"INTELEKT 2001..." Nr. 10

Kristaq F. Shabani




TAM. . . ..TYM. . . .TAM. . . .





Largoheshin më të zverdhur

se vetë meitët,

i shoqëronte shpotia e rritur:
"Vdekja do t'u vijë



nga luga e orizit. . .”.

Në grykë një lukth. . .

Avioni nisej për larg,

Mijëra male e lumenj

në përrallë fluturuese,

Dy këmbë në grykë i viheshin

"miqësisë " së përbetuar;

Shtetet grindavece

në bëma të rënda jetimi,…

Mes duarve në avion

një dorë inxhinieri ngjatjetonte,

pa patur kurfarë frikë

nga fotografët lejfenistë. . .

Thyhej dhe përplasej kredua e Njeriu “Një” ,

s'përmbanin veten altoparlantët:

"TAM . . . .TYM . . . TAM. . . ",

binte tupani i ngjarjes…,

Në lëkurën tingëlluese të hirtë :

"TAM. . . TYM. . . TAM.. ."

Me bisht në shalë

ikte fuqia e Madhe…,

i binte "smalti" dhëmbit të bukur,

çngjyrosej turbina,

tregonte ditëlindjen e luftës...

"TAM. . . TYM. . . TAM. . . ",

Nga Pikëvrojtimi i madh

vrojtohej avioni tek ngrihej

dhe zbulonte "dhëmbë "tymi . . .

Jugu kërkon të darkojë e të mbysë Lindjen ..

L Lindja në mendjen e saj

L lëshon në rrugë të madhe Jugun,

Perëndimin. . .

4. . . . .PERËNDIMI çakërqejf me sy larushë,

humbet në rrëfimet e të ikurve,

hera herës qesëndis Lindjen. . .

1

Horizonti dhëmbëzbardhur. . . aðb

"BANKA PRONË DHE RETIÇENCË E YJEVE". . .



Kërkoj në xhepat astarkthyer

patericën e një dite,

Shiriti i zi në krah:

vilar ngushëllimi,…

Mijëra"ditë këmbëforta "

në "BANKËN E TË GJITHËVE "

lëshon tik - take të metaltë humori. . .

Kërkoj thesarin e paparë,

fshehur në Guvat pa emër të “Kamjes”;

më ankohen brenda trupit të lodhur,

të dielat e veshura me orë aksioniste. . .,

Sa fillon melodia,

këputet shiriti i djegur

i BANKËS PASANIKE…

TESTAMENTI I MBYLLJES SË SYVE:

"BANKA PRONË DHE RETIÇENCË E YJEVE". . .

Critical Article on Kristaq F Shabani’s book Humiliated Virtue ---



By K. K. SRIVASTAVA

NEW DELHI, INDIA



“For every poet it is always the morning in the world, and History a forgotten insomniac night; History and elemental awe are always our early beginning, because the fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world, in spite of History.”



Derek Walcott



Any article, critical one at that (I leave the hazards of what is meant by the word “critical writings” to the imagination of distinguished audience present here) will not start on a judicious note unless the writer of that article is sure about the relationship that exists between the background and the figure that will be the subject matter of such an article. Let me place my cards on the table. In one of the articles I wrote on the Poetry of Wendy Webb recently, I tried to explain that relationship and I reproduce the excerpts:

“The world of poetry is not a facile and straight world. It is a world characterized by hostile presence of structures, firm and high, crumbling and dwindling, having acute frustrations and severe conflicts, with perceivable areas of darkness and hidden areas of illumination, varied and skewed, but enlightening always trying to bring to the fore buried potential of words. It is a world full of dichotomies: pleasures and perils, love and hatred, gains and losses all are intermingled but unaccountably. The onus of explaining that unaccountability rests with the writers, a term that mercifully includes poets too. The word “mercifully” used here is to remind ourselves that poetry as a genre is exhibiting a decreasing trend all over the world with no big publishers as takers for poetry books and no big readership. It is really a strange world-it’s strangeness makes the texture of life of poets and it’s strangeness forms the wrap and the woof of what we call poetry: good or bad. There is

really no good poetry or no bad poetry-a poem is a poem as perceived by the readers. Perception again is motivated by personal experiences and motives. The fact that even after about fifty years of their having been penned, let me take an example of a Hindi poet from my own country i.e. Muktibodh, whose poems, longer ones in particular still continue to be subject matter of a great debate and discussion as regards their real motive and meaning, speaks a lot of an unending tendency of readers cutting across all cultures to keep absorbing newer and newer facets of long existing poems. That is one way history of literature ensures that obscurity melts away as time passes by. So aptly writes T. S. Eliot in his poem, A Note on War Poetry-



“In the effort to keep day and night together;

It seems just possible that a poem might happen

To a very young man: but a poem is not poetry-

That is a life.



………………………………………..

……………………………………….

“But the abstract conception

Of Private experience at it’s greatest intensity

Becoming universal’ which we call “poetry’

Though a poem has a life but it does not die. It dies the moment people stop reading it or looking at it. No poem thus dies or ceases to exist as no one on this earth can ever guarantee that a poem, however obscure and nebulous that might be, will never be read.”



(The whole article can be reached at www.agonia.net under Essay titled The Poetry of Wendy Webb by K.K.Srivastava)



The above citation is primarily meant to convey the general milieu about the prevailing poetic scene and the troubling contexts against which poets pen their verses. There is hardy any denying that many voices, in the humdrum world of contemporary poetry, nowadays don’t captivate us. They don’t as they have their dimensions unable to stir the conscience of readers, readers find it hard to mingle their dreams and realties as well with these voices, they find in difficult to perceive their identities as submerging into these voices. It is the “profound pleasure” that one seeks in poems, it is the “emotional tranquility” that one gropes in for in poems, it is the “bliss of solitude” that one aspires for in a poem.

Kristaq F Shabani’ verse, like Ezra Pound’ Hugh Selwyn Mauberley (Contacts and Life) speculate about the hopelessness of a modern mind pitted against civilization’s oddities. Self clashes with self depicting the superficial problems of self-centered people and leave us amid abandonment and cataclysm. Kristaq writes in Introduction in Humiliated Virtue:



“When the tears start to fall, Virtues face humiliation.

Man that is so sarcastic asks the ENTITY

What is left from MAN;

The Entity is silent with an unprecedented muteness.

Tears only show weaknesses or do they seek their secret synonymns…”

This volume of Shabani is one of the more completely realized and artistically accomplished volumes I have seen in recent past. The underlying elements of Puritanism in the book are it’s hallmark and there is a smoother show of violence and tenderness in his lines. ”What is left of MAN” besieges the readers with regard to hopelessness that loafers around not in the darkness outside but within. Shabani’ s all efforts as I move through his book convinces me of his astute determination to coax the light out of darkness within and then submerge it with greater conscience.



“Moments of embracement

With faces turned down

Do they sit these moments

A dring melts…it loses the name

The name that is condemned in the very deep darkness.”