TRABOINI /POETICA: DUA TE SHKOJ NE SHKODER

☸ MOS VDIS DASHURI 2002 ☸ NOKTURN 2004 ☸ REQUIEM PËR NJË GJETHE 2005 ☸ TRINIA IME 2006 ☸ KOHA E PROSTITUTAVE 2007 ☸ ITAKA GRUA 2008 ☸ LULE PELLAZGJIKE 2012 ☸ U DASHKA TË DAL NATËN VONË 2012 ☸ E KAM ATDHEUN TEK PORTA 2012 ☸ DASHURI 2013 ☸ FAJIN E KA HEKUBA 2014 ☸ ORAKUJT NË FERR 2015 ☸ ODEON 2016 ☸ OFELI 2019 ☸ ODE PËR SHKODRËN 2019
>☸ ZOGJTË E ARLINGTONIT 2020 ☸ AJO QË JETOJMË PËRDITË 2021 ☸ POETICA SHQIP 2005 ☸ POETICA ENGLISH 2006 ☸ DASHURIA MË E BUKUR 2007 ☸ I DËGJOJ LULET KUR FLASIN 2008 ☸ NIRVANA 2024 ☸

DUA TE SHKOJ NE SHKODER

DUA TE SHKOJ NE SHKODER

Dua të shkoj në Shkodër!
Më ka marrë malli për shegët e Baçallëkut
e buze liqenit për një peshk në tjegull.

Të isha fëmijë edhe një herë
kisha me vrapue si i marrë nëpër rrugë
pa frikë e drojë se kishin me më qeshë.

Ah, si na iku jeta për duarsh, e ujnat
ikën në det për mos me u kthye ma kurrë
edhe shiu nuk bjen ma si atëherë.

Prej larg ma ban me sy një shegë
unë pa e prekë me dorë
nuk mundem me dekë!

© K.P. TRABOINI 2010

KOLEC P. TRABOINI - Poet, Journalist & Movie Maker

CORRICULUM VITAE: Kolec P. Traboini, Albanian -American poet and writer, author of 47 books of poems, prose, filmmaker and journalist by profession, graduated from the University of Tirana, Albania in 1975. 1975-1991 scriptwriter for Kinostudio Albafilm Tirane, Albania. Traboini work included writing of scripts for documentary films. Recived 1-st National Prize for the film "Asdreni", 1976, first for the film "Keshtjella e Kengeve" (The Castle of Songs), also won the best Film of the Year 1990 for the film "Deshmi nga Barleti" (Witness from Barleti) - a war history of 1468-1478, in her hometown Shkoder, North Albania. He is the founder of the Albanian newspaper “Egnatia” in Athens, 1993, and is one of the most active creative contributors of the Albanian Community in America. He is a contributor to the newspaper “Illyria” in New York, and newspapers and magazins published in his native country, Albania. Traboini - has won a prize for book of short stories "Bitter Almond Petals" in Albania, 1974 and "Golden Pen" Kadmous 2007 by Writers Club "Drita" Athens, Greece.The President of Albania has granted Kolec Traboini the title "Grand Master" by decree no. 10653, on November 15, 2017.

TRABOINI - POETRY BOOKS

LIBRA - POEZI ORIGJINALE

_____________________

1- Mos vdis dashuri, 2002

2- Nokturn, 2004

3- Requiem për një gjethe, 2005

4- Trinia ime, 2006

5- Koha e prostitutave, 2007

6- Itaka Grua, 2008

7- Lule Pellazgjike, 2012

8- U dashka të dal natën vonë, 2012

9- E kam Atdheun tek Porta, 2013

10- Dashuri, përzgjedhje, 2013

11- Fajin e ka Hekuba, 2014.

12- Orakujt kanë zbritur në ferr, 2015

13- Odeon për gjëra që ngjasin, 2016

14- Ofeli, 2019

15- Ode për Shkodrën, përzgjedhje, 2019

LIBRA ME POEZI- SHQIPËRIME

1-Charles Bukowsky, 2019

2- World Poetica, 2019

LIBRA – ANTOLOGJI

1- Ballada e largësive, Athinë 1995

2- Kujto Poetin (b/a), 2011

3- 100 Poetë për Dashurinë (b/a), 2012

4- Çamëri-Zemra ime (b/a), 2014

ORIGINAL - POETRY BOOKS

____________________

1- Do not let love, 2002

2- Nocturne, 2004

3- Requiem for a Leaf, 2005

4- My Trinity, 2006

5- The Prostitutes Time, 2007

6- Ithaca Woman, 2008

7- I need to go out late at night, 2012

8- Pelasgic flowers, 2012

9- My Homeland is at the gate, 2013

10- Love, Selected Poems, 2013

11- The faults are Hecuba’s, 2014,

12- Oracles have gone down in Hell, 2015.

13- Odeon for things that happen,2016

14- Ophelia, 2019

15- Ode for Shkoder, Selected Poems, 2019

TRANSLATED POETRY BOOKS

1- Charl Bukowsky, 2019

2- World Poetica, 2019

POETIC ANTHOLOGY BOOKS

1- Ballad of loneliness, Athens, 1995

2- Remember the poet (co), 2011

3- 100 Poets for Love (co), 2012

4- Chameria -My heart (co), 2014

Poems by Kolec Traboini / english

KOLEC TRABOINI

POEM PIGEON LINK:
http://www.poempigeon.com/user.php?uid=593
http://issuu.com/traboini
DON’T LET LOVE DIE

Midnight December slipped down the steps
With Her hair down and scrapped face
As in a pagan death
I am a lonely witness of your death
With a lit cigarette
That can barely warm the last second that won’t go

There is no one to witness my lone less
Now I can sit alone thinking of you
Everyone sleeps
The arch of my hand caresses you image
The space you take of the darkness is small
I feel your slow breathing
Just this, only this
This is how little love life has allowed us
Somewhere in the distance a scrapped chest sings a song
A song about something that is long gone
And can never return
A song of something precious…
And then silence comes to steal away words
In the eyes your image has shriveled
Teeth pull back hatred
And the pain of the heart grows

They want to take away the beats
Of your heart and you cannot endure this pain
Shoulders feel heavy with burden
Eyelids tremble like leafs floating in the water
This weight can break trees
The way that a bone
Broke today from your chest
Releasing a blue bird with broken wings from sufferings

Flew in the horizon drunk with feelings of freedom
He knows to where I am
But he falls on the ground breathless

In the sidewalk of madness where winds harden the faces of people
That feels no love
Because they have locked up love in a prison inside their chest
I cannot find a path where people can love without fear
While I seek to release the pains of my wounds
The night is indifferent
It wipes away every memory
Of yesterday
By establishing the rule of silence
By putting out lanterns of our souls
And adding the constraints of my heart
The night drags around the streets of the city
I push it away pointless
She drags with madness
Careless If I anxiously await tomorrow

I have a burning rose in my lips
Beats ripping through my heart
And I have nothing to offer
Except a bouquet of stars this night
The moon hangs over your head
And a kiss for tomorrow
As sun comes up
Under the burning cry of Neruda
Don’t die love, don’t die

Tomorrow you won’t hear more than a sad song

Albania, Tirane, 14 December, 1988

INTERLUDE

As I wander through words and verses
I feel a breeze wrapping up my age
After the grey of youth and black times
Of my childhood
That have remained fixated in the eternal sky
Because nowhere, in the relief of the Earth
Can you find the traces

This melancholic breeze,
That to a dead time give breath
Dissolves between the dim
Lights of the past
And the present- my existence
Is wrapped up with a metallic structure
Lacking color.

IMMIGRANT BALADE

My skin has too many wrinkles for a drum
My arms are too old for work
My brain running under the old system
Is a broken gage

Find me something to sell. Please God!
So I can live

I’m too tired of this crazy market
Where anything can be sold, bought and sold again
From minister’s zipper to a woman’s flesh lumps
Why do I philosophize demented lines?
If doves did not shit on my head
They will be angles
And the heads of heroes would not tremble
From the wrath of the turbulent sky

Find me something to sell. Please God!
So I can live

Come on, buy my madness
Take everything that I have in my hands and in my head
Take, if you like, my clothes too
Undress me
Bare, as I was born from my mother
But pay for it
Please, please, buy something
Michelangelo’s David is a masterpiece

I’ll sell my body too, anyone?
I know…
A bare-assed Moses is shameful

I must sell something in this crazy market
Must sell something so I can live
In this world
Where nothing remains unsold
If it were for me

I’ll sell a statesman for the price of a lighter
So I can set fire to the garbage on the street
Then pi on the fire without mercy
Without fear
From the law that protects statesmen
In my wracked homeland
Run by the madness of the brainless politicians

I must sell something in this crazy market
Bring me something, please, bring me something
Something cheap, very cheap…
As cheap as freedom itself
Not a minister or deputy, something else
And hurry up because the sun is setting
And the moon will find me naked on the asphalt
Like an exhausted horse
Neighing at the sky

Find me something to sell. Please God!
So I can live.

Athens 1993
(Translated by N. Leshai)

TO LIVE AS AN IMMIGRANT IN ATHENS

To live as an immigrant in Athens means:
To load up in the truck of Mr. Evstasiadis cement, wires, and iron
And with them to build
To build the freshly purchased lands of young Athenian owners in Marathon

To live as an immigrant in Athens means:
To be afraid of Greek police because you are a foreigner, you are an immigrant and you are illegal.
When you are Albanian you feel twice fear and the absence of people’s presence triple
Because every night the TV stations of Mega and Antenna report...” Albanians steal…”
The most famous thief in history was Paris who stole the beautiful Helen
From her husband Menelaus
After this a sneaky Greek offered a gift to the Trojans, a wooden horse
And then took their freedom.

To leave as an immigrant in Athens means:
To keep in you pocket the diploma from the University of Tirana
And during hard labor daydreaming under the Mediterranean sun
Of tomorrow…

To live as an immigrant in Athens…

Greece, Athens, November 1991

SNOW BIRDS

in a picture sits frozen and do not fly
somewhat scare and stunned from whiteness,
what path where you to take in globe?
in this rough winter could not find
a spot for nest

a photographer offered in area shed
that scared you more than comfort.
and you wandered in white
life less spaces

now for you
love or mercy
cannot be useful.

there in e frame pictures
sits frozen and do not fly.

PORTRAIT

Looking at You
Every featured your portrait
In my heart I have drawn
A sketch.

If I was a Rembrandt
The World would speak only for you.

GUARDIAN ANGELS

To my daughter Denise

Why did you not come this Sunday, daughter???
I am half-deaf and now in you absence I am deaf-mute
Ask mother, have I argued ever since you left
She will tell you no because without you Denise I do not even enjoy arguing
You are to me everything:
You are sunny days
You are Stormy weather
You are everything to me even the depth of my soul
When you are far I feel half a person
The other half follows you like a shadow
Look through you window
Right there where the green leafs of trees
Over there, in the trees of Clark University
There I stand like a white bearded old man coming that come from the North Pole
With jingle bells on a horse
Flying in the sky and bringing merry gifts to the children of the world
The same way I want to bring sweets dreams to my little girl
Dreams that grow the body and the person

I speak softly to the angels and tell them to be my daughter’s guardian angels
You do not see them but my angels are there
They caress your hair while you sleep
They speak to you in your dreams
And when you awake-
I tell the heavenly angels to stay by my angel’s side

It is a dark night in Allan Poe’s New England
You are asleep…..
Mother Teresa’s angels clamber through your windows
And keep away shadows of lonely crows
While singing a divine lullaby that comes down from the sky
Like a waterfall of stars that say:
“The world is more beautiful when angels guard the pure dreams of young maids”

At Clark University, in Worcester,
You now grow in stature in compliance with the dimensions of time and the worlds
While I continue to hold in my scolded hands an infant, you childhood
A world filled with merry chirpings
A miracle that nature can never repeat

Never again, my little girl!!!!!!

Boston 1998

KOSOVË

In difficult desperate situations
we raise eyes towards the sky
and cry
Oh God!
We don’t know if this is a revolt or a call for mercy
But, despite he horrible state of affairs,
hope always remains
as a ragtag faded flag
in the frigid heart of Old Lady Europe
as a skull of a horse at Waterloo.
I join with the pain and the hope
with damnation and hate
with love and mercy
with the aspiration and fate of every human being
there in the depths of the black well
of human hell.
Despite living in a free world
our spirit is broken by the darkness
broken by this tyrannical and hypocritical century
that does not feel remorse
in the face of massacres against humanity
in the face of slitting the angels’ throats
in the face of the blood streams and the splitting
of the skulls
in front of tanks that smash the fragile bones
of doves
Faced with the Middle Ages’ darkness
rising out of the
Balkan trenches
to wipe out and annihilate a nation.
With eyes towards the sky in revolt
do I have the right to say
now that man has fallen:
Where are you oh God?!

Boston, August 13, 1998
(Translate by F.Ymeri Kent – Washington)

This poetry has been published on the Anthology of the International Library of Poetry, 1999 - page 108, under the title "OF MEMORY'S BLESS", on the section of the writers from USA and other authors from the world.

IN RRMAJ

Every time I go to Shkoder
I pass by the cypress path of Rrmaj
And stop in front of Father’s tomb

Both of us in silence don’t talk
My life held hostage in that tomb
All departures and returns collide there

Grim clouds darken my migrant eyes
But my father’s tomb needs no tears
In Shkoder the rains grieve ….

-where are you going?- my father speaks from the grave
As if he were the one to be alive , not me….

UNACCOMPLISHED

…We got our life back
Even though we looked for each other in all the airports of the world
You didn’t see me anywhere and I didn’t find you anywhere

For both of us, this life filled with regrets
Wandering passions metamorphosed in apprehension
That will grow like shrubs in on our grave
A nest for nipping birds
Whose lives pass by without love

….and even if we meet or don’t meet
Now that we’re grey, it’s tantamount!!!

THE WOMEN’S TEARS

Don’t cry, my friend, don’t cry
Though the tears, do have a function
They clear the vision
They make you feel the fresh air
So as to make you fall in love
With the tulips and the heavens
After the last rain drop has fallen!

If the temptation or joy, defeat you,
And in your chest there is a mourning squeeze,
Wanting to break away like a bird from its cage
Then, and if you cry, please tell me,
And please, please, save the last tear drop for me
I will collect them,
From all women of the world
With them, then, will make
A pearl necklace for the Sun

THE HOUSE ON SOUTH STREET

Here is 5-th Avenue
To the right is church of St. Theresa
Surrounded by statues of saints drenched in rain
With lowered gazes toward the crossroad
Were the stoplights redden the droplets that fall from sky
Gullivan Road is on the other side
On the third house, on the right
An old sing says ”South Street”
Were a Pine tree stand guard
With two pinecones and
a shivering squirrel who spies astonished
The passage through the yard
That brings you to the gate
Each time I glimpse at it
I am overcome with autumn melancholy
I tremble like a tree without leave
Inside the house dim light permeates from the window
Dried basil leaves hang on second floor window
A sing that once there was summer

Do not ask me who once lived in this home
Only the seeds of basil have remained
Every memory of here, in this image, has faded…

(Perkthimi: D. Traboini)

SHANEL

Today is a common winter day on earth
Trains crawl like metallic dinosaurs in the mist
Somewhere it’s raining, there’s sunshine somewhere else
The snow swamps wildly in North America

On television screens, rosy fumes
Either a blonde woman or a black man will be the president of USA
Much comments about Bush’s leave and unrest in Kenya
CNN 24 hours – but nothing about Shanel

Shanel is an Albanian newborn girl
In Barcelona or maybe Trieste
Today she cries and tomorrow she laughs joyfully
Tomorrow is not far, it is at the doorstep
She comes, and we’re going ….to the next world

Let’s not wake her, let her sleep
The time for playful challenges will soon come
And later on she will light fires in the boys’ gaze
When she finds herself in their midst

She can’t hear now, or understand of course
There will be enough time for her to hear and understand, and till then
Let’s sing her an eternal love lullaby
The world is reborn with you, Shanel!

GOD’S HEAVENLY BELL

For Daniel Gazulli

It was Monday , the week had just begun
From overseas, the disaster came our way
somewhere where our friend had gone
His hope was meant to fade away .

The hour had come and little did he know
all this grave misery was his, right at hand…
he wanted to recover and be back again
How would he know that he would never return.

How did he go?-, the friends are wondering,
He didn’t even have time for a cup of coffee
To talk about the brokenness of this world
to had lived a little longer with us, with you and me.

Oh, how short is this little, tiny life of ours
One enters the gate and fast goes through the next
but when one is left alone, with no friends,
one mourns the loss, missing those who were the best.

Ah, mighty sea, don’t bother breaking the waves
So endlessly and wildly as never before
For the Bell of the Lord in Heavens above
Today rang for our dear friend so cry no more….

12 Nowember 2012

Translated in English by:

Merita B.McCormack

ANNA’S BOSOM

My artist friends am constantly persuading
In Italy, an Albanian lady
Has the most gorgeous bosom
The Milky Way
Starts at her nipples.

Florence, is her residence,
perhaps to be near,
according to my judgment,
to that most handsome of men
Michelangelo’s David

My friends am persuading
Her too, the Albanian Anna Sali
To accept her bosom’s beauty
And if so happens, Ana lacks approval
I’ll pass the Pyrenees
Atlantic’s blue dress to take off
Leaving it naked
And there, in the Pyrenees, I’ll knock
On another bosom, on Anna Tampado’s, the Portuguesa

of girls in the nude, I’ve spent my life, dreaming
Sucking like a child the teats of Ana’s bosom,
of the Albanian and the Portuguesa

CIRCE’S TEMPTATIONS

Mischievous am not like Odysseus
The ladies to seduce isn’t my intention
Though in my flower garden
In love I do fall
With every butterfly
Stopping by…

You too, stay, don’t fly away
Your name is a good omen
Bringing most desired fortune
A fortune, only in your presence found

And, if in my garden
Happens to take rest
There in bloom tulips,
hydrangeas,
honeysuckle
You’ll find
And the seduction of
the most beautiful Circe.
In hogs you’ll morph everyone nearby
But the poet in joyful excitement
You’ll bring
With him you’ll get lost
Till dawn
in orgasm.

Warned you have I
“stay away from my garden
Its pollen like Circe
It will drive you wild”
And I, tempted and willingly
Become Odysseus

ITALIAN SUN

Ach, this sun
This Italian sun, in sea depths
Sleeps and awakens
With kisses my face caresses
My heart with burning love

WATERCOLORS

Your gates’ arch I’ll paint
This morning by you
Passed, street’s corner,
The evergreen, steeling your gaze
Between the clouds the lightning
Burning

I’ll capture the
Falling rain drops
You caressing
The birds trembling in the cold outside
that warm nest found in your eyes

I’ll outline the taxi’s image
For you awaiting in Notre Dame Avenue
The red light will remain the same
I want you to stay, from here
To never go away
I’ll throw in the tulips,
Heads down from embarrassment
A piano’s distant sounds
Your lips melting ice
While whistling “Für Elise”

I’ll capture every etude your way found
Hopeful to see you again.

LYRICS IN THE SEA OF MERMAIDS

My poems (if so they are)
Are mostly improvisations
With people spiritual conversations

mostly with women, for they are
to my soul’s depths guiding lights
where I through them hope
to find a most precious treasure

Could this be a failed or well thought strategy?
Could it be a reason to be tempted
and still hope for the good fortune

after long sailings
in infinite foreign seas
conquering my entire life’s poverty
that stood by as a shadow

perhaps finally, thanks to the women
I’ll no longer remain from luck
The persecuted man of few possessions
And will reach eternity,
with a bag full of treasure
In their souls found

when the end draws near
there won’t be a will for my family
instead one, left to the ladies
to the ones loved
and to those not loved
for lack of acquaintance
or perhaps due to them
living in pre-conception

It’s the only good deed
I have to offer to the world’s and my country’s ladies
Back to receive the treasure they helped discover

(Perkthimi: Aida Dismondy

THE WOMEN’S TEARS

Don’t cry, my friend, don’t cry
Though the tears, do have a function
They clear the vision
They make you feel the fresh air
So as to make you fall in love
With the tulips and the heavens
After the last rain drop has fallen!

If the temptation or joy, defeat you,
And in your chest there is a mourning squeeze,
Wanting to break away like a bird from its cage
Then, and if you cry, please tell me,
And please, please, save the last tear drop for me
I will collect them,
From all women of the world
With them, then, will make
A pearl necklace for the Sun

BLUE BLOND

Calling lyrics to break the mirrors!

For decades I have been standing in front of a mirror
Long enough, that’s why there are wrinkles on it, now
My breath turns into frost over the cold glass
Every day and more its light and brightness are blurred
Underneath the silver strata behind which your siuolhete is hiding

I use syllables in words, as the hot ashes among the hearth’s cold one
Please, why don't you offer me a smile through this mirror
Where myself looks like an idiot castle woman
A castle woman that tries to steal from the heavens
The star of the relevant galaxy
That star that never revealed itself to me

You, gene of mine, purebred, blue royal blood
Cut in half, and seeds scatered in five continents
In my mirror there is no hope of me seeing anything
Already, now wrapped in the gray veal of an old dream
Assaulted from the songs of "London roosters"
Magically as they kick away their own fears, the nights’ shadows,
Before the down and the anxiety of today

Why remain silent, why don’t you appear, you gene of mine
From a stone or a stump, from the water or a clay pot
With the same crib lace we were tied when we were newborns
Even if you were a phantasm of premature then
Now you would had have some long hair
Like mine, which are now blacken
By the continental night of November’s end
While your might be colored by the ocean’s pigment of the Fall
Appear, hitherto, my cosmic gene,
Appear, through antique colons and curtains
I am here in this Aeschylus cliff
For centuries, awaiting
Break that mirror so I can escape from myself
In vain, you're orbiting in other skies and planets
Come, near, dry my blue tear,
That sadly drips through my eyelash,
Nostalgic for my image,
Reigning into someone's else
We both have blue royal blood
You are Me and I am You
Since two thousand years…

THE NIGHTINGALES OF CANGONJ

For Merita Bajraktari McCormack, New York

Are there Nightingales in Cangonj?
I asked once, traveling to that place
There are and there aren't ,-I was told
Nightingales have long gone in the hills...
Their songs are now hidden out of the way

Years later it happened,for me, to return there,
and worried about the nightingales,
That's why I did not resign and asked again
Please, Men, tell me-are there nightingales here
Asked the Women, -None, I was told, in vain...

I returned,again, many times
Seeing just people freezing from the cold...,
Sitting close to the fire,they did not talk
Neither did I speak to them this time
I understood the birds had long gone....

The freedom came-Democracy was called,
I ran again, fast, and hurried for Cangonj
In vain, you came,- people said
There is not any nightingale left here

These words I remembered
When I happened to be in New York
In front of me stood Merita Bajraktari
and many people praising her work

Ah, is it you?.... I asked the poetess
Yes, she said and her face was blushing,
looking like a Korca rose in the summer
Yes, she said,- holding onto her husband,
It's me the Cangonj's lost daughter

The "Voice of your heart" I have read,- I exclaimed
And your soul poured there and the caged bird, I understand
My God,- I have asked many years, many times
Why the people there were saying
There were no nightingales in Cangonj?

Boston 2003
(Perkthimi: Merita B-McCormack)

CHRIST HAS COME IN ILLYRI

When the winds blow hard in toughest storms.....
and the sky, darkens, pitch black becomes
We make the cross, praying to the Lord
"Christ ,keep us close to your heart"

During trials and tribulations
when body aches and the soul suffers
we tear up the time and fly back
when the Chirst was crucified.

A cross appeared in Golgotha
Nails were pierced on His hands
From the pain the world turned over
for twenty centuries the world still cries

On the third day the Christ did rise
As God performed a miracle
tombs closed, the wounds were healed
On his feet He stood up again!

Through Saint Paul,He took the roads
From the Corinth and Apolonia
In Dyrrah the skies shined divinely bright
The Christ came down, in Illyria

And when at times, a war begins
Women,children get killed,what tragedy,
We speak to the hope, we call the peace
And Christ comes down to Illyri!

When our great victorious George,
Raising up the name Arberi
To the great lord he said Gloria
The Christ always came to Illyri

And when the Pope touched that land
kneeling, the grandest gesture of the century
he blessed the land and sons of eagle
The Christ, indeed has come to Illyri

Mother Teresa when appeared
Our own Saint full of grace and modesty
She, who raised up the people's hopes
The Christ has come to Illyri!

In weddings and joys, as well
When in each home a new life begins
looking up, in happiness we shout
The Christ has come to Illyri!

In every corner of the Balkans
Where there are Albanians and Arberi
In adoration, we pray to the Lord
The Christ has come to Illyri!!!

In peace, light and brotherhood
In love and in eternal friendship
Everytime we call He appears in glory
As Christ has come to Illyri!!

LONESTAR

In the night
Somewhere far
I saw a city full of lights

I saw myself in the cold
Space of stars - a lonely star.

I felt far from people
Larger ice fillets my heart.

LOSERS

I put my heart and my soul into work,
newer I have lost my mind,
but I have forget my Time,
my Friends and my Love ...

and this mean:
I have lost everything.

Poesie Traboini en Français

POESIES ALBANAISES
Editor: "Le Taillis Pré" Belgue 2012
p.170, 171,172,173, 174

KOLEC TRABOINI

Kolec Traboini, cinéaste, journaliste et auteur de livres de poésie, prose et essais, est né à Shkodër (Albanie) au début des années cinquante. En 1991, il s’installe à Athènes comme immigrant. Kolec Traboini appartient à la race des poètes qui ont laissé, sur les murs des civilisations, des paroles de témoignage et de réflexion. Un remède peut-être, contre l’amnésie des humains… Depuis 1995, Kolec Traboini vit et travaille à Boston aux Etats-Unis.

VISION

Occupé à la rédaction des poésies
d’immigrés
pour le journal « Egnatia »*
Des éclairs de chevaux sanglants
perçaient le ciel
allant vers la mer pour laver les blessures
sur leurs talons
clignotent braises de crépuscules
les enfants crient comme mouettes
et dans les seins des jeunes mariées
l’attente brûle
les mères mordent les nuages
en attente de caravanes sans retour
Athènes, An zéro… de l’oubli !

*« Egnatia », journal en langue albanaise, crée à Athènes en 1993 par Kolec Traboini. La via Egnatia ou voie égnatienne est une voie romaine qui traversait les Balkans, en reprenant un ancien tracé de voie macédonienne, construite aux alentours de -146. Partant du port de Dyrrachuium (Durrës) avec une branche venant du port d'Apollonie d’Illyrie, elle traversait Pella, Thessalonique, Amphipolis, Philippes et se terminait à Byzance. Débouchant de la voie maritime entre Bari et Durrës, elle prolongeait l'itinéraire de la voie Appienne jusqu'au passage entre l'Europe et l'Asie.

PLUIE SUR LE CIMETIÉRE DE KAISARIANI *

Tombe la pluie fine, triste sur le cimetière de Kaisariani
sur les croix blanches
et la porcelaine des visages
des Grecs morts...
Pleurent les épines des pins
et les bougies crépitent en silence
en rendant leur dernier souffle.
Doucement tout se perd
sous le pouvoir des eaux célestes
avec moi aussi qui érige des murs d’enceinte
pour cette demeure écrasée par la blancheur du marbre
et sur eux, la pluie
que la pluie…
tombe pluie fine sur les visages hellènes d’autrefois
tombe sur mon visage
seul vivant dans ce monde mort
mes yeux vers le ciel
en priant le dieu
que j’aie moi aussi comme les Hellènes
une tombe sur ma propre terre.
Autrement mon esprit surgira de la tombe
avec un désir démoniaque
de se battre contre les vents et les orages
sans jamais trouver la paix en sol étranger
sans trouver l’éternité au ciel.
Tombe la pluie fine, triste sur le cimetière de Kaisariani
fine, triste, douce
comme les larmes des mères pour les immigrés
perdus.

* Kaisarianiest une banlieue à l’est d'Athènes

Traduction de Vasil Çapeqi
Adaptation de Francis Chenot

http://www.maisondelapoesie.be/textes_et_poemes/index.php?annee=2012

AQUARELLE

je dessinerai l’arcade de ta porte
le coin de la rue ou ce matin tu es passée,
le vert sapin ou tu as couché ton regard
la flamme d’un éclair qui nous a embrasé.

je jetterai sur l’aquarelle les gouttes de la pluie
qui descendant du ciel tendrement t’ont touchées,
les oiseaux d’hiver tremblant aux vents froids
qui ont trouvé refuge dans la rétine de tes yeux.

j’esquisserai l’image d’un taxi
qui t’attendait à Belle Avenue,
je garderai les feux rouges allumés
pour que tu ne puisses partir à jamais.

je jetterai sur la toile des tulipes intimidées
et des sons plaintifs d’un piano lointain,
fleurissant sur ta bouche en refrain "pour Elise"

dégelaient les glaces d’hiver de ce matin.
de cette rue je garderai toutes les études
espérant que de nouveaux tu apparaisses …

( Traduit de l'albanais en français par Vasil QESARI, Bordo France )

CAFÉ TAIVAN

J’en ai trop de cette fieffe qui s’appelle solitude,
quiconque la cherche, tant soit peu,
je suis prêt à la leur donner.
venez.

Chaque jour je serai au «Taiwan» et boirai une tasse de café
face à la fontaine, à midi pile, selon le cadran solaire,
même s’il n y avait de soleil et il pleuvait,
c’est là que vous me trouverez.

Quiconque cherche ma solitude,
qu’il vienne- je veux me débarrasser
de cette sorcière, elle m’a fatigué..

D’ailleurs je vous payerai à table un café
Mais venez seulement …prenez-là et sauvez-moi d’elle.

Chaque jour vous me trouverez au Taiwan Café...

Traboini - poesia: Italiano

___ Italiano

LA BALLATA DEGLI EMIGRANTI

La mia pelle è molto ruvida per fare un tamburo
E le mie braccia sono troppo vecchie per lavorare,
il mio cervello organizzato in un altro sistema
un meccanismo bloccato ...
Trovami qualcosa da vendere, o Signore!
Qualcosa da vivere!
Sono troppo stanco
di questo folle mercato
dove tutto viene venduto, comprato e poi rivenduto:
dalle mutande dei ministri fino alla ciccia delle donne.
Sto a filosofare in versi sparpagliati:
se non fosse per lo sterco, i piccioni
sarebbero angeli
e le teste degli eroi
non avrebbero paura
del guano che cade dal cielo.
Trovami qualcosa da vendere, o Signore!
Qualcosa da vivere!
Venite a comprare la mia follia,
ogni cosa che ho nella testa
e tra le mani prendetela!
Prendete, se volete, anche le mie vesti,
lasciatemi nudo
come mia madre mi ha fatto,
ma basta che compriate,
vi prego, compratele!
Davide nudo è un onore,
Mosè svestito è una vergogna.
Proverò a vendere anche la vergogna …
Bisogna vendere qualcosa
in questo folle mercato.
Bisogna vendere qualcosa per vivere
in questo mondo
dove non c’è nulla che non sia in vendita.
Se fosse per me
un funzionario venderei
al prezzo di un accendino
così, per dare fuco al letame per le strade
e dopo sul fuoco piscerei
senza pietà
e senza paura della legge che protegge gli uomini di stato
nel mio paese distrutto
dalla follia dei politici senza cervello.
Bisogna vendere qualcosa
in questo folle mercato.
Portatemi qualcosa, vi prego!
Portatemi qualcosa che si vende per poco, per molto poco,
come la libertà stessa,
ma non un ministro o deputato;
Qualcos’altro!
E fate presto perché il sole sta tramontando
e la luna mi troverà nudo sull’asfalto
come un vecchio cavallo morto
che nitrisce verso il cielo:
Trovami qualcosa da vendere, o Signore!
Qualcosa da vivere!

Tradotta da Margarita Gjeta

ATENE

Vivo ad Atene, in questa città stragrande
dove il cuscino del presente s'appoggia all'antico
e non invidio né Roma né Parigi
nemmeno le città più a Nord di Inghilterra.

Monto i vecchi trolley come cavalli stanchi,
che si trascinano per la strada stridendo,
e per pochi minuti raggiungo "Zapio"
dove i tassisti stanchi ululano come sciacalli.

Se mi gira di sentire l'odore di souvlaki,
l'aspro sapore della birra o i calamari freschi
vado al Pireo da "Tavernaki",
e poi, se ne ho voglia davvero,
fino a Kesariani’ arrivo, o a Kolonaki vado a stare
contento come al Settimo Cielo.

Se voglio il mondo raccogliere in una scatola
come in un numero di magia di zigane belle,
e di vedere degli zar le medaglie,
o la faccia del disgraziato di Lenin,
faccio una corsa a Monastiraki
dove si fa il mercato senza frontiere.

Lassu vedo facce nuove di gente mediterranea
che non sanno da dove vengono e dove vanno
ma quanto somigliano a facce a me conosciute,
e la mia faccia, di sicuro, alle loro somiglierà.

E sto a meditare mentre tracanno la birra fresca
quella che gli ateniesi "prassino" chiamano,
ma mi interrompe il padrone del locale, zio Ghiani:
"Kalimera, kirie Niko. Einai fresko.
Ti riempio un'altra ancora?" Ma che diavolo!

Va bene, Ghianaki, riempila! Etsi einai pazari, afentiko'.
E di nuovo i pensieri come torrenti vanno:
"Non pentirti perché vivi in questa città,
che soffri l'insonnia, in molti lo fanno."

Sempre ad Atene mi sorgono domande strane
che con i nazionalismi legami non hanno,
ne con la sapienza, i soldi o l'avarizia dei padroni;
sorge invece l'antico enigma
del perché le bionde Elene sono tutte belle?

E in quale posto può sorgermi questa domanda
se non ad Atene, nel quartiere della Plaka
dove il sole senza nessun "adia" o permesso
va a dormire nell'Olimpo
e le stelle scendono sopra il Partenone.

Non mi pento, no. Io amo Atene.
Testarda bella e formosa come una donna.
Alle porte dell'Acropoli, al tramonto, un uomo
mi appare come il fantasma di Diogene con la lampada...

2004

Tradotta da Fatos Dingo

KOLEC TRABOINI

Albanian -American poet and writer, a journalist by profession, graduated from the University of Tirana, Albania in 1975. 1975-1991 scriptwriter for Kinostudio Albafilm Tirane, Albania. Traboini work included writing of scripts for documentary films. Recived 1-st National Prize for the film "Asdreni", 1976, first for the film "Keshtjella e Kengeve" (The Castle of Songs), also won the best Film of the Year 1990 for the film "Deshmi nga Barleti" (Witness from Barleti) - a war history of 1468-1478, in her hometown Shkoder, North Albania.

He is the founder of the Albanian newspaper “Egnatia” in Athens, 1993, author of 34 books of poems, prose, and essays, and is one of the most active creative contributors of the Albanian Community in America.

He is a contributor to the newspaper “Illyria” in New York, and newspapers and magazins published in his native country, Albania.

traboini-esè
traboini-proze
shqiperime
traboini -film
antologjia virtuale

MIRËNJOHJE POETIKE - promovimi i vëllimit "Itaka Grua"

MIRENJOHJE POETIKE

Falenderoj Dritero e Sadije Agollin,Gezim dhe Vasilika Tafen, Fatmir Terziun, Piro Milkanin, Nase Janin, Iliriana Sulkuqin, Lindita Agollin, Dilaver Baxhakun, Musa Krajen, Agim Gjakoven, Faruk Myrtaj, Kujtim Dashin, Aida Dismondy-in, Eliane Alien, Aleko Likaj, Radije Hoxha- Prishtine, Skender Rusin, Fatime Kullin, Vitore e Skender Sallakun, Riza Lahin, Beatrice Balliçin,Demir Gjergjin, Jaho Margjeken, Sherif Balin, Pandeli Koçin, Izet Shehun, Namik Selmanin, Donika Muçin, Ilia Deden, Ferdinant Karunin, Petrit Palushin, Besim Fushen, Bujar Baxhakun, Milanov Kallupin, Çelik Petritin dhe te tjere qe ne forume publike apo mesazhe personale i kane bere jehone si dhe me kane uruar per librin tim te ri me lirika"Itaka Grua" botuar nga OMBRA GVG Tirane, nentor 2008!
Falenderoj Radio Televizionin Shqiptar Shqiptar qe ne nje emision mbi 20 minuta me dha mundesi qe ne bashkebisedim me Hygerta Sakon te shfaq mendimet e mia per poezine dhe letersine e emigracionit shqiptar neper bote, te njejten gje edhe ne Radio Tirana, gjithashtu ne TV Maqedonia ne gjuhen shqipe dhe Radio Shkupi te mundesuara nga krijuesja Valbona Zunçe.

Me mirenjohje
Kolec Traboini
Boston

Kolec Traboini me bisedes nje kujtim me poetin e madh Dritero Agolli.

Kolec Traboini me botuesin Gezim Tafa dhe zonjen e tij Vasilika.

Kolec Traboini me Dilaver Baxhakun,Fatime Kullin,Lindita Agollin, Riza Lahin e Nase Janin.

Kolec Traboini me kolegun e viteve ne Kinostudio, regjisorin e njohur Piro Milkani.

Poeti Moikom Zeqo tek stenda e "Drites" dhe "Pelegrin"-it, Panairi Librit

Kolec Traboini me shkodranet e letrave Musa Kraja( qender) e Kujtim Dashi

Kolec Traboini me poetin Sadik Bejko dhe gazetaret Fatime Kulli dhe Dhurata Hamzai.

Kolec Traboini me koleget e filmit dokumentar Donika Muçi, Ilia Dede e Ferdinant Karuni.

Kolec Traboini me shkrimtaret Namik Selmani, Çelik Petriti, Beatriçe Balliçi dhe Perikli Jorgoni
ne "Ditet e poezise" ne Prrenjas.

Fotot nga Dilaver Baxhaku

ETERNITA

Prolog & Epilog për lirika dashurie

nga KOLEC TRABOINI

Mos e përsërit dy herë shprehjen “Eternita”! Brenda saj, ajo ka një të fshehtë përvëluese, një kod mistik, të cilin gjithnjë e kërkon e kurrë nuk e gjen.
Edhe në e takofsh gjëkundi, fatlumturisht, kurrë nuk mund ta dëshifrosh enigmën e tij. Tërë jetën ndoshta kështu ngjet. Kërkim, mosgjetje dhe djegie.
Kjo jetë është lojë dritash, kurrë nuk ta jep atë mundësi që të realizosh të gjitha ato dëshira dhe ëndërrime që ke në mendje e në zemër. Prandaj dhe njeriu jeton dyzimin e tij që kur është krijuar bota njerëzore… Në ato çfarë jetojmë ngandonjëherë në disa çaste, dyshojmë se jemi krejt ne...ose hamendësojmë se jemi tjetërsuar për ca orë gjatë ditës e natës, kemi ndryshuar trajtë, jemi bërë tjetërsoj nga e rendomta dhe rutina e përditëshme e përjetëshme. Duke vëzhguar jetën e vet, njeriu ve re se nuk është vetëm në atë pjesë ngjarjesh, nga skajet e shtëpisë në auditoret e fakultetit, apo qoftë në disa ecejake më të largëta. Je dhe diku tjetër. Mirëpo, jo të gjithë njerëzit i kuptojnë këto transfigurime, këto ndërrime trajtash në mes të hapësirave të së njëjtës kohë. Varet prej njeriut sigurisht, prej prirjeve, prej dëshirave dhe ëndërrimeve herë herë të përndezura. Që në fëmijërine fatthyer isha një ikanak trazovaç, adoloshent kohëlëshuar, sepse gjatë gjithë kohës më pëlqenin prapësitë, por në disa orë të ditës a të natës, shkëputesha prej njerëzve e prej prapësive të moshës dhe rrija e kundroja vetminë time. Niste një gjykim tjetër. Përqasja vehten me botën, me njerëzit, me yjet, me çdo gjë tokësore, e në ato çaste ndjeja të isha një tjetër. Isha fluror. Isha një zog dhe qytetin e Shkodrës dhe gjithë botën e shihja nga sipër. Shumë herë rrija te një tufëz resh në qiellin e kaltër dhe më dukej se isha në një lisharëse dhe tundja këmbët. Pse i tund ëmbët kështu në karrike, më thoshte Dada ime, e unë atëherë zbrisja nga qielli im i shtatë në shtëpinë e fëmijërisë në rrugën Badra. Ky tjetërsim më ka ndjekur gjithë jetën. Dhe kthimet nga njëra gjendje në tjetrën gjithmonë i kam përjetuar me ankth.
A mund njeriu të bëjë dy jetë brenda një jete?! Një zot e di por veç diçka ndodh. Ndryshe i sheh e i gjykon gjërat kur je në një mjedis me njerëz, e ndryshe kur je në vetmi. Kur je në mes të rrëmujës njerëzore mund që e ndjen vehten një gjë krejt të rëndomtë, por kur ulesh diku e mediton, bota jote mbushet me një dritë thuaj hyjnore, je tjetër njeri, ke tjetër frymëmarrje, mushkëritë të mbushen me ajër çudibërës, e ndoshta për një çast vë dorën mbi gjoks e thua, o Zot ku ndodhem.

bëj ç’të duash me mua hyjni dëshirash
kthemë në një jon drite
më bëj një yll, pa le të tretem e shuhem
me rrapëllimë, në qiejt sterrë të jetës time...

Në jetën e përditshme e ndjej vehten rondokopi më i zakonshëm. Njerëzit e rëndomtë kur ndodhen pranë meje shfaqen superiorë për shkak se mund të kenë disa prioritete fizike, moshe e të tjera diferenca krejt të rëndësishme këndej, ndërkohë krejt të parëndësishme andej. Mirëpo unë brenda vehtes nis e i mjegulloj gjërat, i bëj më ajrore, më papeshë, tërë titujt, dekoracionet , profesorët çantëmëdhenj , ofiqarët, ministrat, pse jo dhe presidentët, i transformoj në mirazhe që mund të terratisen lehtë në qiellin tim eternal, si tym cigarje që tretet hapsirave në një fjollë gri.
Vazhdoj pa u ndjerë atje në viset e mia ku tërë ajo mori njerëzore mbuluar me fallsitete bëhet fir. Në atë pjesë të botës, ku ndodhem pothuaj përditë nga pak orë, bëj në mënyrë të menjëhershme rivendosjen e gjërave në unison me ndjesitë më të thella të shpirtit dhe dëshirave më të fshehta misterioze. Rrethanorët terratisen e unë tjetërsohem. Nuk jam më ai që kam qenë, megjithëse e shumta të nesërmen kthehem sërisht aty ku isha, në rrjedhën e jetës së rëndomtë.
Nuk është e mundur të mohoj as njërën e as tjetrën pjesë të jetës sime. Të dyja i le të jetojnë. Jeta ime përbëhet nga këto dy pjesë. Përpiqem me të gjitha forcat për një ekuilibër, mirëpo pjesët kërkojnë prioritet ndaj njëra-tjetrës. Do të ishte fatkeqësi që njëra pjesë të ushtronte dhunë e të shfaroste pjesën tjetër. Kjo do të sillte kalcifikimin e ngrirjen e shpirtit, një mort akulli:

një dimër zëmërak u rrëzua prej qiellit
mbi supet e mia gjethet ranë e vjeshta u platit përdhè
shtergët pikërojnë elegjinë për stinën e vdekur
unë rri këtu pa ty, në këtë mort akulli.
dashuritë ikin viseve të jugut, nëpër re

Eternalja ka fuqi fizike e natyrore e ushtron pushtet më të madh se çdo forcë apo yshtje tjetër në botën njerëzore. Ajo e pushton tërësisht hapësirën e kohës, e mendimit, të ndjenjave dhe nuk i lë kurrgjë, kurrnjë hapësirë reales, konkretes, mishërimit, gjykimit si një njeri i rëndomtë i përditshëm, me psikologjinë e halleve, të ushqimit, të veshjeve e këpucëve, përkujdesjeve për të afërmit, bërja e detyrave të shtëpisë si bashkëshortë shembullorë.
Ky aspekt në komunikimin eternal fshihet. Realja zhduket prej horizontit dhe mbetet vetëm shpirti, meditimi, dëshira pa kufi deri në infinit... Në këto segmente etërore fryjnë erëra magjie. Njeriu bëhet i ndjeshëm. I kalon më shumë adrenalinë në gjak e në krahëror ndjen një eufori të brendëshme, gjërat shfaqen të trëndafilta, kanë aromë, janë dehëse e natyrisht marramendëse...
Çfarë pret të ndodhë nëse për një kohë të gjatë njeriu noton në këtë det eteri? Kurrgjë më shumë se sa t‘i ndizen dëshira të panjohura më parë, të paimagjinueshe, t’i ndizet dëshira të lozë e të bëjë dashuri me zjarrin... metaforik:

poeti kurrë mos qoftë nëse nuk është
si diell që në kupë të qiellit rrekëllen
si zjarr që bën dashuri me zjarrin
e prej zjarrit shuhet. Amen!

E kjo lind vetvetiu. Nuk ka forcë në botë që e ndalon lindjen e Diellit. Ashtu ndodh edhe me mendimin. Së pari njeriu mendon... E pastaj.... Dihet pastaj. I bie në krahë ëndërrimit, ndjehet si në një varkë mbi det të qetë e me një perëndim dielli të kuqërremtë. I lëshohet puhizave që i përkëdhelin fytyrën e trupin e me duar të bashkuara e sytë e ngritur lart i bën lutje qiellit.
Mirëpo jeta është jetë, është formë, është ligj, është normë.... Ajo bëhet në tokë në trajta të përcaktuara, në ligjësi të vendosura ca nga natyra e ca nga vetë njerëzit. E kjo zbritje prej eternales në tre dimensionet e hapsirës tokësore, në volumet pra, është për shpirtin si rrëzim meteorësh. Ndaj kur ndodhin ndonjëherë incidente në marrëdhëniet njerëzore të pranishmit shprehin çudinë se si ndodhi kjo e papritur, si rrëzimi i një ylli në një natë të qetë. Mirëpo yjtë i kanë stuhitë tjetërsoj:

kush nuk dëshëron të rrëzohet si yll,
nuk duhet të ngjitet kurrë në qiell
qielli është vendi ku digjen planete
edhe në dëshirat njerëzore po ashtu
nuk mund të ketë dashuri pa djegur veten.

Eternalja, ajo pjesë e jetës sonë të padukshme, herë herë e fshehtë e mistike, që zgjon dëshira deri atë çast rënë në gjumë të gjatë letargjik, është drithëruese. Ajo nuk ka fuqi të ndërrojë rrjedhën e jetës së njeriut kur ky harrohet, i lëshohet të përditshmes, dërmohet prej lodhjes e përhumbet prej gjumit, duke mos i lënë asnjë hapsirë meditimit, ndjenjave, fantazisë, perjetimit të thellë, admirimit të së bukurës dhe lënien e shpirtit të lirë.
Por, kur dikush i lëshohet këtyre ndjesive, e lë shpirtin e vet të lirë, nuk i vë kufi ëndërrimit, çlirohet prej pengut të së përditshmes si zinxhir burgu nëpër këmbë, ai ndjen para vehtes të hapet një portë, në brendësi të së cilës, tingujt e lirave e ndjellin në hapësira eternale ku mbizotron drita flakëruese e një zjarri që djeg çdo gjë tokësore e, duke i kthyer shpirtrat në yje që dashurohen. Është kjo dritë yjesh që shohim, kjo dritë yjesh që fërgëllojnë si gjijtë e përvëluar të një vajze, që ka rënë në dashuri me zjarrin e prej zjarrit shuhet. Amen!

k. traboini

25 maj 2007

Posted by traboini

PERSHENDETJE NGA VASIL QESARI- France

'Itaka - Grua' - KOLEC TRABOINI

Kopertina e librit 'Itaka - Grua' e Kolec Traboinit

I dashur Kolec, para disa ditësh mora një dërgesë me postë, pikërisht librin tënd të fundit me poezi ‘Itaka – GRUA’. Të falënderoj pa masë ! Them se libri është ndofta dhurata më e çmuar se çdo gjë tjetër. Të falënderoj, së pari që më mban në radhën e miqve të tu të afërt e së dyti, për kenaqesine që ky vëllim i ri më solli që larg, aty prej Nouvelle-Angleterre, ku ndodhesh, jeton e frymëzohesh. Jo vetëm botimi luksoz ( kështu do ta cilësoja me plot gojën ) realizuar nga shtëpia OMBRA ( ky është mendimi im, për vete konceptim modern e estetik te edicioneve te saj, te cilët janë më të mirët në Shqipëri ), por për bindjen time se ‘Itaka – Grua’ shënon një rritje kulmore, një sensibilitet e pjekuri të dukshme e të padiskutueshme, në poezinë tende tashmë te njohur e të konsoliduar artistikisht e estetikisht. Pa mëdyshje, do të thoja se ti, tashmë, bën pjesë në radhën e poetëve më të mirë bashkëkohorë shqiptarë. Duke të uruar miqësisht, kam kënaqësinë të publikoj këtu, tri poezi shkëputur nga vëllimi në fjalë ...
Përshëndetje dhe urime !

Vasil Qesari.
Në këtë Link: AMARUS