Poezi nga "Varrezat e Femijerise" nga Renis Nushaj

Atdheu

Cdo dite e me teper reflektoj,
kthimin qe me perket permes harreses;
Dhe shperqendrohem ne vdekje...
Hap syte dhe penetroj erresiren:
Qendroj ende i shtrire
dhe megjithese ndihem i gjalle perseri
(pas kaq vitesh mumifikimi absurd)
ndjej krimbat e nentokes te me depertojne kafken
nder vite pagjumesie te crregullt.
Nuk arrij te leviz dot, por shoh duart
qe jane mbuluar nga bari e dheu.
Nje perrua i vogel kalon prane meje,
stalagmitet siper kokes
bien mbi trupin tim te pajete, dhe kujtoj,
vite pasi nderrova jete,
nje kerpudhe e zeze mesoi te lulezonte ketu,
dimrave te lagesht, por tani jo me:
Kjo stine tashme eshte e ftohte...
Dhe per disa vite rresht, kujtoj, e pashe
te thahej, ne tentativen e lulezimit helmues.
Por mbase nje dite do te lulezoje serish...
Gjithcka eshte kthyer ne nje qetesi mortore.
Ndjej token lart meje, te shkrete deri ne morrnica
dhe e di se, nese kujtoj nje rruge,
ketu poshte nuk kam per ta gjetur kurre.
Tashme e kam kuptuar se nuk do te kthehem
me ne jete,
dhe vetmia ka kohe qe nuk me bezdis.
Kujtoj: Kohet e para ish' me e veshtire.
Ne erresiren e plote, s'arrija te kuptoja
ne isha syhapur apo symbyllur,
dhe me mendjen ne nje vakum te plote,
ishte e trishte, mbaj mend
te mos kuptoja ne c'gjendje ndodhesha.
te mos arrija kurre te kuptoja,
se cfare duhet te ndieja!
Kam perjetuar prehjen e vdekjes...
por mbase ajo qe kam urryer me teper,
ka qene ai tis tinzar pabesie
qe me perfshinte ne lageshtiren e erresires.
Fillova te mendoja
(po ende nuk e kuptoja qe po mendoja)
se kishte qene thjesht nje jete
e shkuar dem ne tentativen e njohjes.
Tani isha thjesht,
deshira e perceptimit te kohes
qe nuk dija ne kalonte apo jo,
dhe qe llogarisja permes mendimeve
qe shkeputeshin nga siperfaqet e oqeaneve
si delfine te ngordhur drejt parajsash shkumezuese.
Jam i pershkruar nga nje hije dyshimi
dhe nga nje crregullim i pergjithshem
i gjithesise personale...heshtjeje,
dhe ngurtesie te perthyer ne veprim
Cudi!...Kjo pafundesi qe me rrethon...
Prandaj konsideroj jeten si qetesine
e nje shpirti qe vuan ne perjetesi.

Monologue: Explaining the American Dream to an Albanian Mother

Mother it is obvious I will go to America with or without your consent, and if you give me the money I will appreciate it immensely, if you don't have it, I guess you'll have to borrow it, and if you don't want to give me the money, I'll just have to swim I guess. I won't be neither the first nor the last.

There is obviously nothing to worry about, and no difficulties included in the package. If there were to be any, I would not get myself involved in the first place, for I am neither crazy nor overly optimistic: As I have told you countless times, I will put into work the Veni, Vidi, Vici approach. I will go, make that million dollars real quick and come back before you even notice I was gone.

I know I am seventeen, mother. Do you think I lost track? And why do you say "only" seventeen? Am I not old enough for you? Mother, I think you need to trust me a little bit more. What will I do in America? What do people do in America, mother? I will go to school; I will work a little bit and in my free time, I will make it a point to have fun. Actually, now that I think about it, the Americans have a lot of free time I have heard (they are such a rich nation after all) so I might have to focus a lot more on the fun part... Who will I stay with? Mother, now what kind of a question is that? Aren't you being a little too pessimistic? What kind of people do you think the Americans to be? Do you think that anyone in America would find enough evil in their heart to allow such a fine Albanian to sleep under the bridge? You are definitely too pessimistic, mother.

I will probably use one of these exchange programs, at least in the beginning, but I plan to move on my own very quickly. How will I afford it? Certainly I will seek employment somewhere, and I doubt a fine specimen such as myself will be denied a position anywhere! It's not like they will be running out of jobs anytime soon in America! As to the kind of employment that I will be attaining, unlike the rest, that would be mere speculation at this point. I guess I will go with the flow, though I must say, a nice cushy job somewhere never hurt anyone... What if I am incapable of finding a job I am comfortable with? I doubt that will happen, but my policy is on of non-bargaining. If I settle for nothing less, than I will attain nothing less.

Mother, what kind of question is it: Aren't I afraid I am going to miss you, mother? I am being serious here! We've got something very serious in our hands! Let us not compromise the American Dream with such archaic and patriarchal notions such as longing. Why must we as nation be so pessimistic in our endeavors. I am working with a plan here, mother: I am pursuing the American Dream. Let us be serious for a moment, focus, and understand the notion and the very foundations it lies upon. What I offer... my vision, is one riddled in simplicity. Arrival in America, a quick rise to the top, and an even quicker return home. Mother, it is pure genius, it is brilliant, it is, above all, necessary.

I know and understand that your wage is about $100 a month, father is unemployed and aside myself and my little brother, you are also supporting all three living grandparents, and I also know and understand very well that $ 7000 is a good chunk of money, but the situation at hand is reduced down to one single, all inclusive question: Mother, can we say no to destiny? I would argue, no.

What about my friends? Oh, mother, always so melancholic! Always prying on the spiritual. You must try and leave the backwardness of Eastern Europe behind in your mental map of the world and for once I want you to try and visualize America and all which it encompasses. I want you to visualize it as it rises from the foundations of an ageless continent, yet so young in its history, so unsurpassable in its might, so fresh in its approach. What a piece of work is America! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!

I know right now this might sound as the babbling of a teenager, but you will understand one day. The American Dream is obviously much more than just an empty idea reducing the proletariat to pragmatism. It is more than just a simple approach to governance, an idea devoid of meaning which keeps the middle and lower classes subdued through the desire to succeed. Mother, the American Dream is not yet another opiate for the masses.

Having been born and lived in such backwardness for so long, by virtue of necessity, we are too corrupt in our ideology, too immersed in the present, and too selfish in our desires, to be truly capable of comprehending as pure a thought. The American ideology in its outmost simplicity is not just moral righteousness, but what is truly remarkable about us as humanity, what we should strive for as a whole in order to be marked as inherently good in the eye of the Creator, what is noble of our endeavor in our journey toward death. Mother, "the American Dream" is the reality of a people, not the hallucination of, it is truth carved in stone, not a vision in the desert.

Indeed, it is because I understand it, that I endorse it. This is not a shot in the dark. I am not trying to be the blind man in a room full of deaf people, but rather merely attempting to be in unison with an upwardly mobile population that knows no boundaries. Mother, we have in our hands a people that has surpassed the Tower of Babel countless times, a population which has calmly laid siege to the hopeless heavens, whose achievement sees no ends, other than the "soon to be conquered" in all probability, those of spiritual bliss. Mother, the American Dream is attained perfection, not subjugation.

My desire to go to America is not the mindless attempt of a teenager to achieve freedom from parental control before the official deadline of Universal Suffrage, but rather the well calculated move toward a desired objective grounded in reality. The noblest of causes, the most well defined of paths, yours truly: The Endorsement of a Dream.

I have a dream as well, mother. And that dream is simple and sincere as simple and sincere we Albanians are. I have a dream; that one day, in every immigration office I set foot upon, I shall be judged not by the color of my red communist passport but by the content of my blue, freedom loving one. I have a dream; that one day I may pursue and attain the American dream, and no longer dream nightmares of supperless evenings, but rather dream of middle class values, of whoppers and happy meals, coca cola and no starch on my plate as I will no longer be eastern and backward, rather western and dwelling in the American dream, my Atkins dream, democracy exporting for democracy is on wheels, Antebellum dream...

Mother, to deny me this opportunity, would be to stand against the mighty winds of destiny. How can we, mere creatures of causality refuse what has been pre-ordained by higher powers? How can we, with our insignificant wills, even dream to stand against this avalanche of predestined historical outcome, which is the American Dream? Mother, we stand no chance: We are the lost tribes of times long gone, hopelessly searching for our homeland, and not realizing that the arms of America are wide open, and are expecting nothing short of our abandonment in it. Mother, the Olympus is watching, the Gods rightfully expect the fulfillment of their will. Mother, I must go to America.

Mother, nations will perish, but the American Dream will stand. Mother, eternity will come to an end, the American Dream will continue. Mother, the Tower of Babel and like minded endeavors will lie ruinous, the American Dream will tower above the heavens. I must go to America. Indeed, the paraphrase one of the many fine Americans out there: "We have not yet begun to sail to America." Yet, there, it lies right at the stretch of our fingertips: Far like reality, yet close like a dream.

And what is holding us back from attaining it? Money. Yes, money. The virus of the ages. You know mother, this archaic notion, merely a step above bartering, will probably be outlawed very soon in America. Oh, yes indeed. Do not be surprised. It will probably be outlawed very soon and that continent will be using smiles as their currency. Oh, this is quite serious mother. What else could it be? Such wealth, such innovation, such reason, such progress... Anything less than a smile, will certainly be inadequate.

Mother, give me America or give me death. Oh, yes, it is that serious indeed. No need to laugh, a lot is at stake here. Mother, we should no longer ask what I can do for our country, but rather what our country can do for me. It is the duty of this country, not merely this family, to send me to America, for indeed my success will not simply be shared among us as a family, but among us as a people. We must endorse our destiny as a people, mother: I must leave at once. Give me America... Produce, America.... Give me America or give me death.
__________________

Stinet

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Ja, kjo,
vera qe adhuroj,
dhe therrimet e tavolines
rrugeve te zbrazura
ne ore te caktuara.
Fytyra ime
ne nje gjendje trupore te cuditshme
me shpirtin e cuditshem!
Prisni...
Le te bejme nje cope udhe
se bashku me te tere zhurmat tona
ne bisedat uniseksuale
ku flasim per ty e per mua
lidhur me gjera qe s'i njohim.
Pashmangshmerisht,
do te cuditemi dhe ne...
Dhe do te flasim,
per subjekte jokonkrete
duke meshiruar vdekjen;
jeten dhe zarat e fatit.
Gjarperinjte neper kembe
helmi i muzikes qe me percohet
ne detajet e rimekembjes
se cdo geni.
Mpleksemi ne lokale te shthurur
dhe nxjerrim dashurite e njeri-tjetrit
qellimisht
me vetedijen e qarte
te dhimbjes se fshehur
egove te pazbuluara.
Na joshin vetmite
e te nderkryer mekateve
njesojme monotonine e shpirtit.
Rruget e zbrazura
na joshin, gjithashtu
verandat, bisedat e pasditeve,
ndonje shetitje e rralle,
dhe rallehere dashuria.
Ne pranvere, te gjithe dashurohen,
cuditerisht.
Ne vjeshte duam te ecim
tinezisht duke shpresuar
qe ndonje gjethe te na bjere ne ecjen tone
nen syte e se dashures;
me veprimet e ngadalta
rrebeshet e deshires, dimrave,
e kjo, vera qe adhuroj,
e dashur ne ore te caktuara
si dashuria.

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Nese...

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Bardhesia e trotuareve
te veres
ne shandanet e menduar
me vite te zjarrte
si kjo dite,
tek hijet e zbehta
te diteve te nxehta
ku fokusohen idete
e marramendjes.
Me mendimet e lodhura
dhe fjalet e ntrashura
i ulur diku,
pak rendesi ka, ku;
djersa qe na afron
me bulezat e saj
qe kujtojne permallshem
orgazmat e dikurshme
dhe fjalet qe na kane eksituar.
Une e ti, jemi te paqarte!
Na akuzojne
si te pakuptueshem, ndonjehere,
dhe ndonjehere
na evitojne per kete arsye.
E kuptueshme: jemi te paqarte!
Me afrohet koka
drejt tavolines
kur shkruaj, dhe poezia
me rreshqet
prej sysh feminore
pa driten brenda tyre, por,
nuk perseritemi;
fale dikujt qe nuk njohim.
Dhe ja, prape, ne kete tavoline...
pa sfonde per t'u clodhur,
me duart e lodhura mbi te,
pa ditur c'ka mbetur pa thene
e qe ne mund te shtojme ende...
nese duhet te shtojme!

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Muzg

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Dhimbja e kokes
nga libra me emra te paqarte,
me intesitetin e vdekjes
ne lokalet qe frekuentoj
kur perflitemi... e na perflasin.
Ky muzg deshire,
si nje qen i trembur
nga pavetedija
qe me largohet si nje mik zemre
duke me lene
nen shokimin e subkoshiences
te vrare e perterire
sa e sa here
nga librat qe adhuroj.
E me ka mbetur...
Si nje alpinist i varur
diku ne shpirt
qe lendon shpirtin tim...
Horizontet, qe mbase shtrihen perpara meje, te
penguar;
c'me mbetet te shoh?!
Asgje; paksa i lene ne hije
nen reflekse te zeza
te veteveshtrohem.
Ne sfond fytyren
dhe te turbullt
akrepat e ores
ne arin e tyre
me duart mbi fytyre
duke lene
vec pak pjese te arrira,
i pergjysmuar...
Ne gjysem deshirat per te shkruar,
i percare,
nga ndjenja te neveritshme;
me sende te cuditshme
kudo ne boten time
qe duket sikur me ndjekin
ne nxirjen e vizioneve
duke vrapuar per te hapur
deren qe troket vazhdimisht
nga njerez qe ende flasin,
rrotullohen ngadalshem
ne erresiren e pamjes se paqarte
teksa deshironim renien..
A e deshiroj?
Duke deshiruar renien,
por pa e ditur:
Ne jam ky, apo duhet te jem une!

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Per shpetimin

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Nese askush nuk mund ta thote
atehere,
lereni me mire
te mos ndodhe.

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Sena

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Nje forme e re!
Me pelqen, me pelqen.
Eshte nje dicka tjeter
per te cilen kam nevoje
si breshka e ujit
per ngadalsine e saj neveritese.
Kam nevoje
per dicka disi te zbrazet
qofte edhe te ndryshme
dicka qe te mos me ngrere peshe:
Nuk eksitohet, nuk eksitohet.
Nuk eksitohem
me jeten e bukur
qe rreshqet ne fytyren time
duke lene gezimet dhe perjetimet
si shenja perjetesisht te frikshme.
Rrjedhimisht,
ne syte e tu te nxire
ka dicka qe nuk me eksiton.
Megjithese pa interes,
s'mund te bej pa te,
pa pak neveri qe ndjej per ty,
duke dashur te mos e bej shprehi,
dicka pa te cilen s'do te mund te vazhdojme,
perkundrazi,
do te detyrohemi te rrime indiferente
ne lokalet e papajtueshem te moshes
nder urat gri te komes e infarktit,
me percmimin si virtyt
dhe ata qe na dashurojne per pak
larg nesh,
ne nje moment te caktuar turbullues.
Ulur ca me tutje
me veshtrime triumfale
neper parvazet e koherave
ku mjegulla psheretitese
peshperisin dashurine.
Le te mbytemi ne Sene, me mire,
sesa ne zhubravitjet
e letrave te lamtumires.
Aromat qe harrohen nder sirtare;
modeli i flokeve te tu,
dy a tri fjale
dhe buzeqeshjet qe na tendosnin egoizmin.
Ti, une,
dhe shume gjera te tjera aspak interesante
nder te cilat ajo qe e quajtem dashuri.
Shoqeria ku ishim ne qender te vemendjes;
"Une"...
dhe ti qe s'kuptoje poezine.

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Zgjedhja

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Endrrat, librat
dhe dashuria ime per ty
si ne ndonje antologji
te ftohte,
karruseli i femijerise
jeta dhe qiejt e hapur
ne deshirat e mija per pyetje:
C'kerkon? Kush je?
Hapesirat e kontraktuara
ne boten e minjve
nevoja per drite
me kohen
qe shkon drejt fundit te saj.
Ky mbipopullim mutant
i mendimeve ne tru
si pluhuri qe la nje statuje
e paperfunduar.
Bloza e oxhaqeve ne dimer,
kolera ne vere
ne rruget e zhuritura
sikur te jene droguar
qe me kalojne ne mendje
me indiferencen e dritave te nates
duke lene shenjat e reve
bardhesia,
dhe i detyruar
te jem i verber ose i vdekur!:
Ky,
s'duhet te jem une.

Vera e fundit

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Vera e fundit, zoteri!
Dhe mjaf me...
Ketu perpara jush
keni silueten e mbetur
te atij qe s'do te kthehet me!
Siluete shpirterash...
Por ju jeni me siguri nga ata
qe s'reagojne ndaj dhimjes.
Era rrotullohet neper Univers
si per te gjetur dicka jo monotone
duke krijuar keshtu vetveten,
ate me te riperseritshmen.


Ka shume menyra,
shume menyra,
per te arritur ate qe dua,
ka shume menyra:
S'mund t'i jepem vetem njeres.

"S'me intereson"

Pajtoni i fundit zoteri,
dhe s'ka me.
Do te me kujtojne hera heres,
dhe do te me harrojne.
I permendur vetem ne biseda
sa per te shtyre kohen.
Me flihet, me flihet.
Edhe dores time, gjithckaje,
turbullt i flihet.
Si arinjte ne dimer,
autostradat ne vere,
por duhet edhe nje poezi,
nje tjeter poezi
per te mbajtur veten pas dickaje
qe mund te me mbaje,
qe mund te me shtyje,
per te shkruar edhe nje tjeter
per te ecur sadopak,
pastaj per te fjetur.
Nese do te me flihet ende;
ne kete, kjo, ketu,
qe ndodhet perpara jush, kjo...
Kjo vera e fundit, zoteri.

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Telefonata

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Ndjenjat jane si nje rrjedhoje erotike.
Magnetofoni mbi komodine;
nje shuk letre
mbi disqet qe deshiroj.
Jashte,
nje shi i imet
lag bisedat e harruara.
Nder to,
sharje te zbehta
me veshtrojne miqesine,
dashurite e zvetnuara.
Jam nje mesymje e vetvetes
qe rrjedh
si akrepi i sekondave te ndaluara.
Aty ku noton vetedija
e ti kerkon vec dike ku te besosh,
duke m'u drejtuar:
A me deshiron?
Deshire?!
Po une s'njoh asnje deshire!...
Alo?
Jam Sena ku mbyten ikjet.
Kush jeni?
Jeni krahet e oqeaneve
somnambul tek ecin rrugeve
te letersise qe adhuroj
si Ajnshtajni violinen.

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Depresion

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Kam endrren time personale
mbi pavdeksine;
qe ne vere me djersitet
e ne dimer
me futet ne shpirtin e ftohte.
Te dy se bashku
s'kemi fare se c'te bejme
derisa te vije momenti
qe te dy me ankth presim
per te kryer secili detyren e tij.
Megjithate, ne vere,
e shoh te harboje rrugeve,
te rrezohet e te ngrihet
e te motivohet nga dhimbja
ne jeten e nxire te nates.
Ne dimer,
nga nje vetekultivim
i mosdinjitetit
me shtrihet
ne te tere qenien time
duke me mbyllur syte
e i ndjeshem
mund te perplasem kudo.
Ne te dy stinet e tjera
s'para e ve re.
Jam zakonisht
i depresionuar
e mbeshtetem teresisht
tek alkooli.
Sidoqofte,
cdo udhehapje te re
e ndajme te dy.

-------------------------
i
Trendafili

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Ky trendafil i vyshkur
qe zevendeson zemren tende
dhe keto mendime qe s'te hyjne me ne pune
permes te cilave
shikoj frazat
dhe format e cuditshme
qe nuk me perkasin,
por qe kur ulemi ne tavoline,
naten,
te tera me veshtrojne, pa drojtje
me sy te larget
e fytyra prej kukullash
ndjenjash te balsamosura...
Rrudhat e bezdisura te carcafit
naten,
pak pagjumesi
dhe disa ide te trishta
qe me ndjellin deshiren
per te lozur me organet e tua
me teorine time
te veres dhe dhunes.
Naten,
perkatesisht, kemi pjeset e ndara
te nje luleje qe duhet
unifikuar:
Ti,
trendafilin e vyshkur;
une,
kercellin e thate, pa gjemba.
Kemi planet reciproke
per te dale hapur
ne ekstaza violente
tekstualisht te dhunshme
sipas deshirave tona personale.
E kjo dashuri e verber
qe zevendeson zemren time...
....eshte gati ne te thyer.

Lorkes

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Granada...
Per ty dhe Granaden
kete poezi te perzishme dedikuar!
Me qelbin e lekures
neteve,
dhe diteve te nxehta
oborreve ku kalojne
cupezat e tua
te vdekura
nen driten e zbehte te Henes.
Ju te dy,
dhe dashuria e psheretimave
per udhekryqet.
Tamam tek ty
ku ne zemer
hyn si nje thike e ndryshkur
helmi i dashurise,
Folme!
Folme;
ne trion
me zhurmen e dy lumenjve
te Granades.
Folme;
aty ku dashurojme te tere,
e te tere jemi dashuruar,
edhe ciganet!
Ciganet e tu kryelarte
qe vallezojne
me deshirat e tyre te mishit
si gjilpera nen kembe...
Ne syte e vogelusheve te befasuar,
te zeshket, klithin.
Ata klithin;
dhe une kam deshire...
Granadan...


Per ty dhe Granaden
rrugeve te shelgjeve
ku mbreterojne puhite:
Kjo poezi qelish...

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Per ty...

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Kam nevoje,


per mungesen tende..!


Dhe per veshtrimin tend qe me dashuron.

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Mosnjohja

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Thith nje fraze banale,
sikur thith nje cigare,
naten,
perpara nje dritareje
duke te reflektuar
vec nje rreth drite
ne fytyre,
permes helmit
qe shperndahet ne ajer, kudo,
diku ku s'mund ta shoh,
ta kontrolloj,
e terheq pas vetes
me te tere aromat qe permban,
Dhe ky absurd i kesaj pikture
qe kam perballe
teksa mundohet te me trese deliret
me ekstazat ne kujtese
me terheq dhunshem
drejt agonish qe s'i njoh
per te me perfshire brenda tyre
ne trillet e femrave plot epsh.
Nje here, -tha, -
mbaj mend
qe iu afrova cvirgjerimit
permes seksit me nje brune
fare prane.
Mbaj mend vetem zerin
qe me tretej
e zemren qe ralle here
me rrihte shpejt,
si i ngurosur
pa emocione mendore,
e me trupin te ngrire,
Por me terheq,
kjo mosnjohja, gjithashtu,
me nderlidhjen e pasigurive,
ne mocalet e jetes.
Dhe ato pak hapa mistike;
qe trokasin si therje diku larg
ne koridoret e ftohte dhe te pajete
te morgut qe aq mire njoh
permes asaj vdekjeje personale
qe me nje muzike ngjethese-mortore
me aq ankth pres:
mbase dhe se afermi;
nuk e refuzoj.