The New Condemned: Contemporary Albanian Poetry in English is a selection of poets writing beyond the 1990's. This selection includes works by established and minor poets whose voices represent contemporary strains in Albanian poetry. As parts of Europe move toward far-right wing nativism and isolationism, this anthology seeks to inform the poetry community of the spirit of an established people with a long standing tradition in letters. In The New Condemned: Contemporary Albanian Poetry in English you will find quality translations of poetry that are uncompromisingly beautiful and heroic.
By nature, poets are exiles as they seek the truth in private quarters. As such, Albanian poets face a curious predicament having been condemned by history to isolation from much of the English speaking world. Ismail Kadare is one of the few whose work reaches a larger English audience. In this volume, we seek to bolster the voices of others in the English speaking world.
This 236-page volume includes works from:
ERMIRA MITRE KOKOMANI
A daylight was married without any witness. No-one saw the groom on her side. With an exception of a lock, at the Great Entrance of City Hall. And the church did not open its doors.
On a Mosque, worshipers were praying on their own. And the bride, very old was investing loyalty with the unknown somewhere else. Tomorrow, according to tradition, bed sheets will be extended on the fence. And people, are waiting as usual (when the have nothing else to do) Wouldn't you think that the Daylight would have been a virgin?
We smiled when lighting was in the sky. We remained silent when they descended above others. As if we would not be there. Now that they are exploding at the corner of the garden, we are shaking. And we ask, without waiting for an answer, why the time brings a thunderstorm. Prayers were dissolved. We simply wait. An unusual departure. As a crowd, crossed over a pyramid of wood logs that we built for ourselves. Wasn't the neighbour’s dog barking some time ago? And we were stating, our wishes to family members of the one who is gone. We followed funerals. Expressed improvised words at the moment for all deceased. Without feeling and experiencing death. We waited for its large impact.
There it comes. Dogs are barking in a crowd with their heads up and feel scratching the soil. We don't even have time to prepare for farewell. For the kids that don't know anything, why is the dog screaming. And we will not be able to keep in our chest when we leave. We will not be able to beg a pardon.
And I am not obscurity. Not a dog. I am one like you, sitting at a home entrance while looking at the world falling backwards. Some time ago I was thinking of the red oak tree. I said I would be taking a break there. But now, even this tall tree was burning. And I cannot find out, that above its ashes a flower will grow again. if a baby will be born again. If a man would become a man. And a woman, would be a woman. Amid bodies, souls, love is crystal clean white.
A longing of dogs is terrible. Silence too is just terrible...
- Trendafile Vishnu
The wynd awaits me,
to touch my city,
grant my steps,
comb its hair with desire.
Corner to corner,
wrap the castle's robes,
with the fervour of my palms,
and bestow a third eye,
between the sea and antiques,
lullaby you with my voice.
Let the joy be the sword,
for at present,
we fight differently,
- Merita Kuci
IN THE DEAD OF A POET OF SOCIALIST REALISM (OFFICIAL)
They laughed and spoke loudly at the New Bar
In the City Center, when I saw the news of your death.
Had come the first forgetting?! But your face laughed
In the official picture. Challenging; taken at glorious
time. You did it, if you wanted that I to say:
I have drunk all the pollution of my time,
As a spin of metaphors that hurt the showers
Of loneliness every evening.
You did it if I wanted that I me to say:
Flames of the lava in the darkness of the intestines
Are words but we can find a counter-fire dyke.
You did it if you want to enjoy my failure:
When – knife-… and acting without caps
Of Carnivals - they raised the stinging spectacle
Of the devoted coffee, in the little urn of silence
I read the dregs of medals where no fortune-teller
Would find anything for me.
- Gazmend KrasniqiCOLLAPSE