Nexhat
Hakiu
(1917-1978)
Nexhat Hakiu was
born in Vlora in 1917 in a family rejoicing in a 'patriotic' tradition.
He was a lyric poet writing mainly in ther nineteen-thirties and
forties, and published under the pseudonym Ali Dervalla
or Nexhat Mahmut Haki. He was published in most of the
literary magazines of the time.
The Italian occupation
of Albania (April 1939) and the "War of Liberation"
from1940-1944 affected him deeply.and he wrote poems dealing with
it, such as Kënga e gjakut (Song of Blood), Poema
e Rinisë e Luftës dhe e Gjakut' (Poem of Youth,
War and Blood.
After the war he
was viciously persecuted by the Communist government which imprisoned
him as a perpetrator of a bogus "terrorist" plot to
plant a bomb in the Russian Embassy in Tirana. He also was accused
of Inciting the Young to Dissidence.
At the end of
the Fifties, he published his book Këndoj (I sing),
then the volumes Zëri i fyellit (The voice of the
flute) in 1959, Fjala ime (My word) in 1961, Një
lule mbolla (I planted a Flower) in 1973, Në garë
me stinët (Race against the Seasons) in 1977. But these
works were - due to censorship - stiff, stilted and ostentatiously
non-political .
He died in Tirana,
aged 61, on June 18, 1978.
WHAT
LOVE IS
translated
by Zana Banci and Anthony Weir
The happy or the bored
may ask what love is -
but it doesn't have descriptiveness.
Its qualities are wordless.
You feel it secretly and slowly.
It's there and you don't realise
it's living in your heart.
A flower may be plucked,
a pearl or cloth of gold
be snatched and fought over.
The caged bird sings its heart
out
and if you freed it, it would also sing
far from you and every one.
Love is not a flower
nor pearl
nor caged bird
but a formless dweller in the heart.
That's what love is.
And it is less than happiness.
AUCTION
OF A HEART
translated
by Zana Banci and Anthony Weir
...and the next lot is a heart: who wants
a heart ?
You girls there - do you want this heart ?
A joker pulled it
from the poet's breast! How
did he manage to hold it
above the waves in his
rudderless boat, with its ripped sail,
and damaged prow ?
The auctioneer is calling,
the heart still in his hand:
You girls there, offer me something for
this heart!
This rare heart - only one like it
in all this land -
indeed in the whole world...
This priceless poet's heart, saved
from the storm, from the broken-apart
wreck on the rocks,
this heart itself like a wave ?
The auctioneer keeps going,
for a girl has caught his eye:
That girl over there -
are you bidding ?
A poet's heart
that surges like the sea -
Girl, have pity,
take this heart, this life,
this poetic longing !
Still the auctioneer is shouting,
Is nobody going to make an offer for this heart ?
It's a poet's heart
that surged like the sea
like the wave that rushes with wave
and it beats like the waves,
when they pound on the shore.
It leaves shells and foam behind.
Take the heart, take the life,
it's the poet's desire!
But the auctioneer is getting nowhere -
Who wants a heart ?
Girls laugh and
put their fingers to their lips
while the heart, unstillable,
silently containing the treasures of the sea,
beats and throbs,
Beats and sobs.
Now the auctioneer is hoarse.
And then a woman calls:
Auctioneer! that poetic organ
is unsaleable. You'll have to
give it away - to me, of course,
for it's the heart of my son,
my blood and no bargain.
A
homage to Nexhat Nakiu, based on one of his poems
"Toka Flet"(Earth
speaks) by:
Anthony Weir
THE AIR WE BREATHE CONTAINS THE BONES OF
DINOSAURS
Humanity is a naturally-unnaturally-continuing
natural disaster.
It pokes the earth contemptuously with drills
and gouges out the earth with bulldozers
and blows the earth apart with dynamite
and atom-bombs
to change it utterly.
It has made war against mountains
and put them in towns
and made war against forests
and sown fields with bombs
and abolished the "useless"
and wiped out the insects
and starved all the birds
and filled the world with hospitals
and ever more prisons.
And everything is turning black
with oil
and black or bleached by the uses of oil
for childish desire.
And the earth will be consumèd
by that fire.
Albanian
version
Ç'ËSHTË
DASHURIA
Ti nga gazi, nga mërzia
Pyet ç'është dashuria
Por ajo nuk fytyrë,
Nuk ka tingull, nuk ka ngjyrë!
Ajo s'sndihet as me fjalë,
Vjen e fshehur dhe ngadalë,
Vjen një herë'e prap s'enjeh
Brenda zemrës ti se sheh!
Po t' ish lule, fshehur
barit,
Do këputesh, do të thahesh,
Po t'ish përl, fij e arit
Do rrëmbehesh, do të ndahesh;
Po t'ish zog, do të
vajtonte
Brenda zemrës në kuvli,
Ta liroje, do këndonte
Larg nga ty, nga çdo njeri!
S'është lule
për në fushë,
S' është përl për në gushë,
S'është as zog për në kuvli:
Ajo zemrën ka shtëpi....
Ja se ç'është
dashuria!
Ësht' a s'është nuk e di,
Por un' di se lumturia:
Nuk është vetëm dashuri!
ZEMRA NË AKANT
Merrni zemër kush
do zemër!
Ej, ju vasha, doni zemër
E kish marrë lozonjarja
Nga kraharor' i një poeti!
E si mund ta mbante zemrën
Me tallazet e një deti
Lundr' e thyer, pëlhure-çjere,
Pa timon e kiç të shtrembër?
Po bërtet përsëri kasneci
Se në dorë zemra- i ngeci:
Ej ju vasha, doni zemër?
Kjo nuk shitet, as nuk blihet,
Kini zemër, o ju vasha,
Se me zemër kjo shkëmbehet!
Është zemra në furtune,
Është zemra -e një poeti
Që përplaset në shkëmbinjtë
Posi vala e një deti!…
Ja kasneci çirret prapë,
Se një vashë pas tij u kap:
Merre zemrën, merre zemrën
A dëgjove ti moj vashë?
Jepet zemra- e një poeti
Që gufohet posi deti!
A dëgjove ti moj vashë,
Se të dhimbsur ty të pashë,
Merre zemrën merre jetën,
Është mall'i një poeti!…
Prap' kasneci po bërtet,
Se asnjë nuk qaset vetë:
Është zemra e një poeti
Që gufoi posi deti,
Posi vala që le valen
Dhe lëkundet me tallas,
Kur mbi ranë vjen e ikën,
Le guaska, shkumë pas,
Merre zemrën, merre jetën,
Esht' dëshir' e një poeti!
Po kasneci ra në hall,
Kush për zemrën pyet vallë?
Qeshnin lozonjarët, qeshnin
Vinin dorën përmbi buzë,
Porse zemra s'mund të lidhet
As me fjal' as me tërkuze,
Ajo hidhet e përdridhet,
Kërkon zemër, ngashëren
Dhe thesarët porsi deti
mban brënda s'i rrëfen!
Ja kasneci mbet' i ngjirrur
Po nje nën' i pati thirrur:
- Ej, kasnec, zemër' e poetit
S'jepet kurrë me pahir,
Falma mua se më ngjan
Porsi zemra e tim bir!
TOKA FLET.....
Gryk'e malit po gjėmon,
zemr'e fushės po rėnkon:
-Tė kam dhėnė pyje plot,
grur e misėr, pem'e lule,
ē'paska ngjarė qė ti sot
mua zemrėn ma ēkule?
Foli mali, foli fusha,
u drodh lisi dhe gėmusha!
-O poet, mos fol pėrēartė,
penda jote flet mbi kartė,
s'mund tė flasė, jo ky dhe,
ėndėro, po mos gėnje!
-Pėr agimin e lirisė,
pėr mėngjezin kur kam lindur,
pėr njė lot tė dashurisė,
flet vėrtet' e jam e bindur!-
U betua ky poeti,
fjal'e tij plot zemra gjeti...
Un'e dija se tėrmeti
e bėn tokėn qė tė flasė,
nga rrėmuja nga rrėmeti:
gjiri nis qė t'i buēasė,
po ē'po shohin syt'e mi
tundka tokėn njė njeri?
Ē'pon me sonda, me tyrjela,
pistoleta, hedh ēengela,
ēan shkembinjtė me dinamit,
i thotė tokės: "Dil, tė dal"
mali: fushė, fusha: mal!
Mali bėhet fushė,
fusha bėhet mal,
si gjerdan nė gushė
barin shoh tė dalė..
Gjethe, gjelbėrim,
lule bojalli
mbushin vendin tim...
Tok' e ēarė nxorri ar,
ar tė zi si katran:
shatėrvan qė spėrkati
lulet pranė..
Pranė shatėrvanit
mbijnė lulet pėrsėri
cirka-cirka kuq e zi!
Ngjyr' tė zezė nėpėr lule
s'kam dėgjuar, nuk kam parė,
qėkur zemrėn ti ja ēkule,
ndroi toka rrėnje'e farė!
Sa e bukur: kuq e zi,
lulja mbin pran' arit zi,
sepse ari, ar'i zi
ėsht' si nata plot yllsi,
porsi nata qė dha ditėn,
ar'i zi na fali : Dritėn!
NJĖ RE
E BARDHĖ
Njė re e bardhė qenar- praruar
e zuri diellin,
po rrezet prapė puhia shpejt
do t'i zbulojė...
Do zhduket reja nga sytė tanė
vėrdallė qiellit
te Rrug' e qumshtit, ku prap' sputniku
diē do kėrkojė....
Sputnik po t'isha pėrveē nė qiell
pėr tė kėrkuar,
do tė kisha zgjedhur kraharorin tėnd
krijes- njeri!
Atje do kishte me mijra gjėra
pėr tė zbuluar,
atje njė botė mban tė panjohur :
Zemra-ēudi !
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