LINDITA ARAPI [8.747] Poeta de Albania

Lindita Arapi 

nació en Lushnja (ALBANIA) en 1972. Estudió en la Universidad de Tirana en 1994 y comenzó a trabajar como periodista y moderadora de la televisión albanesa (TVSH). En 1996 fue galardonada con una beca como "escritora residente" en la Casa Heinrich Böll (Düren, Alemania), así como una beca por el Art Link International (Nueva York). También ha participado en el "International Writing Program" de la Universidad de Iowa como miembro honorario en escritura. Terminó su doctorado en la Universidad de Viena, y en la actualidad vive en Bonn (Alemania). Lindita Arapi, que es uno de las principales poetas femeninas de la generación post-comunista de Albania. 

Ha publicado los siguientes cuatro volúmenes de poesía: Kufomë lulesh (cadáver de flores, Tirana, 1993), traducido al italiano como Il cadavere fiorito (Brindisi 1993), Ndodhi në shpirt (Sucedió en mi alma, Elbasan 1995), y Melodi të heshtjes (Melodía del silencio, Peja 1998).

Muros

Y si un muro largo y grueso

un alto muro

se elevara frente a ti…

qué harías?

Yo cerraría los ojos, me agacharía

hasta descansar la mejilla en el muro,

entontraría la paz en su helada serenidad.

Y si ese muro fuera la muerte…

 Traducción de Alí Calderón

Diseased colour

A halo

Of sanctitude

Trembles

In the neon light.

Lemon

Yellow.

Diseased, yet so fair,

I dare not

Look it in the eye,

Afraid I might cause it to perish,

             Not a breath of wind, breath of wind, breath of wind,

There is no pink more feeble

Than that which warmly floods in now,

Diseased colour

Rages

With a temperature, but no fever, no fever, no fever,

Here lies salvation.

[Ngjyrë e sëmurë, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 11, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Walls

And if a wall, long and thick,

A high wall

Should rise in front of you....

What would you do?

I would close my eyes, I would crouch

And rest my cheek against it,

I would find peace in its cool serenity.

And if this wall were death...

[Muret, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 67, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Energies of colour

Oh innocence, disrobed yet white

And you

Sincerity, scarlet yet sinful

Is there any shadow in your colours,

Where you can take refuge and rest your thoughts for a moment?

Has this foolhardiness

Any meaning at all

Or will it come to rest like silk when the wind dies down,

Seductive silk settling soft and slow.

I am afraid, afraid for you,

Oh white.

White is murderous

It will cut down your cleanliness

Oozing

Little drops of blood

From severed fingers,

Breathless, but with ambiance.

Red,

Red is a cold colour,

Lost energy,

Stunning dissonance,

It is a colour which offers everything... while in your hand.

So naive

Though it gives nothing

Without fear of black,

Burns you in scarlet reflection,

And comes to rest only when rain recovered,

Unquenched without water.

Oh innocence, disrobed yet white

And you

Sincerity, scarlet yet sinful

Insensitive, you stand to one side,

Punished and obedient

You raise the intensity of colour.

A line of perfection with crippling barriers.

[Energji të ngjyrës, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 61, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Bloodstain

To recline

In a room of white

On cushions of white

They enter,

The natives in their skullcaps of white,

And sit,

Wiping their brows with kerchiefs of white,

And drink

Coffee from scalding cups of white,

They greet

The bride all dressed in white

And wish her offspring

On frosty days of white,

Then to the feast

They rise

And slay sheep of white.

[Njollë gjaku, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 49, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

The mauve nun

Lilacs, lilacs, lilacs.

Sitting in the window,

Decolleté revealed,

Is the Mauve Nun.

In the afternoon from behind the windowpane she dreams of glory

Until the stars come out,

She goes out

Into the limelight of her shabby dream,

But never gets beyond

The corner,

There she stands,

Breathless

Raising her arms

To the age-old sky.

Lilacs, lilacs, lilacs,

Untied they burgeon

In delirium,

A jumble

Of fragrance, stems, petals

Which release her energy

That she may die.

[Murgesha violë, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 63, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Girls are made of water

Girls have only

Moonlit paths

Where they tread like the strains of a violin

Towards the forbidden fruit

             urged on by the wind,

             the clement, warm wind

             which brings the rain,

To and fro in their white and slender veils

They swing and sway to the azure heavens.

And onwards they tread

Like the strains of a violin.

Girls have wondrous worlds

             in their watery imagination.

They perish in your hands.

They never find the only way

There is to dream.

No one feeds them.

They hurry forth,

Growing up so terribly fast.

Disrobing in rundown lodgings

They sacrifice themselves,

For girls perish

As soon as they are grown...

Despite their earthly

Urges

They remain UNATTAINABLE

For

They live no longer than a sigh.

[Vajzat janë prej uji, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 33, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

My land

This land

Mutilated

With streets and fixed purposes

To expedite its people

Once and for all

Somewhere and nowhere.

For the streets

Here

All end in doubtful crossroads

I am searching for a Land

Which I can have

As my own country.

My land is far away

And

It is there, in that country,

That I will be born.

Somewhere it will exist

This new Land,

Oh earth of mine, though not of earth.

My home awaits me,

Unknown and buried,

There

In the midst of an Empire of Winds.

[Toka ime, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 24, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Memory

The aging stations of memory

Drip in the rain

So far away, like the lonely.

The walls have lost their colour,

For the weather has turned cold.

Images of time gone by rusting on open platforms

Unattended.

Memory,

Holes in my head,

Empty

Sad-looking trains,

They leave the stations, but never arrive.

Only their lights quiver in the distance.

Relieved of the weight in my head,

That unearthed ancient skull,

Only echoes

Resound.

[Kujtesë, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 75, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Belief

The broken vase

Grows cold

A solitude of petals

Opened in glass

Have withered in my hands,

However much the splinters of glass may weep

I still don't believe in the sincerity of bloody hands,

Silence is a grave

From which the truth will sprout.

I believe only

In the broken vase.

[Besimi, from the volume Ndodhi në shpirt, Elbasan: Onufri 1995, p. 32, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]