Fatos Arapi
(Albania, 1930)
Poeta albanés nacido en Zvërnec, cerca de la ciudad portuaria de Vlora. Estudió economía en Sofía (Bulgaria) y trabajó en Tirana como periodista y profesor de literatura albanesa moderna. En sus dos primeras colecciones, Caminos poéticos (1962) y Poemas y versos (1966), hizo uso de un lenguaje más moderno que el de sus contemporáneos albaneses, fijando el rumbo para la renovación de la poesía de su país. En sus obras demuestra su fascinación por las aguas cristalinas del Mediterráneo, el aroma del aire, la sal y la intensidad de la luz, todos esos elementos impregnan sus versos.
OBRA:
Shtigje poetike, 1962
Partizani pa emër, 1962
Poema dhe vjersha, 1966
Ritme të hekurta, 1968
Patat e egra, 1969
Dhjetori i shqetësuar, 1970
Dikush më buzëqështë, 1972
Poezi të zgjedhura, 1974
Drejt qindra shekujsh shkojmë 1977
Shokët, 1977
Cipa e borës, 1985
Deti në mes, 1986
Ku shkoni ju statuja, 1990
Qezari dhe ushtari i mirë Shvejk, në front diku, 1995
Gjeniu pa kokë, 1999
Këngë për njeriun, Nikolla Vapcarov, 1981;
Poezi, Pablo Neruda, 1989;
Safo, 1990;
Antologji e poezisë turke,
Donde me halle, soy un pedazo del paisaje de mi patria
Fatos Arapi
Los hermanos de Pegaso
Confusión en los antiguos sabios,
esos ojos cariñosos ...
Al lado de un coche, debajo de un semáforo,
Elegantes, brillando en el sol
y el viento.
Relinchando,
Los hermanos de Pegaso, volátiles,
Como si vomitaran de las entrañas de la tierra.
Con borlas brillantes en sus frentes
inhalando,
los corceles de Kosovo.
On the shoulders of my times
On the shoulders of my times
I rested my head.
I did not sleep. I did not doze.
On the shoulders of my times,
As on Her shoulder
I was lost in thought.
[Mbi supët e kohës sime, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1966, p. 57. First published in English in An Elusive Eagle Soars, Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, London: Forest Books, 1993, p. 38. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
If I Die Young...
Like the linden tree, words spread their fragrance through the twilight,
Deep in the words I have spoken,
As in the depths of the Ionian,
I see my face.
I feel no pity for myself,
I do not lament my fate.
And if I die young,
Do not close my eyes...
I wish no candles... just let me watch
The stars come out in the heavens above me.
If I die young.
[Në vdeksha i ri..., from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1966, p. 58. First published in English in An Elusive Eagle Soars, Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, London: Forest Books, 1993, p. 39. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Life
Life is a railway station of partings and meetings.
We are constant travellers,
Holding in our hands our inseparable baggage,
A little suitcase
Of struggles, onslaughts and memories.
[Jeta, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1966, p. 59. First published in English in An Elusive Eagle Soars, Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, London: Forest Books, 1993, p. 40. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
I Dived into the Waters of the Ionian Sea
I dived into the waters of the Ionian Sea,
Into its hues and light.
I swim in a blaze of mirages,
Their sparkle captivates me,
Makes me quiver... And I feel:
Shooting through my soul,
Like azure currents of joy,
The very light and hues of the Ionian Sea.
Like azure currents of joy.
[U krodha në ujrat e Jonit, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1966, p. 62. First published in English in An Elusive Eagle Soars, Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, London: Forest Books, 1993, p. 41. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Do Not Hate Me
Do not hate me.
The two of us were once
Like sky and sea:
If one clouded over, the other grew dark,
If one cleared, the other turned azure.
You and I were once
Like two logs on the fire:
Separated we died out,
United we raged.
But how soon love
Turned to hatred...
Do not hate me...
[Mos më urre, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1966, p. 66. First published in English in An Elusive Eagle Soars, Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, London: Forest Books, 1993, p. 42. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
The Workers
They are constantly entering poems,
day and night.
They do not wait for the heavy gates to be opened
By intellectual love, by refined, delicate thinking.
They enter poems as they enter factories, plants,
Full of energy,
noise and passion.
They ring the sirens, turn on the motors, begin work.
The facade of the poem resounds with drills, with lathes.
The grey, metallic air shudders with the vibrations.
They mount the scaffolding,
the verses.
With a soldering-tool in hand they solder
iron and rhythms and tender rimes,
They test the calibres and the strength
Of our thoughts
and of our loves.
[Punëtorët, from the volume Ritme të hekurta, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1968. First published in English in An Elusive Eagle Soars, Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, London: Forest Books, 1993, p. 43. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Sultan Murat and the Albanian
Sultan Murat sat astride his steed
And observed the prisoner bound hand and foot:
His advanced age, his wounds, his chains...
‘Albanian,’ he inquired, ‘Why do you fight
When you could live differently?’
‘Because, Padishah,’ replied the prisoner,
‘Every man has a piece of the sky in his breast,
And in it flies a swallow.’
[Sulltan Murati dhe Shqiptari, from the volume Poezi, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1983, p. 207. First published in English in An Elusive Eagle Soars, Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, London: Forest Books, 1993, p. 44. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Autumn Morning
Autumn has poured its colours into my soul.
The colours of my soul
I have decanted
Into the coming days.
This morning, the skies were bathed by the autumn rains,
This morning
I refreshed my soul in the rains of time.
[Mëngjes vjeshte, from the volume Eklipsi i ëndrres, Tirana: Toena, 2002, p. 22. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Leaving Vlora
I am leaving without saying good-bye to the sea.
This one time
I did not foray to those familiar banks to bid farewell
To the gulls. I can no longer bear their absence.
Perhaps I am growing old,
My cells are beginning to falter and perhaps...
My heart is failing.
I can no longer stand
That distance of body from body.
Must I be off?
Without turning back!
Yet on my lacerated lips
Do I sense the searing sting of iodine and sea salt.
[Duke u larguar prej Vlore, from the volume Eklipsi i ëndrres, Tirana: Toena, 2002, p. 25. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
You Will Come
You will come, my beloved, will you not?
Because you know I am waiting for you,
Listening to the heavy breath of evening,
Listening to the whisper of the wait,
Listening to the sigh of my solitude.
You will come, my beloved, will you not?
For you know that, if I could,
I would spin the planet
Like an orange in my hand,
To make time fly faster
to have you with me at last...
[Ti do vish, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1966, p. 18. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
The Brothers of Pegasus
Ancient confusion in those wise,
those fond eyes...
Beside a car, beneath a traffic light,
Elegant, glistening in the sun
and the wind.
They neigh,
The brothers of Pegasus. Volatile,
As if spewed from the bowels of the earth.
With dazzling tassels on their brows
they snort,
The coursers of Kosova.
[Vëllezërit e Pegasit, from the volume Ku shkoni ju, statuja. Poezi, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1990, p. 47. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Give Me a Name
We are born and our bodies are clothed in names,
Someone lays us in a name-shell,
Then they engrave on the white marble,
On a stone bust something like:
Caesar
or Brutus.
Give me a name...
A far-off, distant name... then a near-by one.
May they be Siamese twins.
Have you forgotten?
You say Kruja
And you hear Cartagena.
Names are born, they grow and perish.
Names, fall in love, like people,
And in their love-making pierce the skin
of one another.
Did you call out Othello?
The answer will be: Desdemona.
Give me a name...
Names melt and liquify on our lips,
Like strawberries and grapes.
Covered in their mould, you unwillingly
lick your fingers.
Give me a name...
That I may be for you,
Like the vital force in a drop of blood,
That you venture forth on me
as you would on a road.
In my body you have sown
Wars and virtue,
Wounds and tombs.
Give me a name...
That I may soar like Icarus
Inside a teardrop.
[Më jepni një emër, from the volume Më vjen keq per Jagon, Tirana: Albin, 1994, p. 52. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Poems on My Mother
Little Mother
Mother has shrunk,
As if constantly stooping,
My heart quivers,
So brittle, so tiny...
Almost as if she were my child,
my mother.
She paces the room, back and forth,
Talks to herself,
Is always searching in a corner,
Has always lost something,
Something or other.
She paces the room, back and forth,
And I get the feeling
She is going to trip over
The beams of sunlight
Flooding through the window,
my mother.
And Don't Forget
I just took her to the hospital
and she says to me:
"When you come by tomorrow, bring me my slippers,
And the scissors for my nails,
And the newspaper.
Oh, my little treasure, and don't forget
The black scarf,
my widow's scarf.
No More Letters
I don't get any more letters from my mother,
Letters in which she always asks for money,
Money for her heart medication,
Money for her eye treatment.
My mother's eyes cannot see anymore,
My mother's heart does not beat anymore,
And now, at the end of every month
I have 200 leks left over in my pocket
To whom shall I send them?
Winter sun
How quickly the flowers have covered my mother's grave,
February has just begun, and already the violets
And the daisies are everywhere,
This is my mother,
Like a winter sun
Down
There.
[Për nënën time, from the volume Duke dalë prej ëndrrës, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1989, p. 17-19. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
I Met You in My Future
I met you in my future,
In its din and clamour
I created you,
My beloved! I looked like a flash of light
That always goes forward
And never goes back.
[Të kam takuar në të ardhmen time..., from the volume Antologjia personale, Tirana: Ora, 2001, p. 34. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
I Dislike Achilles
I dislike Achilles,
He's a looming threat, majestic
and fatal,
With winged feet he comes and goes
In the pallid agony of Troy.
I mourn for his mother, Thetis,
The goddess of my sea.
But I dislike Achilles,
His thundering wrath.
And I myself am Hector
With that cruel spear piercing my breast
At the Scaean Gates.
To budding mankind
I leave three sanguine words
Fatherland... Freedom... and from numbed lips,
Andromache!
[Unë nuk e dua Akilin..., from the volume Duke dalë prej ëndrrës, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1989, p. 57. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Where To Inter You?
With you in my arms, with you in my arms,
Dear and frigid, where to inter you?
Within my mind? You shunned that place,
Within my soul? It cannot be there.
I tread the earth, I traverse time,
But find no room, no tomb to inter you,
At last I return and enter a teardrop,
There I shall place you, lay you to rest.
(1972)
[Ku të varros, from the volume Më vjen keq për Jagon, Tirana: Albin, 1994, p.6. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
History has Frozen Over
History has frozen over,
It marches and moves not from the spot
The head of the metaphor,
- long-haired with lambkin eyes -
Observes us
From the broken point
Of the rusty sword.
History has frozen over,
It marches and moves not from the spot
(1979)
[Ngriu historia, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 29. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Where is That Old Man
Where is that old man who used to sit
Over there, at the table near the window,
Frank as his posture,
Oblivious to his loneliness,
In front of a cup of coffee,
Plunged into eternal conversation with you?
With the smile of an ancient statue,
Though statues do not move from the spot,
He got up and departed,
Conscious like the wear and tear of time.
... conscious like fading light.
(1989)
[Ku është ai plak, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 30. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
On My Desk
On my desk
The bust of Hera,
Fair mother of the Gods.
Under her pensive glance
Fashioned - I don't know how,
Lies half an aspirin.
(15 September 1990)
[Në tryezën e punës, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 31. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
I Awaited the Nights, Standing
I awaited the nights, standing,
With flaming eye, I searched
for the eye of darkness.
Back and forth, back and forth,
Left and right, left and right,
I was an abyss of oblivion
Filled only by you.
I awaited the nights, standing,
I told the minutes your name,
Told them again and again,
That they would know, would feel
What a broken heart is like,
What weeping is like,
The blind sorrow of separation,
And painful memory, what it all is like.
The rivers of time wanted to sleep,
I awaited the depths of night,
standing.
The dawn of their passing
Shone on my brow.
(Korça, 1988)
[I kam pritur netët në këmbë, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 47. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
And She Turned Up
She was in rapture,
Dancing,
As blithe as a tiny ray of light flitting through the darkness,
Thus she entered my tragic human
fate
[Dhe ajo erdhi, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 49. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Now I Want the Light at My Head
Now I want the light at my head,
I can no longer bear the darkness
Of my room, I have no time...
Let me tell you: even with you
I can stay no longer.
The wind does not linger
In the needles of pine,
Nor does the sunlight.
I hasten to the little door
That opens upon the planet.
No conflict with you,
No bitterness, no hatred.
My flight is mine alone,
My death belongs to me,
Eternal darkness - mine.
Nor will I tell you that there is
No Persephone, no Cerberus,
No Orpheus...
I just cannot bear the darkness
of my room.
I want the light at my head
To see... to listen to my soul
In the flash of brightness.
Where is it? That with its mouth
I may puff and put out the candle.
(1983)
[Dhe tani dua dritën te kryet, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 52-53. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Those Who Still Love
Those who have no food,
When they dream of food,
Let them think of you and me.
Those who have no fire,
When they dream of fire,
Let them think of you and me.
The insomniacs of this world
With their eyes wide open like the night,
In the depth of their nights,
Let them think of you and me.
Those who have perished
And who still love -
Let them think of you and me.
(1970)
[Ata që dashurojnë akoma, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 56. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
How Can I Endure the Autumn
How can I endure the autumn
If my soul is autumn through and through,
The minutes swelled and October
Snuffed them out like candles.
Pale flame of the pyre,
In pain which is no longer even pain
I am a tomb and I alone know
What lies within me.
(1970)
[Si mund ta duroj vjeshtën, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 59. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
If the People Want to Sleep
.. there are two people
Who sleep with their eyes wide open,
...
For thirty years they have dreamt
Of meeting one another again every night.
After a separation-oblivion, after a separation-death.
...
And they sleep with their eyes wide open.
...
And their sleep is real.
(1980)
[Meqenëse njerëzit duan të flenë, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 60. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
I Arose
I arose and left my grave.
In the darkness I sought you,
Holding a lamp.
In my hand,
Three bright daffodils.
Please, fill my eyes
With your smile.
It was for you I left my grave.
[U ngrita, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 68. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
Your Country
Your country is pain, is pain,
An April of sorrow in your soul,
Your country is the cross, the cross,
It holds, it holds you, too, in its soul.
Your country is the promised land,
You set foot as master, it slides from beneath you,
Your country has no words, has a sad gaze.
Its love dies in your obsession.
Your country is the food of the starving,
It slips from your hands and sates you not,
Dream and anguish and exhausted hope,
Its eyes in the dark search for themselves.
Your country is an open grave, a grave,
All your life you followed in good faith,
In a teardrop it drowns your tragic fate,
In a teardrop it births your freedom.
Your little country, so tiny,
That immortal divinity - that tear.
[Atdheu, from the volume Ne, pikëllimi i dritave, Tirana: Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve, 1993, p. 76. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]
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