Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub

nga **Agim Gashi** Sat Oct 08, 2011 7:14 pm

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub

LNPSHA "PEGASI" ALBANIA

The first poetry presentation LNPSHA "PEGASI" ALBANIA
Poet, Lindite Ramushi, Gjilan Kosovo ...
is a gifted poet of the younger generation with greater skill requesting, the philosophical-psychological plan that is to say in poetic art "

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 313234_10150341293253186_678723185_8053417_222366250_n

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 313234_10150341293253186_678723185_8053417_222366250_n

Linditë Ramushi
LET ME SIGHT

I became as air
As particle of oxygene that holds the cells alive
To keep alive also the line of the neck while it is bended
To placate and the black smoke around the green eyes
Allow me

Allow the tear to touch the face till the lips
Let it flows in the leave as cold dew
Don't wipe out it with the hand
Let it tears apart also the skin as volcanic warm wave

Let it to line up my face a salted dot
Because that taste comes out of a blind smoke well
Oh, leave to me also the air to dive into lungs
To cut off legs of marathonic run.

Turn it of also the full thread of light
while I am holding strong in my chest with fist
But don't let me as pinetree contiguous mountain range
Because it's color is lost when the root is plucked out.

Let me sigh sobbing at the rain
because of blod beads become reddish color in the sun
Then I will be revived again from that gestation
In between the fire and the air
As if one love is born—

Starved by Oppressors
... By Wendy Mary Lister Egland

He a breathing corpse endures starvation
fixated by each morsel passing lips.
... His anguish becomes heartrending staring,
out of sunken eyes like open craters.

All expressions stray, unpleasantly raw,
those curves on his face are cadaverous.
Sad extremities becoming extinct,
this ashen carcass now bends to earth.

The ignorance of ruthless oppressors:
death feeding on remains of his innards.
His mind now unconscious to his senses,
all hopes of survival are soon to end.

LEDIANA STILLO PAJA USA, VICEPRESIDENT LNPSHA "PEGASI|" ALBANIA
...

A little Promethean fire

by LEDIANA STILLO PAJA

The torch is snuffed. Fear,
Crackles the sonorous splinters.
They pour his shadow,
Upon the plagiarized mirror.

On the time harp
A whispering melody
Speaks with the ancient oak’s voice.

The bay leaves are frozen
The crown floats above
The liver disintegrates like hourglass sand.

The sentence thunders above the Caucasian mountains
"I am the one whose soul
They used to hang their coin"
Hesiod gave me this prophecy…

Over the Caucasian Mountains
The clouds squeeze my temples
The eagle eats my liver
And time has me sprawled within her circle
My limbs, shadows of its insane hands

Today Prometheus has coffee with the goods
And I am held down by Hephaestus’ nails

I, just the half of a human, without
The little Promethean fire

Pak zjarr Prometeu

Pishtari shuhet. Frika
kercellen ashklat kumbuese.
Hijen e tij e derdhin
mbi pasqyren plagjature

Nen harpen e kohes
melodia pershperitese
i ngjan zerit te lisit shekullorsh.

Gjethet e dafines kane ngrire.
Kurora ka mbetur pezull.
Melcia shprishet si rere klepsidre

Mbi kaukaz gjemoj denimin:
"Jam njeriu qe ne shpirt
iu var monedhe pagesa"
Hesiodi ma ka parathene kete...

Mbi Kaukaz, rete shtrydhin temthat e mia
Mbi Kaukaz, shqiponja skermit melcine time
Mbi kaukaz, koha me ka shtrire mbi te sajin rreth
dhe hapat e mia jane hija e akrepave te saj.

Prometeu sot pi kafene me zotat.
E mua me rendojne gozhdet e Hefestit.

Une, gjysem njeriu, qe nuk mbaj ne shpirt
pak zjarr Prometeu

FLUTURA MAÇI, TIRANA ALBANIA
Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 302937_10150341273688186_678723185_8053347_1929214900_n

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 302937_10150341273688186_678723185_8053347_1929214900_n

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 321101_10150341274643186_678723185_8053348_397435031_n

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 296708_10150341272338186_678723185_8053344_1497917501_n

BRIKENA SMAJLI SHKODRA , ALBANIA
Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 301325_10150341256408186_678723185_8053317_1877320947_n

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 301325_10150341256408186_678723185_8053317_1877320947_n

Pain holds the Ashes
By BRIKENA SMAJLI

Pain holds the ashes of its fire,
Pain is life,
Bent shoulders of an old wife,
Fingers folded behind.
Pain is fire,
Pain, funeral pyre,
A whisper's caress
That bestows no solace.
Pain is destruction
Pain, corpse in its socket,
Gaping mouth of a witch in its pocket,
Pain is a drop.

Pain is the icy tide
Of a liquidless sea
Pain is... lament.

[Dhimbja ka hirin, from the volume "Të fundit vdesin ulkonjat", Shkodra: At Gjergj Fishta, 1997, p. 29. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Tear

The curse of rivers
Has seized me,
It is cold on the road,
My legs are drenched with water,
But, when souls weep,
Their shadows shiver in ponds
And grow long.
Mythical beasts
Float in caverns,
The flame of the candle quivers alone
And kisses the stalagmites
Of the soul...

[Lot, from the volume Të fundit vdesin ulkonjat, Shkodra: At Gjergj Fishta, 1997, p. 30. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Pain holds the Ashes

Pain holds the ashes of its fire,
Pain is life,
Bent shoulders of an old wife,
Fingers folded behind.
Pain is fire,
Pain, funeral pyre,
A whisper's caress
That bestows no solace.
Pain is destruction
Pain, corpse in its socket,
Gaping mouth of a witch in its pocket,
Pain is a drop.

Pain is the icy tide
Of a liquidless sea
Pain is... lament.

[Dhimbja ka hirin, from the volume Të fundit vdesin ulkonjat, Shkodra: At Gjergj Fishta, 1997, p. 29. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Tear

The curse of rivers
Has seized me,
It is cold on the road,
My legs are drenched with water,
But, when souls weep,
Their shadows shiver in ponds
And grow long.
Mythical beasts
Float in caverns,
The flame of the candle quivers alone
And kisses the stalagmites
Of the soul...

[Lot, from the volume Të fundit vdesin ulkonjat, Shkodra: At Gjergj Fishta, 1997, p. 30. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

nga **Agim Gashi** Sat Oct 08, 2011 8:17 pm

LNPSHA "PEGASI" ALBANIA, KOSOVA
Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 303037_10150341634118186_678723185_8055464_879177869_n

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 303037_10150341634118186_678723185_8055464_879177869_n

Why are u hush?
... By FLORA KELMENDI KOSOVA

Why the fingers didn’t write
When the feelings get u?
U stay in some place
That how scared u feel
Why u’s lips didn’t move
They are so Thirsty
U’s blue eyes are with tear
Like a woozy lake
I become like a tree
The wind jerk my leaf
Like an undressed tree
Is not Beautiful like were before
Everything is coming dry
And I like a Rose
With her petals I write for u
Is midnight and I haven’t sleep
I think how tomorrow ‘s going to be
Why u stay saintly is a mystery?
This thing my heart have closed with key

Pse Hesht?

nga Flora Kelmendi KOSOVE

Pse nuk shkruajnë gishtrinjtë
kur ndjenjat të rrëmbejn?
Rri e strukur një qoshe,
me frikën qw e ndjen.

Pse buzët nuk lëvizin
shkrumbi i ka mbuluar?!
Sytë e kaltër me lot,
sikur liqeni i trubulluar.

Jam berë si një lis
që era shkund gjethet.
E zhveshur si pemët,
në këte stineëvjeshte.

S’ka më bukuri sikur më parë,
çdo gjë ka filluar me u tharë,
Edhe unë si një trandafil,
me petalet e saj shkruaj për ty.

Në mesin e natës rri pa gjumë,
mendoj të nesërmen si kam me kalu.
Pse rri e heshtuar është mister?....
Këtë zemër e ka mbyllur me dry.

KOZETA ZAVALANI VICEPRESIDENT LNPSHA "PEGASI" ALBANIA
...

Freedom, with power for change
by KOZETA ZAVALANI

See what Freedom means
being in the presence of boundless curiosity,
to witness our spiritual riches
within that life offers us.
I believe that often we say the same thing
in different ways - in different forms,
with a different tone –
For so is the life
one sees the colors of others-not
a thrush spreads wings over the orchid,
another was torn down with head injuries.
Fly like leaves
flying to save the freedom to live ...
I can give light where there is shadow
enter the orbit of momentum and hope
to never stopped driving force,
always in the marathon of life,
with power for change,
with freedom to remain in the illuminated compass
that never errs.

Liri, me fuqine per ndryshim
nga Kozeta Kozeta Zavalani

Shih se çfarë do të thotë Liri
të jesh në prani të kureshtjes të pakufishme,
për të dëshmuar,
pasuritë tona shpirtërore
brenda mundësive
që na ofron jeta.
Unë besoj se shpesh ne themi të njëjtën gjë
në mënyra të ndryshme - në forma të ndryshme,
me një ton të ndryshëm –
Sepse keshtu eshte edhe jeta
dikush i sheh ngjyrat
te tjeret -jo
një mëllenjë shtrin krahët mbi orkide,
një tjetër eshtë rrezuar me kokë e plagosur.
Fluturojne si gjethe
fluturojne për të shpetuar
në liri për të jetuar...
Unë mund të jap dritë atje ku ka hije
hyj në orbitën e vrullit dhe shpreses
me forcën shtytëse që kurrë s'ndalon,
gjithmone në maratonën e jetës,
me lirinë si busull ndriçuese,
ne fuqine per ndryshim
mbetem në pjesën që nuk gabon.

nga **Agim Gashi** Sat Oct 08, 2011 8:32 pm

NDUE UKAJ, KOSOVE
Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 314394_10150341238188186_678723185_8053262_1113806006_n

...
Godo is not coming

It is raining, the road from Ireland is unpassable
The sea cannot be passed with small steps, on rainy nights
When solitude is overwhelming you enjoy the earthquake cracks of the Earth
When pain has no time even for scientific explanation.

Godo is not coming, it is late, infected by the welcoming
Sleeping comfortably, amongst both of our dreams.
He is not coming, neither under the tree of life nor in the theatre of wonders,
Under the sleep of expectation which your time doesn’t understand...our time.

You are waiting, like the bride on the abandoned bed,
Dreaming of him with open arms as he brings a sack full of dreams
Extending your hands with softness, as in the beloved hair...relaxes there
And prays to your dreams, intertwined through your tall fingers.
Suddenly a bite freezes your body, your hand flies from the sack.
Wiping your forehead you understand that Godo didn’t come, neither his enigmatic look.
Nontheless you are not convinced that your dream entered in a sack.
It was tied forever just like Godo’s arrival.
Surprisingly passed on the other side of the furious river of words
As you pass amongst the dreams full of wonders towards the guards of time
That makes the noise of life in the dream of expectation.
Nearby the time guards
Foster the hope that Godo nevertheless will come.

Godo is not coming, no...!
You are crying, crying frantically until your tears have made a creek
Between your cheeks and your continuous flow of tears.
Where the heart beats are felt like the steps of the unknown
In the gloomy night when grief is around the corner
And even Godo could experience it on his hands and be thrown desperately.

Godo Is Coming

Stop crying continuously, Godo is coming
The storm has stopped, the road from Ireland is open
He has softened his turbulent vision and his sadness of Achilles
Even the pain in his chest has healed.
He is coming through the Tree of Life.
Where you have created the nest of welcome
With a swamp of wishes noosly tied.
Godo is coming with the music of sea full of silence.
Your welcome has given him courage,
He is coming with the sack full of enigmas,
Nearby the rotten Tree
Where you wait to enter your shaking hands
That were bitten by the irony of endless waiting.
And the words that were changing their shape every morning.

Your bulb does not trust time, neither for the waiting and Godo’s arrival.
With the branches of tree designs the crown of victory. What a great joy.
With reduced hopes until the lost confidence, dissolves the vision

And is crossing the furious river without being recognized.
Suddenly comes back.
Sitting nearby a tree with your shining items
Where the white lights swallow your emotionate vision.
Where you are saving the nostalgia of reception. The heart’s step.
Through the tired fingers are counting the theater of absurdities
With naked aktors nearby which
The spectators are spread through the meridians of death.
While waiting for Godo.
And the fear from the sneak on the rotten Tree,
Which is whipping continuously.

Therefore Godo is coming, your reception has made him courageous.
Near the tree of life
With the team of actors to build the theatre of salvation for you.
And the time of reception to last until he comes.

Godo Is Here

It is night, the storm is going mad
Your wet body is shaking from the heavy rain
Under the tree of life while waiting for Godo.
The reception has transformed you into a modern statue.
Where the lonely birds and night crows have their life nests.

Your solitude is crouching as a tied sneak
Between which the poisonous tongue is vitalized.
Suddenly is heard an energetic beating, you did not hear it.
Your ears are closed from the warms climbing over your body.
Climbing just as the old man in front of the law on Kafka’s story.
Waiting to enter in the mysteries of law, I am sorry, I meant mysteries of Godo.
To understand the mystery of absurdity in equal level
With those of dehumanization.
My God,
Godo is here, with his confusing look and his torn sack,
With lost desires during the long road of return
Under the tree of life where you waited endlessly.

You did not recognize him,

He returned with a different face which you never imagined.
With the tired voice you had never heard,
With the turbulent vision you had seen.
Sadness astounded your body. The warms are falling down
From your body which is transformed into waiting.
Sadly you grabbed the spoiled head, and run through his sack
While searching your dried dreams just as the autumn leafs
Through which the drunk feet are walking
And your tears started falling in your neck and cheek
You felt in the arms of sadness
Welcomed him just as the bride waiting for the groom in the abandoned bed,

While dreaming with open arms to have nearby the sack full of dreams
Where softly you place your hands, just as in the lovely hair...relaxing there
And beging for your dream, intertwined in your long fingers.
And while wiping your forehead you understand that Godo arrived and your wait remained an endless wait.

The Emigrant

He has only questions, his answers so very timid
In dirty pockets with concreted nostalgia.
He has only memories that surround his neck
Like the millstone they shake him one step forward and a few backward,
While caressing in torrential waterfall,
And kidnapping the time which he never sees.
The time that he only dreams in endless nights.
He is not one of those below the sky full of storms,
Where he walks, where he eats, where he makes love and seating.
The fatherland of birds is the sky
Of the fish is the sea
Of the emigrant is sorrow
Which is multiplied like clouds in the turbulent sky.

On the unknown roads, nostalgia shifts
While searching for one amid endless zeroes.
Odyssey’s testament is burning in his hand,
And coal threaten fire; like tropical rays
Toward the missed Ithaca he directs his eyes
And he is exhausted day and night.
He migrates on the roads of sadness
And is covered with the quilt of Promised Land,
And every night dreams the same dream. The return to number one.
While the desert oasis swallows his aspirations, and memories.
Causing deep desperation to the Emigrant.

With the sack of sorrow travels through the roads of hope
Awaiting decisions to become as number one, in the endless zeroes
Every day waits for him the unknown in the forest of desires
Where it is relaxing, the soft vision and the deep meditation.
Like a freezing bird is searching the nest of hope.
And is covered with the quilt of Promised Land.

(Inspired by the book of Milan Kundera: “The ignorance”)

Appeal

D’on’t sleep Muse, open your bulb
And borrow me the voice of the song
I bow in front of you
Burning but I am not the flames
Muse, in the begging was the word
And the word was everything
Already there is nothing else
Besides the word and love
Show me the frontier of life and death
And the kingdom of poetry
In my city with frontiers and walls
Show me the kingdom of benediction
And teach me to become the word’s desciple
Of the free spirited music
That dances continuously
Show me more

Because history is a mark in the foot
Written and rewritten
Through the vibrating fingers
To make myths
And a hill of lies
Therefore muse, sing with me
And the love that boils
In the metaphore of time
Show me my God
Because the Sun rises for the good and the bad
The fiery language is turned into a shadow
And my vision into the horison of reception
While returns its mind into yesterday
And observes the structure of time
In the point of tomorrow

Illusion of Time

My

toung moves unfrightened
In the shiverings’ waterfalls of the past
A frozen tear like an Antarctic ice over me
Does a frightening shade to the deformed roof.

Night falls quietly like a beloved woman layed down
Where illusions of eternity are frighteningly fed
Where future illusions frighteningly knock
Where daunting fire, lightning times erupt
The melted times on the lost calendars
When groaning went throughout the sky
Earth swallows us with rotten spiders in obscuring darkness
Tied in our legs worst and even worst.
While a lonely bird flies in the endless sky.
Abandoned his nest destroyed from the storm
In the sky sketches a red box
It is not Pandoras box, has no sins.
And it doesn’t foster the illusions of eternity
Only one bird flying alone in search of liberty.

Even when we can’t hear
The unthinable on the dusty cities
Where love’s cathedral is blasphemed
And forgivness smell comes from liberty
The bird flies in search of liberty.

Engulfed in the unlimited trust
Saddened we sniff the greatest romances
Through the books that foster time and kill forgivness
On behalf of a city of mortality we are preached all day
How this is worsening and declare ourselves as fools

The Waist of Time

Today nothing beautiful happened
My calendar remained empty
Nothing bad happened
Expectation is drawn on a window
Cold expectation, like ice over our heads
And the dark swedish days
That turn to yellow our warm vision
Time crumbles quietly and its ruins swallow us.
In between our feet which have lost its equilibrium.
Time flows in the unknown sea by the furious river.
In the space are shaking the surprising looks.
And the heavy steel question marks wheighing upon us
Explode in the wirlwind time without mercy
Yesterday wearing thick sweaters has arrived and easily prevails, very quiet.
Misteriously. Very similar to the unending tunnel.
No one knows how to enter neither knows how to exit.
Therefore nothing new today. The times are clashing desperately.
Saddness is waived without a word. While a lightning is discharged in the sky
Like a flag of blunders and time of sadness.
I am expecting the ruins of the overthrown time
As saddness is waived over our heads,
An unimportant news such as lightning,
Was on the newspaper every were. Saddness.
And thousands of readers grown in front of that nonsense
That doubles the bitterness of my expresso
Nothing bad today. Words stopped existing.
Hospitality on the window is unhappy like a night crow.

Clashes

I bite sometimes my teeth furiously
My toung remains on my teeth sometimes
With a neddle have to sew my toung.
Some days have no desire to, my little angel,
Surprised with myself how I bite my dreams,
Fight with them until bleeding,
Bite them and clash with reality,
Over nights with autumn’s dreams
And lovely smiles from spring
The hope for victory strangles saddness
I bite the days and nights all together,
Gloomy nights, nights close to dusk,
At times I am bloodened everywhere,
With my heavy, very heavy teeth
Heavier like the rocks of the highlands,
Sometimes the world sleeps at noon,
And there bows the myth of strength resistance
The world is completely confused and shaken,
Sometimes the world forgets the bowing of knees
Falls asleep under the sounds of children songs
Suddenly is dissolved from the bitternes affecting our intestines
Confuses the brain and the mirror image is lost
The tree of life covers the street in a morning full of Sun Dew
And I, sometimes alone clash with the world
And become passionate on the nakedness of poetry.

Hemingwayan waves of time

The

sea is under storms
And the old man fishing without rest
With the ship of the endless times
Searches the shores to his best
A black cloud escorts, with exuberant steps
Life’s fish on the reckless sea.
Is an agitated sea and has many wonders
Also has an old man fishing tirelessly,
And a girl fallen in love
Wishing to have the golden fish undoubtedly.
The relentless sea
Is never a peaceful sea,
An attacked ship
Fights for her life
From many storms.
In a misterious depth of the sea under storm
A hungry shark threatens at every cost.
And a broken ship breaks forward with all including the helm.
Icy winter makes the frozen sea like a stone
And the storm grows with continuously.

The old man doesn’t look at his time

Screams anxiously and counts the years on his fingers
Is a gloomy night the sea isn’t peaceful
Napping from fishing stops and thinks
Now he understands, is the end of life

Was not born to be a people’s fisherman
Neither a construction rock.
But his love for life turned it into sailing.
It is sad in these cold icy days
Sea shores are away, there is no wave to rescue him.
The ship of time is challenged while sailing.
She is shaken like the wind with the tired old man.

Until the sun falls over the sea
And the very hungry girl catches the fish.
The acquarium of memories is on her shadow
As pieces of her compassionate heart.
A big tent of mercifulness.

My God, my Sunday dialogue is even more lonesome
Than the Autumn night with strong winds,
Than the Cathedral sound that disrupts the dark solitude
Crawls it over like a victim of roman times
And the colors of the painter relaxing on the lap of the exotic lady
Waking the next morning with my vision lost which resembles
To my dialogue with poetry on Sunday...!

The Shadow of Crows

In the island of cordiality solitude is bitter
And the broken structure of sex
In the river of time was crawling

I didn’t recognise Homer and his blindness
With the steps of Achilles I measure the current time
And the kilometres beyond Ithaca

Your azured bulb becomes lost in the nudity
Of the dark night where your mind changes
Confusing acts of a shadowing spirit

Cold shower drops in the island of Solitude
Fall on the cracks of your sex

The unwritten drama in the ruins theater
And the icy kiss that burned the tearful bulb

In the day when I had confusing thoughts
One crow observed my smiling eyes
And the myth reflected under the shade of crows

The partial pieces of written art

Eyes are neither windows from the past
Nor are they doors to escape from sadness

Lonely Poets

Yesterday I met with the poet of great loneliness
Through the road of the sky was absorbing the sun
His head was wrapped with dreams
To avoid the exuberance of the verses

Yesterday met with the poet of the great love
Through the road to forest with unknows colors
His head was tied with the eyes of Eros
To avoid the exuberance of the verses

Yesterday met with the Poet of great loneliness
Through the dusty road was licking his own footprints
His head was tied with history
To clear all the lies just as the sneak’s head

Yesterday met with the poet of great loneliness
On the lonely metaphors road
Was naked outside
To intoxicate the world on his eyes

Yesterday met the poet of great loneliness
With the math of his heart
Was untying the unknown clews.

The Freedom Of Poetry

The angels are descending slowly,
Softly
Quietly
With love
Over your fiery letters
Kissing only the pain that you know
Kissing only the love that you see
Kissing the solitude touched only by you
Caressing the Oh of the bountiful spirit
The brave poetry.
Then slowly and slowly
Caressing your stonelike tears
The wrinkled cheeks where the fatherland
Of pain has been hit with the times
Through the screaming metaphors
Screaming all night and day
Oh, quiet and scream, scream and keep quiet

In a parallel fashion,

And emerge with a Sunny smile
In the blue mornings with thickened pupils
In the black nights with frightening storms

They call you beautiful, call you a Queen
They call you many names
And you are, quiet as solitude
With noise like sadness

Bending your lifelong pain
The endless mystery, just as the creation
Where happiness and pain are hit in the mirror

And roll the soft vision through the lips
From mouth to mouth

As a rapacious bird in silence gathers
Sometimes pain and at times engulfed in happiness.
Oh lucky poetry that loves endlessly.

Biography

Ndue Ukaj, a writer, publicist and literary critic and literary theorist, was born in 1977 in Kosova. He has conducted studies on Albanian literature and language at the Faculty of Philology at the University of Pristine, where he followed master. In Sweden, Ukaj has followed courses in Swedish language and culture. He was member of several editorials literary. He has also been editor of the magazine for art, culture and society "Identity" that was published in Pristina. Ukaj is included in several anthologies of poetry, in Albanian, and other languages. His poems and texts were translated into English, Romanian, Spanish and Italian.

While the book “Godo is not coming”, won the national award "Azem Shkreli" for best book of poetry published in 2010 in Kosovo.
He is the author of books of poetry and literary studies.
Books in Albanian: “The Biblical Discourse in the Albanian Literature”, AIKD; Kosovo, 2004
'The waterfall of metaphors', M&B, Tirane, Albany, 2008
Books in english, ”Ithaca of the word”, translated by Peter Tase, publishing by Lulu Entepress,USA 2010
”Godo is not coming” Lulu Enterprises, USA 2010
Book in spanish: Godo no viene, Lulu Enterprises, USA, 2010

nga **Agim Gashi** Sat Oct 08, 2011 8:47 pm

Shkendije Hoda, GJAKOVA
...
Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 316457_10150341649633186_678723185_8055607_299497959_n

I do not believe
by Shkendije Hoda, GJAKOVA

Hope takes the view anxiety
and my happiness fades,
with said comfort is the existence
and I find it difficult to accept this thing
and to say thanks.

Hope

Watch me throw a glass bottle in the rusty
darkness never drunk up there,
I do a little war raging
for the sad loss ....!
Anxiety and poverty remain
word of condolence black wine.
Shkendije Hoda

Rezarta Pode Shkodra, ALBANIA

...Të ikim
nuk duam,
të rrimë,
kemi frikë...
mes gjysmës,
që vuan
dhe gjysmës,
tek ndrit...

To leave....

by REZARTA PODE , ALBANIA
We dont’t want,
To stay,
We are afraid...
Amid the half
That suffers
And the half
As it brightens....

Këshillim psikologjik

Kur sytë të erren
Dhe e bukura
Me s’të josh
Ruaje frymen për fjalën e mire…

Sa here vetja s’të bindet
E të duket
Se çdo gjë qenka bosh,
Ndryj në dhëmbë fjalën e shtirë…

Kur zvarritur,
Çuditesh përse ta pësosh,
Mbetu fort në duart,
Harro shpejt…
Ngrihu në këmbë të mësosh…

Psychological Advice

When your eyes darken
And the beauty
Attracts you no more
Hold your breath for the goo word…

Every time your inner self does not obey you
It seems to you that
Everything is empty
Lock up the feigned word…

When dragged
You wonder why does it happen to you
Relying strongly in your hands
Forget quickly

... QERIM RAQI KOSOVE, SUEDI

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 304235_10150341231938186_678723185_8053207_780308121_n

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 304235_10150341231938186_678723185_8053207_780308121_n

SOUL`S ALPHABET
by Qerim Raqi

I`m leaving you everything my love,
Here you are
All of them:
... Sheets, book, pencil
Days
Everything
That is written and you write to me,
Take them and read in me,
Here´s my tongue,
Read the exhausted letters,
Of my soul
Read, my love,
The hieroglyphs, my alphabet,
Wear the eyes of the truth
Put them into your heart, read plainly
From left to right,
From right to left
V
E
R
T
I
C
A
L
L
Y
Transform me into a cross-word,
Multiply my word two folds
And soul, my geometry,
I am a book page, a stolen chapter
From your face, your eyes
Here I am, totally yours
Typed in sings, parchments,
If you know how to read my soul
And then judge me speechlessly…
Read, if you wish, burn my tongue
My alphabet-the torn chapter
Of my absurd prose
And judge me…

VENKA CAPA , TIRANA, ALBANIA

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 313753_10150341230023186_678723185_8053189_942331615_n

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 313753_10150341230023186_678723185_8053189_942331615_n

I am woman!

by Venka Capa

Throwing a glance at ghastly light,
I feel like a dried up stump,
Stranded by fate,
Beaten by mercy,
In a hypocrisy season.
Longing for life,
Donating me the oak’s roots,
Praying to Saint Mary:
I am a woman, I’ve hopes,
The holy desire is hetaing up,
Throw to me an innocente branch,
For binding with it,
the maternal love!

Jam grua
2011-03-06

Hedh vështrimin
Zbehtësisë së dritës…
Jam cung dru tharë
Përplasur nga fati,
Rrahur nga mëshira,
Në stinë hipokrizie.
Malli që kullos për jetën,
Më dhuron këmbët e lisit,
Lutem para Shën Marisë:

Jam grua, kam shpresa,
Më vlon dëshirë e shenjtë,
Më hidh një degë të pafaj,
Të lidh dashurinë amësore!

NEXHI BAUSHI TIRANA
Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 293480_10150341226093186_678723185_8053167_980373793_n

Kristaq Shabani:100 TPC Organization & Communication Hub 293480_10150341226093186_678723185_8053167_980373793_n

A woman asks little

A woman does not take many....

A little attention,
a pat.
To clean her tears
A soft hand......
A sweet murmur in the ear
The Bethhoven sound
to turn in a symphony......
Does not require endless constellation
Only one star off
in her breasts.
A woman does not take many,
How many........
Do not be miserly:
A rose petal from
her desirability.......
With the smell fill his entire life.
A cell awaits with anxiety.
A red light when you chat.......
A woman does not take many.
To receive the hand towards himself.
Once in the spring to go to it
and as a bud to harvest her.
Based on chest- increase life
A woman does not take many
From the mouth of the elder Vezuv laves
Pen to coat with the unfading fire
and the white robe in the morning.
Magic Word to write
A woman does not take many
How many
How many
requires
a
woman!.......

SA PAK KËRKON NJE GRUA…

Një grua s’kërkon shumë…

Pakëz vëmendje,
një përkëdheli.
Lotin t’ia fshijë
Një dorëz e butë,…
Nje shushërimë ëmbëlsirë në vesh.
Tingullin e Bethovenit
ta kthejë në sinfoni…
S’kërkon kostelacion pa fund:
Vetëm një yllësi të zbresë
në gjijntë e saj.
Sa pakëz kërkon një grua,
sa pakëz…
Ti, mos u kur...se.
Një petal nga trëndafili

dëshirimi saj…
Me aromatizim tërë jetën ta përplotojë.
Një telefonate te vetme, pritësi me ankth.
Nje dritëz të kuqe sipar përndritur në chat….
Një grua s’ kërkon shumë.
Ta marrësh përdorë ta synosh drejt vetes së saj .
Herët në pranverim tek ajo të shkosh.
Si gonxhe ta vjelësh
Mbështetur në gjoks - rritësi jete.
Nje grua s’ kërkon shumë, pak , fare pak:
Nga gryka llavëskuqur e Vezuvit plak,
Pendën ta ngjyesh me zjarr të pashuar.
dhe në mantelin e bardhë të Agimit
Fjalën magjike ta dritëshkruash…
Sa pakëz, sa pakëz, kërkon një grua!…

Tirane, 03.Gusht 2011

Pranvera R ustemi GJERMANI

*
Man, what a beautiful creature ...
Across the chrystal world
that surrounds us ...
I see human happiness.
Plenty of color nuances, playing in the sky.
Like moon's mirror image on water.
Like memories of beautiful dreams when you wake up.
I see ...
"The blessed Virgin" on Rosini's painting!
This happiness contains the scent of the rose. It's sweet. It attracts
and awakens the desire to touch it. Like the shiny satin that slides in your hands!
It's a divine dream!
Consisting of sunshine and moonshine.
It's love and glory,
which had the beauty and freshness of the autumn down...
And of the immortal called "Man"!

*
Flieg dursch dein Spiegelbild!
Lass Dich die Haare kämen von dem Wind der Dämmerung...
Und dein Blick eindringte tief...
Renn im Dunkel...
Ignoriere moderne Ampeln...
Und lärmende Autos.
Hebe Dich hoch prächtig in Piedestal..!
Lass deine Seele zu fliegen...
Schenk Dir die Farben,
deines blendenden Spiegelbild (mirror image)...
"Fllad Ndjenjash..." "The feeling's breeze...”

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