Dashamir Malo, Albania
AJO
Iku pikërshish në kohën
kur unë u emërova në atë Postw të largët Kufitare (1).
Më vonë mësova
se mëngjeseve mbrrinte herët.
Pinte ekspres
shoqëruar hera –herës me cigare të markës
"Slims".
Mbi tavolinën ku kishte punuar
kishin mbetur kalendari me shënimet e saj,
libri "Aleksandri i Madh",
dhe vëllimi poetik i Charles Bukoëski-t.
Pëlqente muzikën Soul.
Preferonte filmat, aktorët
Gérard Depardieu dhe Orlando Bloom.
Nuk i preferonte emisionet tip "Big Brothër",
apo konkurset e bukursisë.
Gjithmonë parfumosej me "Obsession".
Ishte brune,
asnjëhërë nuk kishte tentuar të bëhej bjonde.
SHE
She left just in time
When I was hired
at that farther Border police station
Later I've been told
That she came early every morning
Took her espresso coffee
And smoked "slims" cigarettes
On the table where she used to work
Remained the calendar and her handwritten notes
The book " Alexander the Great" and
The poetry of Charls Bukowski.
She liked soul music.
She preferred the movie and the stars
Gérard Depardieu and Orlando Bloom.
She did not like "Big brother"
Or "Beatty Pageants"
She always wore the perfume "Obsession"
She was a brunet.
Had never tried to become a blonde
Some times her nails were painted in violet
She passionately loved the longing sunsets
And sweet-attractive mornings
She was a fan of the colour green,
But liked the white and black as well
I never meet her,
I never even saw her
However, I got to know her very well
SHTEGËTIMI I FUNDIT I PESHKATARIT PLAK
Kishte afro një vit që anija e peshkimit
"Pulëbardha e Kaltërsive"
dergjej e ankoruar në Liman.
Qëndronte e heshtur,
me flamurët e zinj bërë fije – fije,
si krifa e një kali
të pezmatuar nga malli i pritjes
për të zotin.
Thoshnin se po një vit kishte peshkatari plak
që kish zënë shtratin.
Dhe ja besaf një mëngjes vjeshte e
panë të çapitej drejt Limanit.
Ndali. Hodhi vështrimin drejt Jonit.
Ish një det i brendshëm atë ditë,
i rrezikshëm edhe për detarët më të zotë,
por i prajshëm në dukje,
si temperatura e brendshme e një foshnje
që një nënë e vëmendshme
e pikas vetëm ndaj të gdhirë.
Shkoi drejt varkës.
Me duart e thata, që i dridhëshin,
i preku bashin si të ledhatonte një qënie frymore.
Zgjidhi litarët, bëri ta shtynte drejt thellësisë
duke i thënë: Ik tani,
fluturo drejt horizonteve pulëbardha ime!
U kthye për në shtëpi trotuarit të vjeshtës.
Ndali një çast. Hodhi vështrimin drejt qiellit,
ngriti duart lart, në atë mënyrë,
sikur të kuvendonte me zotat,
që e kishin ndihur
gjatë gjithë udhëve të tij të gjata.
Lëvizi në ajër bastunin e tij të drunjtë.
Retë e hirta të vjeshtës, atë çast,
si të ishin dele të bindura,
bënë për nga gryka e Lëkurësit.
Vjeshta, kjo grua çapkëne dhe flokëartë,
e zemëruar prej gushtit,
vazhdonte të këpuste gjethet e pemeve
buzë trotuareve.
Peshkatari plak çapitej ende trotuarit
duke thënë nën zë: Sa i ngjajmë ne gjethit,
sa i ngjajmë!...
Të nesërmen e asaj dite,
nëpër shtyllat elektrike kundruall Limanit,
lexova lajmërimet e shtegëtimit të tij
pa kthim.
" The last migration of the old fisherman"
More than one year has passed
That the fishing boat " the seagull of the blues"
Laying, anchored at the harbor
It sits there, quite silent
It's black flag, was ripped off in stripes
Like the mane of a horse
Frozen by the longing for their master.
They were saying that the fisherman
Was bedridden for a year, as well
But suddenly on a fall's morning
He was seen walking the street of the city
Going to the sea shore
He paused. He watched the Ionian sea
It was a sea of rip currents that day
Dangerous even for young sailors
But it looked quiet on the surface
Like the fever of a child
That a caring mother realises
Only in the morning
The fisherman, went to the boat
He untied the ropes
And with his thin trembling hands
Caressed the bow of the boat
Like it was a live thing
And than pushed it into the blue sea
" go on now, my seagull, sail into the deep blue"
Then he was making his way back home,
Walking on autumn's sidewalk
He paused for a moment,
He turned his gazeto the sky
He threw his hands up,
Like he was talking to the gods
To those gods that helped him
Through all his long journey
He waved in the air his walking cane
And the grey clouds of that fall sky
Like obedient sheep, strolled
To the valley.
The fall, this mischievous blond woman
Angry at August
Continually plucked the leafs of the trees
And threw them on the sidewalks.
The old fisherman, was talking to himself
" how, much like leaves we are,
how similar."
The next day
On the notice board in front of the port
I read a notice, about the fisherman's last migration.
The Poet
Dashamir Malo was born in Përmet, Albania. He graduated from the University of Tirana, Departament of Economics and Management. He lives in the city of Saranda.
He has published the poetry books "Between loneliness and silence" 1994, "Precedent" 2001, "Hiding tear" 2007, "Probably" 2012 and "Vaguely" 2014, "Light-Shade" 2019. He has translated into Albanian three volumes of poetry by different foreign authors.
He is a participant in several poetic anthologies in Albanian and other foreign languages. Cycles of his poems have been published in Greek language, Italian, English, Macedonian and Bulgarian. He is one of the organizers of the International Poetic Meeting , which is held every year in the city of Saranda.
Among the evaluations received by his poetry is worth mentioning the First Prize for the cycle of poetry, "False Rainbows", at the Third International Poetry Competition "Lyrical Voices", Sofia, Bulgaria 2012.
ΣΧΟΛΙΑ
