Kadrush Radogoshi (Kosova)

 
Kadrush Radogoshi (Kosova)
 
Kadrush Radogoshi is an award-winning Albanian writer from Kosova who has published 20 books of poetry, essays, literary criticism, and novels. His poetry has been included in several Albanian, English, Swedish, and Romanian anthologies. A past president of the Writers Union Kosova, Kadrush Radogoshi taught literature until he immigrated to Canada in 2010. There he studied Multicultural Studies and English as a Second Language (ESL) in NorQuest College, also was selected one of four members of Borderlines Writers Circle 2013-2014. In 2014 Kadrush Radogoshi won The Project Grant for Individual Artists (The highest grant) in Edmonton (Canada) for his interpretative novel Laocoon.
 
 
ON THE PLANE WHILE RETURNING TO THE FATHERLAND
 
On the plane, while returning to fatherland,
The clouds lose their symbolism of evil
They become white and look like a milk froth
Newly milked by the “Shepherdess” of a Symphony.
 
It does not have to say that the world of words should be round
Like the shape of our planet,
Or like the form of virtual planets
In continuous change.
 
The world of words was born from the oldest word
From the word that is renewed
By the birth of another word about the world
In the maternity upon a white cloud of cotton
A cover of the immortal hope.
 
The word, a renewed woman in labour, took me by the hand
As one of her children
To show me where she keeps the secrets of her daughters
To make me the discoverer of a never pronounced word
Hidden somewhere in the depths of souls,
That was never understood
Why it turn into joyful strings of a violin
In the hand of a virtuous wind.
 
After landing
I think we should not go this way
And not even the other one beyond the crossroad,
I think we should not go the left way
We should not go the right way either
Because within the cells of unprotected words
Television studios spring up like the mushrooms after the rain
Poisonous for the unpolluted spirit of each word
Poisoning for the DNA of love,
When love springs like a flower in the garden of dreams
Placed in the heart of a young bride,
When she tells that in each word there is a plane,
Flying proud over the abysses
Flying in love with the cosmos of the beauty of the word.
 
On the plane, while returning to fatherland,
The clouds lose the symbolism of the evil
They become white and look like milk froth
Newly milked by the “Shepherdess” of a Symphony.
While flying
 
Edmonton – Toronto, on 1.5. 2021
 
 
A SHIRT SEWN OF FIRE SEEMS TO BE THE SKIN OF A WOMAN
 
The skin of a woman in the mad dream of a poet
Is a shirt of fire
Is a beautiful shirt of fire
Dressed in the cold of polar winters
On that body of a cypress tree seen nowhere.
 
The skin of this woman is a soft shirt of cotton
If you touch it with the fingers of desire like a space of universe
Filled with planets, whose true lover
Is a circulating satellite around its axis
Of this woman dressed in her skin a soft shirt of cotton.
 
The skin of the woman of my dream burned fire
In an unjust war and never declared legally
In the name of peace and freedom.
 
In the middle of a pandemic or biological war
No one understands,
Is a wavy surface of the ocean,
Where the fire is extinguished, which isn’t extinguished,
Where the fire lights which does not light.
All is an issue of a point of view.
 
The skin of the woman of a spring dream
Could be an orchard of flowers ready for an outburst of odor,
It might be a bread field ready to be sown,
It might be a mountainside designed
With red pines, with white pines, with black pines
With pines that have learned the art of slowing playful love.
 
It might be a shirt designed with rhymed verses
With free verses like the birds in flight
It might be a love novel in a time of pandemic
It might a tragicomedy in a time of politico mania,
There, while reading, the doors of each word and each sound
Should be opened carefully
Because words might be hurt and run away un-understood
Like many times.
 
The skin of a woman might also be an eternal altar,
Where human dreams sent their purple kisses,
Where the historians will write another version of history,
A version that does not begin with the barren word group
“Once upon a time, there was…”
 
A shirt sown of saint fire
Seems to be the skin of a woman in the mad dream of a poet!
 
Edmonton, August 7, 2020
 
 
DRESSED ONLY IN MOONLIGHT
 
Drunk as if I had drunk a whole barrel of wine
Red as the blood of love itself,
I asked her to taste those ripe fruits
In the garden of her soul.
 
The whole garden filled with fruits
She put into the Aphrodite’s statue
Dressed in a dress sewn by the light of full moon
And brought into my room,
“Put it where you want the statue you asked for”, she said
And vanished as if she had never existed
And left me in the same room with the statue
Placed :
Between the desire a volcano lava
In the middle of polar-fear glacier.
 
“I wanted to kiss you dear soul
And hold what’s in my hands
Like a trophy of a love that can get transformed
But can never die,
Therefore, what
I need is a marble statue
Arrived from antique times”,
I whispered or said loudly.
 
I never understood it.
 
“The soul of your beloved
Is in every part of my body,
Take me in front of your hands
And squeeze me with all the strength
I have given you
Until the volcano outbreaks
Out of the great lava of my soul”,
Said my smiling statue of Aphrodite
Dressed only in moonlight.
 
The square of that city elevated in the soul
I cleaned from the trash of ruins
Of castles of madness
To erect the statue of Aphrodite
Dressed only in moonlight.
 
Edmonton, October 11, 2020
 
 

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