«shi bie në B*»

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të shoh të shkëputur prej meje:

në jetë, në mendime, në kujtime,

në shtrat kur rrallë të ndiej përkrah

dhe në fjalët që s'dëgjoj prej teje

sot, sikur kjo ndarje të mos jetë plot,

me këto duar që shumë kanë duruar

të shkëpus prej meje në të paktat fotografi

që shkrepi aparati me ne të dy kundruall

dhe mallkoj dorën, dhe nëm gërshërët

e shaj veten, shfryj për botën,

për ty, për mua, për ata që mes nesh u futën,

për fatin që më la të ftohur, të lagur

si te fotografia ku, për fare pak—sado larg—,

të përfytyrova pas dorës sime të kapur

dhe në gënjeshtrën time tragjike,

kur shkrepi aparati,

shkrepa dhe unë një buzëqeshje patetike,

se të pata pranë,

nën petkun e natës,

nën pikat e shiut të vakët

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«speed»

everywhere around me
everything i see and hear
whatever there is near
is a useless catalyst
for the infernal speed
i strive to gain

only you—
when you're next to me
while my foot is floored—
give me that extra curl in my toes
that makes chaos of all gases
and propels me to speeds faster
than my tongue can speak a word of love, of thanks—

—thus... with you beside,
even an utterance deep and abysmal
remains but vacuous and void...

«de profundis clamavi»

with no guitar for me gently to weep

i let this strange whim around me to creep

and explore me from within and from without,

learn all my secrets therein and let them out;

and with them reveal my loves and obsessions

and leave in my rues and reflections.

and if the time be right,

whether i be steady or in flight,

let this stranger ever capture me by force;

i'll submit to him and follow his course

whether it lead me to an exalted podium

thence i shall preach my gospel of odium

and pound my fists in fits of rage,

like John the Baptist in Herod's cage,

extol myself and deprave my foes,

see those who've done me ill in hopeless throes....

or better yet...

whether it rest my tender rear in a cloud

and godlike in fulminations i declaim out loud

my willful abnegations to those i love

who are so few as not to push and shove

when reaching for my cloud and thereby me

to be clasped together for all the world to see,

their warmth to cherish for but a moment,

to see for once and ever my loathsome torment

hail down and rain and thunder like Zeus deranged,

then seep and dissipate in the ground it long estranged,

until, like uttered words that quickly become air,

it is rendered naught and is nowhere.

...

Seeking to reap what I sowed

I must have been four or five years old at the time.  It could not have been before May of 1989, because I remember we were still in our old house before it was destroyed by the torrential hailstorm on St. Constantine's Day.  We had a fairly large courtyard adjacent to our house where we didn't plant much, as I remember, because nothing seemed to grow there.  I didn't know this, or at least didn't grasp it at the time.  I am jumping to this conclusion now, as I consider it in retrospect.

I didn't know a lot of things as a child.  I was unaware of this ignorance, yet I was very curious and always did things and took initiative without consulting anybody beforehand.  One day, I took a garden hoe and started tilling the land in the aforementioned courtyard, as much as I felt was necessary, or as much as I could, given my age and size.  Then I took handfuls of sugar from the azure box in which we used to keep it for everyday use and sowed it, hoping that one day, in the near future, it would sprout, bloom, and produce more sugar that I could then enjoy in any way I pleased.

In my simple mind or blatant ignorance I was confident and boastful of this, which, to my chagrin, ended up haunting me when word spread and everybody around town kept asking me, 'has the sugar sprouted yet?'  It was an embarrassment for a long time thereafter, especially once I learned—from adults and from a disappointing lack of crop—that things like this did not happen.  I have outgrown that shame and for the first time I am unabashedly admitting to having undertaken this silly venture.  That is not why I write today.

I write instead in remembrance of things past, be they the barren fruit of ignorance or naïveté, or merely happy memories reaching me from a happy past that I have, in vain, sought to recapture for the latter half of my life; I write in support of future ventures, be they pursued by my heart or mind, and I toss aside my pride, my better reason, maturity, and a coterie of other checks and balances, and, simultaneously, commit myself to finding a happiness I once had before the waves of years settled with a crash on my shoulders; I commit myself to reaping the sugar I once sowed.

I don't know yet what this means....

«partir c'est mourir un peu»

vdekjen që prur largimi e ndjeva me nisjen tënde
kur krahët tona u shtokëzuan
dhe shkarazi ndjenë për të fundit herë
njëra-tjetrën

larg teje ftohja nuk vonoi
dhe me kthetrat e saj
trup e shpirt më pushtoi

tani pres ngrohjen që ti rrezaton
kur, si dje, me shpërfillje dërgon dy fjalë;
apo afshet që trupin ma mbulojnë
kur, si sot, në bankën time gjej fletushka
me fjalë që ti shkujdesur hodhe në to

në dëshpërimin tim patetik
shpërfillëse a të shkujdesura,
fjalët e tua më shfaqen si fjalë dashurie
që, si dashnor i lënë harruar,
i pres buzagaz e zemërndezur;
që, si vejan prej ndarjes gjymtuar,
i ruaj e s'kam për t'i hedhur...

«Εαυτόν τιμωρούμενος»

S'e njoha dorën time kur e rrëmbeu kamxhikun
dhe kafshërisht më fshikulloi trupin.
S'i njoha dhëmbët e mprehur në shtrëngim
kur me shtazëri kafshuan buzën
dhe nxorën prej saj çdo dëshirë për puthje.

Në dhimbje mbylla sytë
dhe të tjera tmerre m'u shfaqën
si tortura ndaj vetes
fshehur në brendësinë e qepallave.

Në lojën shkatërrimtare u fut dhe zemra
dhe me rrahjen e saj
u ndesh e u rrah e u mund trupi im, tempulli im,
sa u bë turrë ku flijoj mish e shpirt
kur flakë dashurie të ngjizura aty
marrin vrull e përpijnë qiejt.

«La lettre»

Doucement.

Je t'écris et la lampe écoute.
L'horloge attend à petits coups;
Je vais fermer les yeux sans doute
Et je vais m'endormir de nous...

La lampe est douce et j'ai la fièvre;
On n'entend que ta voix, ta voix...
J'ai ton nom qui rit sur ma lèvre
Et ta caresse est dans mes doigts.

J'ai de la douceur de naguère;
Ton pauvre cœur sanglote en moi;
Et mi-rêvant, je ne sais guère
Si c'est moi qui t'écris, ou toi...

Henri BARBUSSE