that I buy them today! …
The punctuations …
The stars look like as the punctuations
although the space doesn’t write words somewhere! …
The sky is falling in…
The sky is falling in
even though the stars haven’t descended yet.
The clouds, like spongy brooms
squeeze the dirty sweat …
Above them, the eternity smokes without moving
waiting the returns …
And though, the magic cigarette
was set on fire by an earthy fire fly …
The sky is falling in
just because nobody is inseminating
In the field of thinking,
even into the infertility of land itself…
One year not just the yesteryear…
The fireworks pour as champagne foam
pour over us …
on the table, the bottle of wine is waiting for me.
As a bottle opener I collect the people’s destinies …
And raise my hand after the cork,
as I was a drunken Archimedes …
I give a glass to the snow outside
the other one to the snag which was cut
I shatter the glass of false
in a falling avalanche …
Heaven is draped somewhere
for not being the avalanche.
If not so!
would fill our mouths
as the lips we would like to have the horizon.
The sky is an avalanche even if it started
to weigh on
The Sunset is no fairy tale.
It is a banknote where the sun,
doesn’t understand the value of price of the day.
A worker fell dropped from scaffolding,
in the fairytale’s price has the same price as a flying carpet …
And the night, this sunset stood on his head
without a constellation’s tear!
Dawn is a cloth as coveralls,
that the entrepreneur declares it anywhere
in taxes, as an old, torn, dirty Moon
where its invisible part qualifies as a widow …
For now, his family strained until to the bones in mourning,
is scrutinizing this sunset as a hope and unfair.
Uncovered with Moony scarf inserted through the clouds…
The snow is a silence of the sky.
The paradise flakes off secretly frightened …
What a pain!
The children are shaping a virile snowman …
by making more hoar the little Beatrice …
The wounded wind…
The night screws up its eyes through the stars.
And the Moon, this brow which gets aggravated on the eyelid,
traces to hypnotic the night,
even if itself is silence of eye …
While gives to the space the eyesight’s lake
this woody nymph that keeps the Moon as fairy tale.
The sky during the nights preserves unhealed wounds,
to donate bride hood to the earthy male…
The airplanes …
They roar as myths transmigrated only into heavens.
Want to be even little bit little angels …
They rise up if will have the heaven in duel.
In front of the clouds are observable nests for other skies …
Deity of the shadow …
can not be the death …
But neither the revival!
The body is earth and the soul is air.
To avoid being canted in the sky …
The Marathon Runner
The sun rises as disk of Olympic Games.
The power of the horizon rises it up by a muscular sky.
To push it out until to the shadows …
Man sprawls on the ground over the circular sun.
And he brings the message of a victory.
Now without the shadows, all eternities are thirsty.
The poet’s pen
Is blowing Meuse’s wind
and the poet’s pen this pulled out bone
After a body lightning where the metaphor
was snuggled as a woody-nymph with the wings closed as eyes,
threw away the pen as the fate in the desert,
and the white sheet …
Is fearing, hiding and falling this pen on
this small paradise as cusp of
a flying carpet.
The poet’s eyes have sowed this soil
once there they have uprooted some old stars.
The Mountains! Woolen pelerines worn by shepherds,
that protect the stars like sheep.
While the clouds, like hungry wolves
weep as in fairytales with showery tears.
To be dressed
The night is dressing itself by starlight’s comb.
The bobby- pin of the moon still retains
lustful yarn from the sun …
Descends from the fairytales fringes
to plant as a tree the magic wand.
The air feels that absorbs the flavor
of one evening brushed as a charming bride…
The night is dressing itself by starlight’s comb.
Looking for the rib…
Eva is a wind
so the fleshy heaven for all eternity
as a tree branch incurves until
to the roots΄ pain.
The cloud over the wind is baptism of the rib
under the tears of happiness.
From the ground sprouts one root
and stands as a rib looking
for the blood.
Twilight…. (The Moon evanesces washy as a jellyfish …)
The twilight is eternity where every shade
is the back of the body.
Because is a desire to choose
still a Sun for a fairytale.
Twilight stands as a middle-aged man,
and is covered with the night, this woman
with a veil of Moon.
When the sky is waiting outside to put on you the windy socks…
Spring! The petals splutter the dew as babies΄ fetuses …
The flower blossom excited a sky’s kiss,
following the rainbow…
If the wind slept last night as childhood bud,
now this cheekbone’s fondling of Creator,
rises as breasts’ hillock…
Now the pollen, this resin raises the Soul
up into stars΄ hospitality…
The soil felt in cells newly plowed lump
that space is its slave…
God and honeybees are sitting together with the poorest man.
But God is happy when the Sun’s mill begins to grind
the fate of the wind, this sensual seduction.
To love both the earth and the sky
the nature is one of the lungs,
the other one breathes some man muscle with wings
of swallows΄ return.
During the nights, the air drinks lightning-bug’s sweat …
The fairytale is so close …
a virile limb of a hero.
The human blood evaporates while are coloring Easter eggs
and the white cloud is the bride – hood of day.
Spring! The fathers arrive as a remembrance of the inevitable
of Pantheism … the butterfly does not feel itself just a shadow of eternity.
In the twilight lightning-bug’s wood-nymphs without the smell of nectar,
understand, that the sky is no other pains than the stars…
The flower smiles as the horizon which dreams petal’s dimension.
The spring as a mother teaches the morning that after
the First Love
kissed by innocence, should now have as a lover a honeybee.
The one, who conceived the day even with the hidden stars …
in the steps of spring’s sky… the night invites the happiness!
The spring this resin of skies…
Horizon, this fence surrounded by age long
hardwoods of clouds.
The sun on the eyelid full of woman eyelashes’ tinting,
Begins the evanescence into the skin of space…
It is spring.
Nowhere is heard the voice
of enmities! Hospitality is a spoonful of heaven
with sips of dew.
Horizon, this proven loyalty doesn’t get lost
by word, now and then is evanescing in tissue
Into the heavens, the stars begin to require
this untaken off shirt of night …
This gloaming horizon belongs to us.
With its pollen of sun we fill
the honeycombs of tales…
Without sound the caterpillar over the soil
is digging heaven … a star looks like as fairy lightening bug.
Spring! April is tinting the eyebrow
of the Moon.
It’s curveting as eclipse, celestial body,
which is sitting on the knees of the fields filled with nostalgia
in the throat of the first swallows.
The nights are approaching by hands of bouquets
where between the petals and stars,
the fingers color the air by the fingertips
The land sleeps on the other side, turned upside down
plowed. The opened scars just are filled
with wind, as the shore with the waves.
Now, the long ago evanescent Sun, smell
baked bread by the embers΄ kisses.
From air’s honeycomb springs the dew.
The flowers and the petals as foresail invite the wind
be the ship of their own.
In a garden, the lightening bugs play blind -man’s- buff…
While the children shake the branches of days
longer than fruits’ foretastes …
A honeycomb air felt warming up in redness,
Not from the Moon … but from a woman’s body began to flourish
a bosom’s kiss…
It is spring. All men would like
id they were hardwood forests.
As the wind as a woman attracts them till to the roots …
And the sky is painting the stars with their resin’s temptation …
O Spring! The resin, this blood of yours …
for the heavens is a fertile ground…
The spring prunes the skies’ redundant branches…
A vine branch is broken as a human limb
after an accident…
Is broken … with sharp sound is cracking, crack … !
The moon’s tongues shaped as Scissors
lick each other if are kissing
lips on lips.
The spring blossoms on tears’ steel edges
of marble yearnings …
Fathers’ trees in gardens
examine the ramifications of nieces and nephews
that migrate through the earthy ground.
Fallen, their falling repose in roots
look like as homeland bones
who still believe in the resurrection.
But trees cannot be castles
that must be sized and conquered…
The season of pruning …
The Scissors dance through the clambering branches
as dancer feet who seeks the Windy as his partner.
The shearing takes away the flowers’ nervousness in front of the sky
that the land not is unkempt in this weather,
where no windy comb will spread on
even a gathered bunch of roots somewhere between ridges
where during the nights the Moon resembles not as a water line,
but as a milky way.
It’s time to bury the winter.
In its dying let the prune branches to accompany it,
as prisoners, where the probationary years remain as a suspended death …
… It’s time to cut the long nails of the winter.
As tutors hands who impregnate bare trees without heaven…
The Moon prunes redundant nights.
Those nights where to dreams are given to drink insomnia …
And the human body comes into the being in the morning a branch cut,
pruned till to the bones of the Moon …
This shearing seasons …
The day rises slothful through the sky.