Petro Marko
(1913-1991)

 

 

 

Petro Marko was born in 1913 at Dhermi, a Greek-speaking village on the Adriatic coast. After graduation in 1930 in Albanian Literature, he worked as a teacher in the port of Saranda.
At the age of 25 he wrote newspaper articles attacking King Zog’s regime for its failure on cultural and economic fronts. For this he was imprisoned.

Noticing his talent and capabilities, the Minister of Education granted him a scholarship to study in Paris in 1934.

On the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936 he joined the International Brigades.

In 1941 he returned to Italian-occupied Albania and joined the Partisans, being imprisoned by the Italians.

After Albania’s liberation he founded a newspaper called "Bashkimi" - but was soon arrested by Enver Hoxha's regime - together with the Minister of Defence - and imprisoned for two years. In prison he started to write and to translate from different languages - for which he was expelled from the Albanian Writers' Union.

His son Jamarbër was arrested for anti-communist "propaganda agitation".

He died in 1991 and was buried in his native village of Dhërmi. The Albanian president recognised his genius with a posthumous award, and the theatre of Vlora is named after him.

 

APOLOGJIA IME
(JETES)

...Marrëzi, turp turp dhe
mëkate
për jetën e tërbuar
se ku më ndal, o gjenerate,
që vuan rrugës ndonje natë,
më merr për të dënuar
dhe, me një zë që vret,
ngahera më pyet:
-Ku linde, o i ri?
-O jetë, linda në shkreti!
-Ku rron dhe ku vete,
në ç'dhera e në ç'dete?!
-Çudi!Ç'kerkon prej meje ti

dhe si, o jetë, pyet,
kurse në varferi
më hodhe ku më gjete
të lindur nga skeletë
pa dritë, pa liri?
-Njeri!
Nga vete, as më thua ?
-S'e di! Jo, Nuk e di!
Po lermë, o jete,ç'ke me
mua ?
-Dua ta di, po dua !
-Atëhere, jetë e krisur,
për mua mos pyet
se qysh në agim kam nisur

të shkel si skllav i shkretë
mbi gjurma shprese drite...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . .
-O mëkatar,
as faliu ligjes sime,
bindu i çmendur ëndërrtar,
s'jeton me shqetesime!...
-Mu thell' në brendësire
ku ndjenja rron e lire,
ku dhëmbja dhëmb e prekur

nga ligja jote e fuqiplotë,
ne gjirin tim si hekur,
si hekur e çelik,
qëllo, qëllo, o me kamxhik;
pa frik' e pa mëshirë
e pa pendim,
se mu në thellësirë
të shpirtit, në një kënd,
lindi një shqetësim
që çeli varrin tënd...

 

GLOSSES ON TWO POEMS
OF THE ALBANIAN POET PETRO MARKO (1913-1991)

by

Anthony Weir

1. SUCH BURDENS ON THE MIND

"Marrezi, turp
turp dhe mëkate
per jeten e tërbuar..."
- APOLOGJIA IME (JETES)

Shame and rage
greed and pain:
life is a gaoler
bejewelled and vain.

Life made misery.
Life made Man.
In the wastes of desire
the grotesque can-can.

...as faliu ligjes sime,
bindu i çmendur endërrtar...

'Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich...?'
How can it possibly matter in which language I am unread ?
Or, even if read, not understood ?
The warmth and the words of the dead are my comfort,
the greatest intimacy our grief beyond time
and its terror and hatred and bitterness.

Along the valley of death I've always been walking
and listening to the blood-pools talking,
bones and bonfires everywhere,
black and blue and red in the air.
Poisoned the water, bitter the rain.
Life itself is in love with pain.

Our comfort-manufactured metal hearts dissolve in rust
so that 'Old myths renew as passionate as dusk.'

...të shpirtit, në një kend,
lindi një shqetësim
që çeli varrin tënd...

If 99% of the ever-expanding Universe is unknowable
Dark Matter (The True God)
and an infinitesimal percentage of the remaining 1% is the
living matter we are so intent on corrupting and destroying,
the whole of life is the tiniest blemish
on the otherwise marvellous Universe,
no matter how many billions of synapses are in my brain,
no matter that life itself is in love with pain.

2. FLYING OVER EUROPE

Above us the blue.
Beneath us an old, old map.
I cannot see the borders or the armies
only rivers and forests.
The machine we are in
(eating sandwiches which taste of Treblinka and Gulag)
wipes through the mildew
wipes through the blight
of history. Those millions
of terrible events might not have happened.
But they are still happening now
out of sight, day and night.
Good news is something misreported.