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.
 
 

The song of disillusion

What day is today? But what of it anyway?
The name of hours, days, long months
all died, forever buried,
like trains that go like trains that come…
On the cross of railways a little beggar sits
with his hungry soul,
and frightened, eyes peeled open. Ragged
the childish hand, he outreaches.

“Please sir,
write me a couple of love verses, sir,”
And the gent tosses him a couple of cents…

The surface of moon is evaporating,
covered in grey mist
like in the tales with dragons.
The dark side remains hidden…
What could be tither? Which of these, the truth?
from those five… ten or twenty?
How is its face? Which mask will it show me?
Am I going to know it, or will it recognize me?
The shadow of the moon’s mask walks through the park…
sometimes it appears, sometimes it vanishes or runs to hide
whereas on the crossroad the little beggar sits

“Please sir,
write me a couple of love verses, sir,”
And the gent tosses him a couple of cents…

Memories are babies.. that turn into leaves
yellowed in fall… as light as a breath
that in the end exhaled with no more inhales left.
That’s how irises of eyes pinned to the floor
hurt, tired from the sleep that does not come anymore
to the endless crossroad of the black maze
at the threshold of which the little beggar sits

“Please sir,
write me a couple of love verses, sir,”
And the gent tosses him a couple of cents…

Someone ate and drank on the shiny table
another tasted the food and left forever
someone pocketed the used spoon and forgot
another on the empty plate his shadow saw…
So come, let’s overthrow the mahogany that welcomed us
let’s step on the crumbs, let’s plant them in a dark place
In a black place where nothing sprouts
there where the little beggar sits

“Please sir,
write me a couple of love verses, sir,”
And the gent tosses him a couple of cents…

The road to the end is too long
the trout of the cradle and the horse
dandle us to sleep along
you hold me, I hold you…
you have me I have you
back to back like the turtle its home
Siamese brothers
frightened only by death
but it time that kills them
and castrates their dreams
by the blade of the scythe
the little beggar sits

“Please sir,
write me a couple of love verses, sir,”
And the gent tosses him a couple of cents…

The storm began and ended at sea
but in a glass of water a ship did drown
the sirens sweetly sharpening their voice
the constriction of ropes, Ulysses arms they cut
drops of blue blood dripping onto the deck
Penelope is waiting in a very wide bed…
at the shore, barefooted, with his toes in the foam
freezing, wet, the little beggar sits

“Please sir,
Write me a couple of love verses, sir,”
And the gent tosses him a couple of cents…


Gravity

Have you ever tried
to totally surrender to gravity ?
You, gravity and the earth
in a love threesome
unique, never tried before, unusual, beyond human

Have you ever tried to exist
in the pale twilight of May
on a thick grass carpet of saturated soil
laying down in an angel position?

Whereas you relax all your muscles one by one
cease to resist, bequeath, capitulate…
you feel the gravity enveloping your body
deeply caressing, sweetly penetrating
in every muscle cell and sinew that you surrender…
In meantime the earth holds you up in its arms
with so much love, never tiring or complaining
never letting you down.


Meeting- point

That day you found me
(I believe it was Saturday)
I was a open book
even with a missing cover
written all in verse

A very old, used book
no idea how it was found
on the night table, beside your bed
and somewhere inside your veins
started growing like a twitch grass
the ritual of reading me
before, between and after the acts

The day that I found you
your sight, turned my verses
into fallows
and from all the seeds
that were bulging and reviving
inside my abdomen
I loved better, the ones
that sprouted into your navel

 

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