Minced

Alert orange

The alarm is there, but you can’t find the clock,
your fist is annoyed
smashing nothingness,
wake-down, wake-down,
tear down this pillow,
what’s the matter
with you… Mr. Gorbachev!
Feathers do not fly,
matter doesn’t matter,
everything just comes, nothing goes
around,
you’re a meridian
having reached the pole,
losing all the likes
and the parallels.
Feathers still asleep,
alarm flies around,
your pillow killed the birds,
smashing nothingness.


Futuristic chitter-chatter 

Sickness ain’t no women,
no more,
there’s a remedy: your calcium’s low,
so lime yourself,
Love’s a brand new therapy, a chemical,
delivered by alchemists,
offered at herbalists’ across town,
at different flacon sizes
after your body light and birth time zone,
Love’s also an old theory
and treatment,
by which people used to handle their loneliness,
symptoms only - it was not a cure
back then;
Free samples of healthy sadness,
offered as a fresh squeezed juice
or with Turkish coffee - quite a rarity,
with an old mosque flavor,
it keeps you up
if you fear plastic dreams.
Tea time, t-bone, t-shirts… you’ve heard of all ‘em tees,
good old physics,
the gift shop around the corner
occasionally sells them,
the seller therein is a bore, by the way,
like all materialists,
and - go figure - he’s German!
He is German to the bone, for Pete’s sake…

Word of the day: ...

Lake the quiet

Dearth by the missing of my delta over you,
of my flood on your grass of lust - I’m a griever
with the never-ending sadness of the quiet lake
that doesn’t yield a river.


The poetry of another one for you

His lines with the symmetry of the graves in a cemetery,
soldiers of precisely cut stone, previous funerals,
usurp my solemn air, and likely epitaphs,
all those deepest joys of defeated generals.


Your adoration

Hinders me to come forth proper, true and real,
with my grown-up swamps older than the Earth,
full of dull mosquitoes and malaria juices
you cannot envision like every blind from birth.

L as in lake

They die when it happens,
clouds don’t take chances of rain,
how come we build expectations
on every foggy makeup that shows,
in vain?

Lonely droplets built
a wet society,
rain civilized the previous sky
on the fly,
the common decision
of the lonely to fall
together in love and splatter
with the very same ground -
rain is, after all, a down to earth matter;

now shower’s over,
show is over,
you’re wet,
about time to be a lover,
the hanging towel on your shoulder
slit my hand,

crossed the line(n) of destiny,
puzzling the palm readers
of tomorrow
on the avenues of sand.

Did we, then, make love?
I saw lingerie
killed on a corner,
it rather seemed an accident.

Does it count
if I don’t know it?
Does it sound
If I don’t hear it?

The pillows shrunk make believes,
pretending no clue,
they didn’t bear no trace of blood
though I felt the wounds’
trot on my forehead,
the dark and blue,

it was either cognac or your wild way
to exert the passion,
like a bison herd drive on leather;

there was no more Excedrin
left in the bottle,
last hope
we would taste something together.

Rough justice,
serial pain killers wanted,
I couldn’t turn off the night
and sleep -
the darker and bluer truth
rendered no switch to flip.

You ate my flesh, why saved my bones,
the fields of after-love full of skeletons.
I dared you and I cut my fingers.

Reptilian tails they will grow back,
never learning
from cuts and deaths on previous hands
over ivory keyboards of your ribs,

I’ve always wished
to be a Liszt,
you know,
and lip your kiss,

rip the bliss
to some chewable tiny piece,

a man,
who knows
what to look for
in a woman
as a nature’s element -
like precious ores, waves and hurricanes,

I ended up a head instead
that doesn’t even get its pain,
mistaking that for some thick and red
Italian liquid mess,

(your vulva is never going to howl
to the twin silver moons  glowing on my chest),
now this is sad;

this can hollow
the glass of world to half
with sorrow.

Hot flashes

E ke pa hile, me garanci, me të  drejtë  kthimi
brenda 30 ditëve në të  njëjtën kuti
prej druri,
por pa taksinë
që  e pruri,
një  nuse e kthyer ikën në  kembë
nuk merr veturë,
vetëm mos ia hidh kutinë
s’i dihet kurrë,
dhe ruaj faturën
me çmimin dhe taksën
mbi burrën,

ky nderi  i shtë pisë  së  komshiut
me lart se antena bisht dallandyshe
ka mbirë ,
vazhdim i shtyllës së  tij vertebrore,
lyer me atë vazelinë të paktë ,
ruajtur për mikun
me dhimbjet e pandehuara të natës së parë,

të çelen çarçafet
për resme,
Virgjil pa Dante dhe gjakderdhje në Lindjen e Mesme,
në krevat vetëm ujë çezme,
i pafytyrë,
pa erë e sidomos pa ngjyrë,
s’ka naftë,
që plasja i raftë,
ia dogji gjithë naftën Shqipërisë fontana,
Shqipëri dhe dhëndurrë pa fat,
me karaputana…

qemeret lyer me mjaltë grenxash
uri alumini mbrrinte prej mencash,
kërkonte dasma copa nga basma,
toka kafshonte parrulla me kazma,
latë për të ngrënë,
latë për drutë
holluar e holluar si krah rakitiku,
me era ujë tymi dhe vaj kikiriku,
veza e rrahur
si gruaja e komshiut autoritar,
me mustaqet e rënda blerë në pazar…

ç’fryn jashtë hyn brenda,
si vajza prej Korçe
dritaret xhamat paputhurë
me kornizat
që fusnin mizat
shtatezanë me vezë vere
dhe ere komshieje
qe quhej, pa turp, Mynevere,
mustaqet e burrit
ç’i lan me lot e lëvere,
mallkimet ç’i bien mbi specat e nxirë
në fëltere…

një ujë i butë dirs
nën rrogoz të së djelës,
me berberin që bën fshehuhr synet
kundrejt pagesës,
me brisqet që qeth
kare të shkurtër,
komshiu është qen
gjersa i thotë së shoqes bushtër,
argument i mamasë në sherrin e mbrëmjes
për lagje, gjitonë,
vendimi i rëndë i babait
në fund, gjithmonë:
ajo, e shoqja, e meriton.

dita po gdhin,
në Saturn,
punëtorët,
do marrin një turn,
bukëmevete,
uzinë,
stacione lluce,
u zinë
me hundët gjak xhelozinë
punëtorët,
ai gjak s’mungonte kurrë
dhe pse s’tregonte virgjërinë e askujt.

Gjoksi lab bëri skopjo të mysët
si autobus i mëngjesit me dyert mbyllur përgjysëm,
bythën pasa-gjere nguce
me lugë këpuce,
ose merr taksi
po s’të pëlqeu, ç’na rri si nuse?
Dita hynte me siklet, shtrembër,
në një numër gjithnjë më të vogël
që vriste në thembër.

Kadrila e Gaforres, prej L. Carroll tek “Liza”

“Ec më shpejt, more kërmill”, kështu qefulli thërret
“Ja balena po na shtypi do t’na baj të dyve petë,*
Shih sa shpejt gaforret ikin, edhe breshkat gjithë gëzim
Ato presin përmbi çakull, a do vish, pra, në vallëzim?
A do vish, apo s’do vish, a do vish ti në vallëzim?
A s’do vish, apo do vish, a s’do vish ti në vallëzim?
Ti nuk mund ta kesh idenë se ç’qyfyr do jetë dhe store
Kur t’na marrin e t’na hedhin hop në det bashkë me gaforret.”
“Ësht’ shum larg”, u gjegj kërmilli, duke parë gjithë me dyshim,
I tha qefllit falemnderit, por dot s’shkonte në vallëzim.
S’duhej, s’mundej, s’mundej, s’duhej, s’mundej t’vinte në vallzim.
S’duhej, s’mundej, s’mundej, s’duhej, s’mundej t’vinte në vallëzim.
“Ç’rëndësi ka sa larg do shkojmë?” i tha shoku i vet me pare,
“Anës tjetër ka breg tjetër, që këtu duket ashiqare,
Më pranë Francës se Anglisë, bregu tjetër pa dyshim
Mos u tut, more kërmill, porse eja në vallëzim.
A do vish, apo s’do vish, a do vish ti në vallëzim?
A do vish, apo s’do vish, a do vish ti në vallëzim?”

* Kështu më ka mbetur në mend hyrja e përkthimit mjeshtëror të Lizës nga nuk di cili përkthyes i mrekullueshëm në botimin gegnisht të para Çlirimit “Liza në botën e çudinavet”, prej botuesit Ismail Mal Osmani.


Origjinali:

"The Mock Turtle's Song", aka the "Lobster Quadrille"

"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle -- will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?
"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"
But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance --
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.
"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France --
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?