Poem
Moikom Zeqo
Zodiac: 6
—Man, it’s not yet time to die!Even the unburnable gold of the Nibelung
has vaporized, and, matter-less, become a void.
One’s skin is a closed door
locked shut with infinite pores.
The river receives an electrocardiogram—
as if writing its autobiography.
Man, it’s not yet time to die!
I
—a God, a God!—
reach
to extract from my chest
my heart—a crab of delicate bronze,
and . . . even now it’s not yet time to die.
—O God,
bless me!
My heart has crawled off
among the constellations of the spirit.
My body chases it
like a measureless shadow
among the infinite . . .
I want an herbarium for these glooms—
to safeguard
their sleep,
their shimmerings of ideas . . .
If we didn’t sleep, our existences would double—
I swim through my sweat like Sisyphus.
So then!—a Dionysian cock, a skinned
symbol of antiquity’s fall . . .
Funereal griffins, if stabbed,
burst forth with the blood of birds and air.
Recollected heroes are bodies without flesh;
they pass lightly through walls.
A grave is an abyss—
all the dead draw
thousands of angels in their wake.
An enormous finger of smoke
enters the sun’s circle—
the seasons’ wax seal
that stamps shut every will.
The TV reproduces dinosaurs—
like a pan cooking ocular eggs.
An eagle drops from above so fast
her wake extends behind her like the hair of a god.
Come, come! my Martian thoughts—
enter the cozy tent of my skin
pitched here in the blistering heat of nothingness.
I’d like to graft
butterfly wings onto Daniel’s lions.
I’d skin zebras so we could play exotic chess,
I’d shit out all the snakes in the temple.
Come on, crippled robot—
I’ll place my crab heart inside you,
resurrect you like the Messiah himself.
The words I'm writing are my homeland—
outside them, I’m always in exile.
My exiles are golden banishments
to Persia or Egypt (with or without Herodotus),
to the camp of Haiawatha,
to the Jerusalem of Richard the Lionheart,
to the deep-sea excursions of Jacques Cousteau,
to the family-less funeral of Modigliani,
to the poetry of Migjeni*
and his Crab of History
walking backwards . . .
Dictionaries are cemeteries of words,
words we resurrect each time we use them.
My eyes have escaped into several orbits
that neither God nor Kepler knows.
How can I tame for you this mountain
and pour it like a river,
or a waterfall, down to the sea?
We can submerge our hands in the water,
but not in a name or a dream.
Giant stalagmites
are the antecedents
of these spikes of wheat.
My shoulders snarl
like panthers, terrifying
Cerberus and the angels.
I’d like to melt down images for you,
forging, in the process, a more divine metal.
Our conscience is a church
where only penance shelters us.
I’m waiting for a modern people:
my readers yet to come.
—Man, it’s not yet time to die!
Icons are the passports
of cherubs and seraphim;
your icon is the crab . . .
—O God! I am this unintelligible crab,
pulling at the threads of prehistory,
still moving backwards,
returning to the supposed unknown.
The dogmas seize me, the rites place me
in a perpetuum mobile
of a slavery that passes for freedom,
of contempt for decency,
of the myth of wealth as morality itself.
If my crab heart drops away, abandons me and vanishes,
I’ll be a man without a heart, without anything—
my muscles will corrode in chemical leprosy.
The capitals already are drenched with acid rain
and the fruit trees are torches snuffed
amidst some grievous exodus.
Creation’s six-day urbanology
has betrayed God’s project—
the ideas of Genesis have been falsified.
The crab heart shuns
the ashes of this false catastrophe,
dives deep into the boundless ocean
where the shades of Atlantis are at peace with the fish.
They’ll give shelter to this divine creature
whose claws can cut the wires
of a coded atomic bomb.
© Translation: 2015, Anastas Kapurani & Wayne Miller
From: Zodiac
Publisher: Zephyr, Brookline MA, 2015
*.Migjeni is the acronymic nom-de-plume of Millosh Gjergj Nikolla (1911–38), one of the most important fathers of modern Albania poetry. He died of tuberculosis at the age of 26.
From: Zodiac
Publisher: Zephyr, Brookline MA, 2015
Zodiak: 6
Zodiak: 6
– Njeri, s'ka ardhur ende koha të vdesësh,po avullon dhe ari i padjegshëm i nibelungëve
e pa materie mbetet një boshësi.
Lëkura është derë e mbyllur
me brava poresh të pafund.
Lumi bën një elektrogramë,
sikur shkruan një autobiografi.
Njeri s'ka ardhur ende koha të vdesësh.
Unë,
Zoti, Zoti
zgjas dorën
ta nxjerr nga kraharori
zemrën – gafore prej bronzi të ndjeshëm
e . . . prapë s'do të vdesësh.
– O Zot,
përdëllemë!
Gaforja e zemrën ikën
nëpër yllësitë e shpirtit,
trupi im ndjek si hieja
pa përmasa
në infinit . . .
A ka herbariume për këta muzgje,
për të ruajtur
gjumin,
xixëllimet e ideve?
Pa gjumin do ta kishim dyfishin e ekzistencës,
notoj mes djersës si Sizifi i shndërruar në notar,
ja një këndez dioniziak i rrjepur
simbol i vjeshtës antike.
Grifonet funerore po t'i shposh
shpërthejnë gjakun e zogjve dhe të ajrit.
Heronjtë e kujtesës janë trupa pa mish
hyjnë e dalin lehtësisht nëpër muret,
varri është humnerë
çdo i vdekur thith
mijëra engjëj pas vetes.
Gishti i stërmadh i tymit
futet te unaza e Diellit,
që ka vulën heraldike të stinëve
për të vulosur testamentet.
Ekrani i TV riprodhon dinosaure
si tigani ku skuqen vezët syze,
Shqiponja vjen nga sipër kaq shpejt
sa hapësirat i zgjaten nga pas si flokë hyjnish.
Eja, eja mendim që nga planeti Mars
në tendën mikpritëse të lëkurës time
të tendosur në vapën e moskzistencës.
Dhe unë parapëlqej t'u ve
dhe luanëve të Danielit krahë fluture.
T'i rrjep lëkurat e zebrave për shah ekzotik,
e të jashtëqis gjarpërinjtë e tempujve.
Eja, eja robot i dëmtuar,
po të ve gaforen elektronike të zemrës
si ringjallja e vetë Mesisë.
Letra, që po shkruaj është atdheu im,
përtej kësaj letre jam përherë i mërguar.
Ekzilet e mia janë internime të arta
në Persinë e në Egjiptin kur e pa Herodoti,
në kampin indian të Hajavathës,
në jeruzalemin e kryqtarëve të Rikard Zemërluanit,
në zhytjet nënujore të Zhak Iv Kustosë,
në funeralin pa njerëz të Modilianit,
te poezia e Migjenit
për gaforen e historisë,
që ecën mbrapsht.
Fjalorët janë varreza fjalësh
gjoja i ringjallim përmendësh,
sytë kanë ikur në disa orbita,
që nuk i di as Zoti e as Kepleri.
Si ta zbus këtë mal e ta derdh
si një lumë
a një ujvarë drejt detit?
Mund të zhytësh duart në det,
po jo emrin dhe ëndrrën.
Stalakmitet vigane
janë stërgjyshër
të kallinjve të grurit.
Dy supet e mia ulërijnë
si dy pantera, duke frikësuar
Cerberin dhe engjëjt!
Dua t'i shkrij imazhet për të gjetur
një metal më hyjnor.
Ndërgjegjja është kishë,
ku vetëm pendesa na strehon.
E unë pres një popull të ri
lexuesit e mi, që s'janë sot!
– Njeri s'ka ardhur ende koha të vdesësh,
ikonat janë pasaporta
të kerubinëve e serafimëve,
ikona jote gaforja . . .
– O Zot, unë jam kjo gafore e pakuptuar,
duke tërhequr fijet e prehistorisë
e megjithatë eci mbrapsht,
rikthehem e gjoja shoh të panjohurën,
dogmat më mbërthejnë, ritet më rrotullojnë
në një perpetum mobile,
skllavërinë e quaj liri
e poshtërimin mirësjellje
e mitin e parasë moralin e vetëm!
Gaforja e zemrës ra, më braktisi u zhduk,
jam njeriu pa zemër, i munguar në gjithçka,
muskujt më ndryshken si lebra kimike,
kryeqytetet janë ndotur nga shira acidesh,
e pemët janë pishtarë të shuar
të një braktisje të kobshme,
Urbanistika e gjashtë ditëve të krijimit
e ka tradhëtuar projektin e Zotit
kanë fallsifikuar idetë, gjeneza,
gaforja e zemrës e neveritur i shmanget
katastrofës kibernetike dhe shkrumbit
e zhytet në thellësitë oqeanike pa cak
e hijet e atlantidasve të vallëzuar me peshqit
e pranojnë me brohori këtë hyjni
me ganxhat e gafores të presë telat
e një bombe atomike të koduar . . .
© 2000, Moikom Zeqo
From: Zodiak
From: Zodiak
Poems
Poems of Moikom Zeqo
Close
Zodiac: 6
—Man, it’s not yet time to die!Even the unburnable gold of the Nibelung
has vaporized, and, matter-less, become a void.
One’s skin is a closed door
locked shut with infinite pores.
The river receives an electrocardiogram—
as if writing its autobiography.
Man, it’s not yet time to die!
I
—a God, a God!—
reach
to extract from my chest
my heart—a crab of delicate bronze,
and . . . even now it’s not yet time to die.
—O God,
bless me!
My heart has crawled off
among the constellations of the spirit.
My body chases it
like a measureless shadow
among the infinite . . .
I want an herbarium for these glooms—
to safeguard
their sleep,
their shimmerings of ideas . . .
If we didn’t sleep, our existences would double—
I swim through my sweat like Sisyphus.
So then!—a Dionysian cock, a skinned
symbol of antiquity’s fall . . .
Funereal griffins, if stabbed,
burst forth with the blood of birds and air.
Recollected heroes are bodies without flesh;
they pass lightly through walls.
A grave is an abyss—
all the dead draw
thousands of angels in their wake.
An enormous finger of smoke
enters the sun’s circle—
the seasons’ wax seal
that stamps shut every will.
The TV reproduces dinosaurs—
like a pan cooking ocular eggs.
An eagle drops from above so fast
her wake extends behind her like the hair of a god.
Come, come! my Martian thoughts—
enter the cozy tent of my skin
pitched here in the blistering heat of nothingness.
I’d like to graft
butterfly wings onto Daniel’s lions.
I’d skin zebras so we could play exotic chess,
I’d shit out all the snakes in the temple.
Come on, crippled robot—
I’ll place my crab heart inside you,
resurrect you like the Messiah himself.
The words I'm writing are my homeland—
outside them, I’m always in exile.
My exiles are golden banishments
to Persia or Egypt (with or without Herodotus),
to the camp of Haiawatha,
to the Jerusalem of Richard the Lionheart,
to the deep-sea excursions of Jacques Cousteau,
to the family-less funeral of Modigliani,
to the poetry of Migjeni*
and his Crab of History
walking backwards . . .
Dictionaries are cemeteries of words,
words we resurrect each time we use them.
My eyes have escaped into several orbits
that neither God nor Kepler knows.
How can I tame for you this mountain
and pour it like a river,
or a waterfall, down to the sea?
We can submerge our hands in the water,
but not in a name or a dream.
Giant stalagmites
are the antecedents
of these spikes of wheat.
My shoulders snarl
like panthers, terrifying
Cerberus and the angels.
I’d like to melt down images for you,
forging, in the process, a more divine metal.
Our conscience is a church
where only penance shelters us.
I’m waiting for a modern people:
my readers yet to come.
—Man, it’s not yet time to die!
Icons are the passports
of cherubs and seraphim;
your icon is the crab . . .
—O God! I am this unintelligible crab,
pulling at the threads of prehistory,
still moving backwards,
returning to the supposed unknown.
The dogmas seize me, the rites place me
in a perpetuum mobile
of a slavery that passes for freedom,
of contempt for decency,
of the myth of wealth as morality itself.
If my crab heart drops away, abandons me and vanishes,
I’ll be a man without a heart, without anything—
my muscles will corrode in chemical leprosy.
The capitals already are drenched with acid rain
and the fruit trees are torches snuffed
amidst some grievous exodus.
Creation’s six-day urbanology
has betrayed God’s project—
the ideas of Genesis have been falsified.
The crab heart shuns
the ashes of this false catastrophe,
dives deep into the boundless ocean
where the shades of Atlantis are at peace with the fish.
They’ll give shelter to this divine creature
whose claws can cut the wires
of a coded atomic bomb.
© 2015, Anastas Kapurani & Wayne Miller
From: Zodiac
Publisher: 2015, Zephyr, Brookline MA
From: Zodiac
Publisher: 2015, Zephyr, Brookline MA
Zodiac: 6
—Man, it’s not yet time to die!Even the unburnable gold of the Nibelung
has vaporized, and, matter-less, become a void.
One’s skin is a closed door
locked shut with infinite pores.
The river receives an electrocardiogram—
as if writing its autobiography.
Man, it’s not yet time to die!
I
—a God, a God!—
reach
to extract from my chest
my heart—a crab of delicate bronze,
and . . . even now it’s not yet time to die.
—O God,
bless me!
My heart has crawled off
among the constellations of the spirit.
My body chases it
like a measureless shadow
among the infinite . . .
I want an herbarium for these glooms—
to safeguard
their sleep,
their shimmerings of ideas . . .
If we didn’t sleep, our existences would double—
I swim through my sweat like Sisyphus.
So then!—a Dionysian cock, a skinned
symbol of antiquity’s fall . . .
Funereal griffins, if stabbed,
burst forth with the blood of birds and air.
Recollected heroes are bodies without flesh;
they pass lightly through walls.
A grave is an abyss—
all the dead draw
thousands of angels in their wake.
An enormous finger of smoke
enters the sun’s circle—
the seasons’ wax seal
that stamps shut every will.
The TV reproduces dinosaurs—
like a pan cooking ocular eggs.
An eagle drops from above so fast
her wake extends behind her like the hair of a god.
Come, come! my Martian thoughts—
enter the cozy tent of my skin
pitched here in the blistering heat of nothingness.
I’d like to graft
butterfly wings onto Daniel’s lions.
I’d skin zebras so we could play exotic chess,
I’d shit out all the snakes in the temple.
Come on, crippled robot—
I’ll place my crab heart inside you,
resurrect you like the Messiah himself.
The words I'm writing are my homeland—
outside them, I’m always in exile.
My exiles are golden banishments
to Persia or Egypt (with or without Herodotus),
to the camp of Haiawatha,
to the Jerusalem of Richard the Lionheart,
to the deep-sea excursions of Jacques Cousteau,
to the family-less funeral of Modigliani,
to the poetry of Migjeni*
and his Crab of History
walking backwards . . .
Dictionaries are cemeteries of words,
words we resurrect each time we use them.
My eyes have escaped into several orbits
that neither God nor Kepler knows.
How can I tame for you this mountain
and pour it like a river,
or a waterfall, down to the sea?
We can submerge our hands in the water,
but not in a name or a dream.
Giant stalagmites
are the antecedents
of these spikes of wheat.
My shoulders snarl
like panthers, terrifying
Cerberus and the angels.
I’d like to melt down images for you,
forging, in the process, a more divine metal.
Our conscience is a church
where only penance shelters us.
I’m waiting for a modern people:
my readers yet to come.
—Man, it’s not yet time to die!
Icons are the passports
of cherubs and seraphim;
your icon is the crab . . .
—O God! I am this unintelligible crab,
pulling at the threads of prehistory,
still moving backwards,
returning to the supposed unknown.
The dogmas seize me, the rites place me
in a perpetuum mobile
of a slavery that passes for freedom,
of contempt for decency,
of the myth of wealth as morality itself.
If my crab heart drops away, abandons me and vanishes,
I’ll be a man without a heart, without anything—
my muscles will corrode in chemical leprosy.
The capitals already are drenched with acid rain
and the fruit trees are torches snuffed
amidst some grievous exodus.
Creation’s six-day urbanology
has betrayed God’s project—
the ideas of Genesis have been falsified.
The crab heart shuns
the ashes of this false catastrophe,
dives deep into the boundless ocean
where the shades of Atlantis are at peace with the fish.
They’ll give shelter to this divine creature
whose claws can cut the wires
of a coded atomic bomb.
© 2015, Anastas Kapurani & Wayne Miller
From: Zodiac
Publisher: 2015, Zephyr, Brookline MA
From: Zodiac
Publisher: 2015, Zephyr, Brookline MA
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