Antologji Poetike Korsi e Hapur 1 viti 2008

Il colore



Sentìi con cura i colori,

alcuni notti con le lucciole,

la liberazione dopo loro per sempre

come una icona magica,

tutte le lune ed i giocchi,

manteneva un buon odore,

il nettare del tuo corpo

nell interno l’ambra.

Gli arcobaleni celestiali

si stavano togliendo

nella segrettezza delle montagne

fa male il buio,

fa male la luce,

e pure la morte fa male,

per un poco dei tuoi occhi.









L’amarezza



Adesso non ho l’altra volta di pianura

e l’altro dolore non ho.

La tua stanza scura,

il tuo luogo di dimora cerco

e cerco,

bevendo le lacrime,

dipingo i punti fermi ed i punti interrogativi

con il graffito delle miniere

dove abito.

Chi mai puo saperlo

quanta amarezza nascondono

le pause ed i punti.

Gesto sempre l’amarezza,

e non cambio la mia ferita

perchè il dolore profondo

una bellezza eminente la nutrì.

* *

Il mio sole

unico,

non mi mantiene

la mia vita.





La schema b’



Sta nascendo le ore

del successivo

ed anche del presente

che si rende vuoto per poco,

e la mente,

che si rende facile

conquistata

da un peso cosi pesante,

che si imbianchi il tempo.









* *

Un posto cerco.



Un’indizzio

di uno sguardo profondo.

La terza voce





L’altra fáccia



Colpì il silènzio

si è perduta

l’armonia del movimento,

con la disintegrazione delle lune

costruisco adesso,

la mia altra fáccia.





















I passi



I passi bussano

senza ritmo,

senza pesantezza.

Perchè non sanno,

camminano nelle strade circondate

con una amarezza inchiodata.

Sotto la pianta del loro piede nuda

due vene azzurre,

hanno l’emoraggia del sangue nostalgico

nei marciapiedi

vedono tante cose,

tante scheme,

tanti celestiali,

ed anche le accarezze della luna.

Conoscono tanti suoni i marciapiedi

e facciono un minuto di pausa

alle parole.

Le parole



Ma adesso le parole non si sentono,

non sanno adesso le parole,

giocano con lamento

come fisarmonica,

perchè le strade si sono piegate in due.

Non potèrono

che mantèngano i miei passi

e si sono piegate in due.



Si sono strangolati i suoni

La voce

Il rimbombo

di una campana lontana.



Le parole,

come le rughe nello silènzio.











L’altro silènzio



Questo silènzio

non ha delle foglie l’albero che si prenda,

e posto dove cadì,

non ha del tempo,

e delle pianure non le ha

attorno,

si è diventata come cristallino

attraverso la nuvola e la tempesta,

ed aspetta in mezzo all’ária.

Che cosa puo aspettare un silènzio

a parte un’altro

silènzio più profondo,

insuperabile.

E le lune tutte chiuse,

in mezzo al povero rumore

dei passi.

La piccola távola



Una piccola távola

nella radice di un’albero

si ricorda che era una volta anche essa un corpo,

l’albero con liquido e con le foglie.

Come era Eros?

L’amore?

Dove è andato e si è nascosto tanto l’amore?

Si pensa.

La nostalgia di sècolo si è riunita

dentro se stessa,

come il palmo della mano che non sa

dove regali un’accarezza,

e che si è rimasta nei suoi pugni,

ed anche le linee si approfondono

e pure l’accarezza si cresce.













Ed anche una matita



Si rende pesante da cosi tanta amarezza

scivolò ed è caduto nel fango,

colpì la sua faccia

e non sa come piangere,

cerca le pagine bianche dai quaderni

che arroti le terrazze,

e che lega la sua ferita.

Non l’hanno visto questo di nuovo

le strade

nemmeno i marciapiedi,

nemmeno la piccola távola.

Non sapevano che e pure le matite

hanno il cuore e la faccia.

“ Quanto deserto

nell’interno di una matita …,”

pensaròno e vennerono accanto a essa.

I pezzi



Si riempe con solitudine l’ária

dove splendá adesso l’amore.

Non lo so

e pure tutte non sanno intorno,

un metro cerco

nella profonditá.

Mi sono coperta tutta in luce

ed intera con l’oscuritá

che ti aggiunga.

Gli viaggi hi – oceanici

e nessuna goccia d’onda

all’interno della sábbia.

O, la mia epoca “ sterile “,

posti del presente

L’amore dove si trova?















La fuga nella seme del cielo



Mi divento foglia pezzo per pezzo,

che trarre fuori uno dopo uno

i miei vestiti pesanti

che li regalo al freddo,

gradualmente mi raggiungo nella serata.

Si cresce il centro della mia fuga,

il mio indizzo si apparisce

nello spazio infinito,

nasce delle stelle

il mio clorofilo

e si evaporisce,

nella seme del cielo,

il disco non pieno

declinato e pure nella forma del circolo

diffònde tutta la luce

che mi è stata datta.

***

Quando si ricordano le matite,

sanno con le loro parole

che cantino,

l’archi

che splendono

invitano

la continuazione delle ore.





La schema c



Cerco a imparare

quanti mezzogiorni celestiali

ho passato

quanti?

Gli indizzi del mezzogiorno

ho raggiunto

dell’estate

e dell’inverno

quanti ritorni del sole

quanti?



* * *

Spremei il mio spirito

dentro a me.

Dentro a te vivo,

dentro a te esisto.

English



Leta Koutsochera



ETERNAL TIME

POEMS



“Marin Barleti”, 2009





Literary editor Kristaq F. Shabani I.W.A, W.P.S

Reviewer: Agron Shele W.P.S

Translated into Albanian from Greek: Kosta Gaxhoni W.P.S, philologist, translator,

Kristaq F. Shabani I.W.A, W.P.S

Translations from Italian: Aleksandra (Majlinda) Shabani W.P.S, U.P.L.I

Translations in Italian Govanni Campsi

Translated into Albanian: Dritan Kardhashi

Copyright, Leta Koutsochera 2009

The book is published under the care of the Authors association “PEGASI” Albania, in the framework of the rubric “CONTEMPORARY POETRY”



Printed in the publishing House “Marin Barleti “ Tiranë

Phone ++35542240106

Leta Koutsochera

Μπουμπουλίνας 59, Χαϊδάρι 124 62

Τηλ ++302105811 183

Athina, Greece





Symphony of things



First voice (



Roots



When I am not,

When I have departed,

From my body

I am into the inner part

Of an ancient church

Of Apollo

And other time that of Dionysus.



Roots



Zero I become

I do not exist in any dimension

I do not exist,

I do not exist,

Without a name

I am entering into

Big zero

And I remember

Inside thousands of existences

A thousand names

And I breathe

With the roots of the words

Giving incenses

In the dream

With two full moons

And the light of the stars.





Roots



And growth

Through the springs

Of the fire of sacrifices

And I’m living

And I go out in the street,

And tell to the pedestrians

How the cypresses rose in the past

And how they ascended proudly

Through the plateaus

Of the hills

And the passing of epochs

And how they flourished

Without fear

Every September, flower of beauty

How did I permit joy to myself

Upon the stony stele

That the sun lit it completely

That my palm gets warmed.

Silence



Difficult word,

The word of truth.

The great silence it harbors

The silence bursts

And it comes like a storm,

Like rain,

Like the sun, like the moon,

Like all other great things

Like a high oakery

Or like your eyes,

Like poetry,

The daring of my soul,

Or like a great sea

With hidden sources,

And its deserts























The sea



The sea

Ancient uterus

Which encloses

And moves along,

The first gift of my

Wrinkled life

My dayspring sea

Within its sweeping wave

I am

In its summery wave

I exist

In places full of water

My voice and your voice.

The word and the stone



And the word comes

Like the light of the midday,

Like the strong ray of the sun,

Speaks with formulas of sounds

Invites the trees,

The birds,

The stars,

The mountains,

The stone.

The first stone that heard

Split into two pieces,

It became a mirror of the sky,

A mirror of epochs,

And the stone of the years.





Birds and stars



And even the birds ceased

To listen,

To learn from iambs

And falling of the leaves,

Stars remain still.

The harmony of another cycle they seek,

From another east to shine.

Constellations of ORION

Of SIRO

Constellations of Stars

Change the place;

It is not a fairy tale

It is the greatest truth

That, which has never been made,

Which always strives to be.

Sky inside the field



The changeable word

An endless source in the space.

It reached the fountain of ‘Kastalia’

To get baptized within its wound

To gain mental clarity

All the fields became dust,

They smell cinder,

Their tender chests blackened.

The morning arrived cold,

It spread soundly.

The bitter sky is shaking,

An agony is heard

Of the unmeasured sky - blue

Which is wounded

From methane and carbon dioxide

How can I provide a good smell

I don’t possess such a beautiful flower like lemon.







Life in the grave



Where is the place of the strong wind,

Where is my place?

I wore all my love,

All my bitterness,

I enter through the epochs

Which do never forget.

In my point of view about epochs.



I concentrate

Enter deeply

I die continuously,

The graves – fiery recreations…

Where is the white?

Where are my graves?

My most secure places.

From there I can observe

Clearly.

The fountain



The fountain of Kastalia

Percolates

To gather the rage of the trees.

Mountains- red, grey, new

Shake

Upon the vein

A century deep in darkness;

They rise

They glitter in the waves.

The fountain is filled

From every side

A bitter dewy almond

Opens the green buds,

They bend over

To get baptized.

Eucalyptuses and cypresses.

*

Within the vessel with aroma of the dead

In these unbreakable jars

Kneeling

I shall enter in the station

Of embryo

The dust of that moon

That always lives

Always burned

Will cover

My body.

Schematism 1



The ray became ice

I swallow its light

In the weight

Of the last loss.

To return

Sparkles

In the cycling

Of its dark beginning.

The unknown past,

A deserted wave,

Lonely,

Or close to it

My known future,

My death

I love you the same

I look for you the same.



*

Second voice



Desert’s wave



I slenderize

The desert beads,

Power of concern

Is the only power I have.

I pour water

In the secrecy of the great sea

I come across

The state of eternity.

I enter in of pungency word,

in the commune of the letters

I give up like the embryo.





Nostalgia



The pulse of the water trees and stony flowers

Is heard

Which have remained

For a long time in the desert,

Waiting.

Ah, moment of separation,

Bitterness of Nostalgia,

With time they fed the root

With the pain

Of fruits and leaves

And love itself

From within the luminescence of so many deaths

Fixes the spark

Goes up

From shaking to shaking,

From flooding to flooding.

The seed that rises



I unfolded my whole life

And I saw

That I have nothing,

Nothing mine.

Except of this little moment

Which shines,

A moment that leaves

The sole precise Pulse,

The pulse of death

The pulse of the sprouts,

Which come and go

How does the seed disappear

Amongst the growing sprouts,

How the sprout absorbs

In the growing seed.



The hours



How the pain of love

Absorbs

Within the other pain

Of the coming death,

When the poem spreads

Is not heard,

Or it appears in a phantasmagoric vision

In sudden hours,

I heard the hours carefully

Through the seconds.



They swim inside the times of centuries.

And the centuries within moments swim.

When the pomegranate fruit opens

It is not heard,

But in a special way,

It shines

Before my surprised eyes

Gleaming colors.

Schematism c



I want to know

How many

Heavenly middays

I have lived.

How

Midday signs

I have reached,

Of the autumn

And wintry

How many cycles of sun!

How many!



* * *

I squeezed my soul

Within me.



I live within you

I exist within you.



The symphony of the hours

The agreement

First part





The ark of time



I am still hungry in time

And in years.

Many of nights and days,

I did not live in my body.

I used to live

In Places

Full of sun

And strong winds

Only the time, the year and the wind

Know me

My wrinkles

Do not know

All my life

Icons of light



The mast of thinking

The body ship;

I stab the time vertically

From the highest point

My shout like the noise of a cosmic ship.

The flame increases,

Surpasses the wind...

Icons of light,

Boundless places.

One body is time and places

Ground, sea, people

And skies,

One body.

Empties all my rays.

I set

and shine

In another time.







The mountain

Before the day germinates

From the center of night

The pomegranate flower opens up

And I look

At the center of the mountains

I descend

Abandoned breaths there

Wound me

In muddy yards I come

The lime delivers a good smell,

The water runs at the stream.



Should I listen to his voice?



It’s still Dark,

But yet

I can see colors

Into that deep

Mountain I entered

Love



Parts of the body athletized

Enchanted the brain.

Thinking

Was falling into his body

And the myths germinated

In my voice

And it was a great pleasure...

When he spoke

From the highest places

And rocks

And the springs flowed

And the twitters of the birds,

The bloom of the cactus flowers

Broadcasted the seed

On the white marbles.





Garden



The small seed

That within

Feeds a strong root.

It opens up and i behold

My other faces

My first love...

Oh, how he used to wait for me

At the gate of his garden

With stretched arms and whistles;

Raised me flirting,

Raised me in the air.

Oh, joy of the date!

He used to kiss me at the shoulder,...

Oh, pain of separation!

always the same love

In another time.

The body



I jump over your body,

O body

How can I reach you,

With usual movements,

A parental ground you are to me.

Who is afraid of the water nymphs

Who is affraid of the ancient dust?

I turn backwards

Intoxicate the hours

I still shine

Ancient years,

Love is entering

In the future time.

O memory of the past...,

Feel

Smoothing of the fingers.





Second part





The eye of time



You had always

My attention,

I gave birth to all your children

In a place of instability.

Thousands of years before,

I tasted your beautiful looks

At all times.

The waves of nostalgia

Enlighten my darkness, ...

You

Drank the pith of my soul,

I drank the pith of your thought.

Beautiful children were born

God’s seeds were scholars

Or poets,

Other times terrible prophets.

The child



An endless time separates us,

An endless nostalgia.

Now I create myths,

For Him, the most beloved,

For Him, who is not here now,

Who will come at another time

Who will have your voice,

My voice,

Who will have the music in his cells.

To this child

I tell fairy tales in the evenings.

I sing, it sings

In rooms

That are not built yet.

Together with him I shall go

Because now is only one river.





The river



I cover time in skein

Forward and backward

Myth is like waves

That always leave.

The letter









Z



Numbers and letters

That I wanted or you wanted

I shall sing them now.

I shall present them to the river

To be there

In the future,

Altogether

Letters,

Rhythm

And meter.

You said

That ‘Z’ always

Lived in me.

It always

Run at my sea.

And I said that

“S” and “Dh”

Form the harmony of Z

“The warm stars” it contains.

I live – the living



Zeus – Planet

Zeus – god

Father of gods

And humans

Life bringer of Parthenon,

Suffered life.

Jesus from Nazareth,

A life bringing source,

The zenith, a heavenly dome,

ZARATHUSTRA

Or ZOROASTER,

A stamp on the stone.

Zakynthos, the island of Solomon

Of Kalvo.

I live the life-giving living.

Eternal “Z”

Seven





One +three make four



The full numbers

3+4 (three + four) make

The holy number 7.

When Apollo was born in Delos

The doves of Lydia seven times

Performed a cyclic circle

In the island of Artemis



The island

My island you are

The one

My river washes

To you only

My bank

Rests.

I drink from your hidden streams

Inside the shores

From the springs of the mountains

Born

In a good time.

The embryo

Which moves flows into the air,

The sleepless memory of the cells.

Wave of the sounds

And waters that delay

Within the “pained” womb

Rest.





The memory of the past



I uncover myself

In zero and in space.

on the small stones

I carve dates

Of looses

And sorrow.

Upon the ruins

I join

Like the scheme of a tree

To enter into the storm

To learn

How much does the love of sun lasts

From now I add years

I exercise

In the memory of the future,

To remember you

From now to know you,

After my death,

From your fingers.

The fingers



From the touch of your palm

I shall know you

In the Portal of the first gate

The ungiven number of the palm

Does not loose

Inside the metamorphoses.

I shall wait

At the last gate

To remind me

The letter,

The words

And signs.

Summer middays

And water in the spring

And I’ll be there,...

Love will bring me here.





The monologue



A wet moment of feelings

A voiceless water

That waters laurels’ leaves,

When times are hot

You will water my voice again.

I will get lost with you

Again.

A stream’s monologue I’ll become,

To deliver all the music I have.





Let my mind disappear

Let my power be scattered

That I might vapor throughout the parks

In the shadows

Of columns and obelisks.