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> Flori Bruq:Kush eshte:Abdullah Konushevci
Flori Bruqi
Postuar nė: 29.10.2006, 16:44
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Abdullah Konushevci (b. 1958) was born and raised in Prishtina, studied literature at the University of Zagreb, and worked for many years as a journalist for the Kosova daily newspaper Rilindja. He is noted not only as a leading Kosova poet, but also for his essays and writings on Albanian literature and on the Albanian language.
Konushevci is an author of six volumes of intense verse: Pasqyrė dhe diell (Mirror and Sun), Prishtina 1979; Rėnia e molles (The Fall of the Apple), Prishtina 1981; Qerrja e diellit (The Sun's Carriage), Prishtina 1983; Loja e strucit (The Game of the Ostrich), Prishtina 1987); Tė qenėt tė mosqenė (The Unbeen Beings), Prishtina 1990; and most recently Pikat AD (The Drops AD), Prishtina 2002, with its startling reflections on the 1999 war in Kosova. He has also translated Ernest Hemingway, Rabindranath Tagore and Milovoj Slavicek into Albanian.
If I were Unbeen
Oh sister, my sister,
A long, cold night is looming
In the mournful blue.
Rosy-fingered dawn
Will find me awake,
It will lead me by the hand,
It will lay me to rest.
Oh sister, my sister,
Noon will find me asleep
(High Noon full of Grace)
With a handful of dreams, of hopes
Under my pillow,
And the planet will embrace life in joy
When the sun attains the vaults of heaven.
Oh sister, my sister,
Dawn will find me awake,
Noon will find me asleep,
From that long, cold night
Looming in the mournful blue,
And I, if only I had
Unbeen from the start.
[Si tė isha i mosqenė, from the volume Tė qenėt tė mosqenė, Prishtina: Rilindja, 1990, p. 35. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Alive in Exile, Dead in Exile
for the murdered poet Jusuf Gėrvalla
When the poet sets out for his homeland,
Pirates will rob him on his way,
And cast him naked into the sea.
Clad in purple
He will trade greetings with the anglers on the shore.
When the poet sets out for his homeland,
Policemen and agents will fret,
The senate will often assemble at night.
When the poet sets out for his homeland,
Girls will plait their hair,
Dashing heroes will don their arms,
Old men and children will unfold handkerchiefs.
When the poet sets out for his homeland,
Oh Land of Home,
He will never reach it alive.
[Syrgjyn gjallė e syrgjyn vdekur, from the volume Tė qenėt tė mosqenė, Prishtina: Rilindja, 1990, p. 38. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

DCLXVI
The pagans will hang me on the cross
Like a slave fled to the forest,
Yet I saved them, I saved them
And told them: "I am."
(Oh Father, my Father, do not forsake me)
I grew weary of sleepless nights,
Of friends who forsook me,
Left me all alone, by myself,
And they declare me mad
And mock me before the people.
(Oh Father, my Father, do not forsake me)
The six hundred and sixty-sixth one
Raised his fists and bared his teeth,
Menaced me with a cold and sombre cell,
With a stripped bed and a foodless board,
And I forgave him, I forgave him,
And told him: "I am."
They placed purple robes o'er my shoulders
And spread their garments in my path
With their tears they bathed my feet,
And dried them with the strands of their hair,
Oh Father, my Father,
Like a slave fled to the forest
The pagans will hang me on the cross.
[DCLXVI, from the volume Tė qenėt tė mosqenė, Prishtina: Rilindja, 1990, p. 40. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Song in a Spirit of Love
I was a bat in the night
In your bareness I covered you
With my great wings.
I was a bat,
A vampire in the night
In your bareness
I sucked your seething blood
From the beauty of your brittle body.
A blind bat in the night
I will not sever the white, white estrangement
From this song in a spirit of love.
[Kėngė me frymė dashurie, from the volume Tė qenėt tė mosqenė, Prishtina: Rilindja, 1990, p. 41. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Prologue
One day,
Despite its significance
He hanged his smile
On a branch of his childhood
And set out, all alone, to see the world
(Life had sharp teeth and claws),
That pensive, aging child.
[Prolog, from the volume Tė qenėt tė mosqenė, Prishtina: Rilindja, 1990, p. 55. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Song of the KLA Soldier
They were five hundred,
Five thousand five hundred and fifty.
We were five
But we had the ground under our feet
And water nearby
And the sky above
And we were
Fifty-five thousand
Feel free to ask,
You, who will greet them
In their underground world.
[Kėnga e ushtarit tė UĒK-sė, from the volume Pikat AD, Prishtina: Rilindja, 2002, p. 12. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Dream... Then Vlora
Once we were on another planet
Where there was bread, milk and meat,
And none of their militia.
The Albanians were having a grand time,
Lying in the shade,
Prancing in public places,
Making love, great love.
Once... then Vlora entered the room:
"Dad, they broke the door down again
At two in the morning,
Those, whose name I dare not speak."
[Ėndrra... pastaj Vlora, from the volume Pikat AD, Prishtina: Rilindja, 2002, p. 20. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Expressionist Verse
The heavens sweat
And reek of blood
From the iron birds
That have rent their breast.
The masters of death
Are working the land as they know best,
Hurling heads, hands and feet
Wherever they wish.
How can we sweep up the limbs
Before night falls,
And cremate them in the earth
Before those recluse-beasts
Get wind of them.
[Vjershė ekspresioniste, from the volume Pikat AD, Prishtina: Rilindja, 2002, p. 25. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

How Prishtina Once Woke in the Morning
Prishtina once woke to alarm clocks,
And flooded, sleepy-headed, onto the streets,
Damp in the dew,
Aroused from her nightmares.
At noon she gasped for breath,
An asthma patient
Beneath the ashen-grey ballerinas
That danced on her head
The grim steps of death.
In the evening she found no rest
From the barking dogs, the whirring electrons,
And from fear that some unseen beast
Would appear and slit her throat.
[Si zgjohej Prishtina nė mėngjes, from the volume Pikat AD, Prishtina: Rilindja, 2002, p. 31. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

The Honourable Whore
I met her after I know not how many glasses
That night,
The blood had not yet dried on the streets,
People still smelled
The heavy earth of graves in their nostrils...
I remember she was of lissome body
And had blue, such blue eyes...
I know I offered her a glass of brandy
And she offered me another...
When we woke the next morning
We separated as friends
I remember we had drunk brandy together
As comrades in adversity.
[Lavirja e denjė, from the volume Pikat AD, Prishtina: Rilindja, 2002, p. 32. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]

Heavy Burden, Your Fragile Body
With my gnawed liver,
With my lashed lungs,
With my fingers stained and tarred from nicotine,
I am of no use to anyone.
I cannot believe
That you would be foolish enough
To bestow your love on me.
I don't know what to do
With my insomnia,
With those shadows of fallen friends.
Heavy burden,
Your fragile body.
[Barrė e madhe, trupi yt i thyeshėm, from the volume Pikat AD, Prishtina: Rilindja, 2002, p. 78. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]


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