Bujar Tafa në gjuhën angleze

SHORT BIOBIBLIOGRAPHY

 

Bujar Tafa is a poet, essayist, literary critic and university professor. He was born on January 2, 1976. He has attended the primary and secondary school at Lipjan, and university, postgraduate and doctoral studies at Prishtina University (Kosova). So far he has published the following books: "Agim Spahiu's Poetry" (Prishtina, 2008), "Mirko Gashi's Literary Creation" (Prishtina, 2008), "Biographies and Ideograms" (Interpretation of Lum Lumi poetry book, Prishtina 2010), "Parapoetry" (Poems, Prishtina 2014), "Black Matter" (Poems, Prishtina 2016), "Literary contrasts” (Reviews, Prishtina 2016), “My Dardan King” (Poems, New York 2017).

 

MY HALF

 

I take my part and divide it in two,

I take the other half and divide it in two,

I take half of the half

and once again I divide it in two.

 

So I go on for years

until my half

never ends.

 

MY CONFESSION

 

I.

My confession is understood after the rain

when a humanoid with his little child

walks through the museum on the steps of history.

 

II.

Early I learned to catch the smile,

those moments I named paradise.

Do you remember when you called me a bird,

you wanted me to keep a leaf

and go through the world.

 

MIRAGE

 

I cannot write more

A spasm is born from the horizon,

A mirage.

 

It is called life,

and look.

 

And everything is a dream,

together with the soul

what sighs

and dreams

A spring.

 

THE SECOND DIVINE NEWS

 

Congratulations for the slaves.

The second divine news is announced:

We will not kill you anymore.

 

You do not even have the right to die.

 

We cannot without you.

We just want to hate you.

Congratulations!

 

Be blessed!

 

I'M WATCHING YOU

 

I'm watching you

laugh, cry, go crazy

embracing

the skin white like the milk.

 

And your tongue, the sweetest in the world,

does not know a word

at all

just glances and love and silence.

 

However,

you are a celestial.

 

BEYOND

 

Beyond the wall there are flowers,

how I could become a tear,

how I could become a smile!

 

Beyond the wall there are gardens,

and how I could become a song!

 

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SONG

 

It's not true that the most beautiful poem

has never been written.

It’s not true that the most beautiful song

has never been sung.

 

I...

 

I'll remember you

in a deep hoar,

one summer evening

when I will sing

Mon amour, mon amour...

 

When my exhausted voice will be taken away by the universe

plunging it into the infinite depth

until it will confront

your loud voice...

Oooh, hallo!

 

I DO NOT THINK

 

I do not think,

whenever I think, I die,

I die and go to hell.

 

whenever I think,

I feel pain.

 

I drink a little poison

I do not feel pain anymore

and I do not think,

I am just silent and I listen.

 

THE FIGHT

 

In space

a handful of dust in the universe,

where we found that fire,

where we found those stones,

those words.

 

But the brave is not sick,

only his passion is heavy

and his hand is light.

 

THE OWL

 

I have never seen two meters away,

the song has never stopped my anger,

nor my crying.

 

An owl is sitting by my head.

hard and black.

 

Born just for me.

 

THE TRAITOR

 

In childhood I was a traitor,

a spy.

God forgave me.

At thirteen

I had my job.

 

Then hand in hand with the teacher

I drank cognac.

After that we visited churches,

then the citadel of skulls on the enemy land.

 

Then a neighbor woke up as a vampire.

Then a teacher

touched the girls' chest in school.

 

Then I grew up.

 

THE DOGS

 

1.

Under a table with dogs I ate

vampires.

 

I saw the beast with eyes,

I have made up monstrous plans

when I broke the toys,

when I tore the clothes

with the vampires that hit and kiss.

 

2.

I cried, I cried very much,

with my tears

the girls wash themselves.

 

DIVINE NEWS

 

My sons,

you are allowed to feed yourself

of the flesh of your slaves.

 

And Maria is driving a car

Christ and I sit in the back

Baby on board

We tangle the imagination,

The mirage, the real.

 

He yells, I also yell

Fuck you, Disneyland!

Fuck you, Big Bang!

 

GOD BLESSED THE POET

 

God blessed the poet,

gave him half freedom,

overwhelmed him with His love.

The poet is the Lord's choice.

 

He is above Christians, Muslims, Jewish.

The poet is a criminal,

President, filthy, capitalist.

Crazy, genius, cruiser, jihadist,

heaven, hell, mine, point,

the poetry is neither aesthetic nor ethical.

 

The time of bastards with square heads is over.

God blessed the poet,

the poet with half freedom.

And poetry is not the art of the beautiful word,

poetry is the poet's half-freedom.

 

It is the gift of the Lord for his protected servant.

Poetry awaits you, cuts you, burns you

with love, with fear.

It does not make sterile calculations.

It publishes pro bono.

 

ROUND AND ROUND

 

It’s not the earth,

no.

Spinning

around the sun

is my head.

 

Once a year

I turn my back on the sun,

entering the polar winter.

I feed the bears

with small, innocent birds.

It is not the earth, no.

 

That bizarre thing that's spinning

around the sun is my head.

Loaded with mountains, oceans,

deserts, intense traffic,

schools, hospitals,

heavy industry, hormones,

resorts, blood capillaries.

 

Once a year

meets my annual wish.

But I never see in a place

the shy sun

the same.

 

A HUNDRED YEARS

 

I light a candle to the devil

with my one toned head

I shout!

A victim,

a killer,

a conversation,

a smile,

a cry.

 

We never learned to laugh

as we should, flat.

A flat war,

a flat life.

Fly, cuckoo, and cry,

wash a piece of sin with blood.

 

THE MAN

 

I'm sitting

at the café,

with all my male virtues

in front of my lovely blue eyed,

carnivorous

girlfriend.

 

My girlfriend orders meat,

my beautiful, blue eyed girlfriend

smells nice.

 

I, the virtuous man,

I'm thinking about the hole

for my carnivore girlfriend too.

 

GENTLEMEN WITH VICES

 

I remember the legend

about the strange vices of the ancient gods,

about slaughtering the children.

 

And the ascetics, the peaks

Of prehistoric civilizations

had their Jews, their Christians,

their Muslims, their blacks.

 

They had their invaders,

their slaves,

their gods with vices.

 

That's why I killed you,

for this reason

we have killed your wives,

for our God

not be get mad at us.

 

WALK

 

We walk in sandals

I interweave girls’ hair,

We visit food shops,

we buy something.

 

When we see a general,

a little girl is separated from the group,

she returns to take a beautiful dream

from a piece

of his bloody brain on the asphalt.

 

THE COUP

 

I, you and God above us.

I'm arming myself well,

to hit the books with the stick,

to break their tabs.

 

My books run away from me,

from my relentless blows

the books shake,

the books tremble,

the heroes fall,

the words fall,

the dictators run.

 

The temples fall.

Only white sheets remain in the books.

Any black thing falls down.

The black crumples.

 

Laws, constitutions,

Leaders, soldiers,

Whores, states run.

Only you and I remain

and God above us.

 

MONOTONE

 

Heroes,

traitors,

dull fashion,

tiring flirting,

tired wardrobe,

the same tired friends,

the same tired enemies,

the same tired cosmetics,

black white equally tired,

tired murders, tired masks,

tired loves, bored malevolence,

Where is the cosmic rain

to wash my face, to transfigure myself

with acid rain.

I do not need my face, I do not need

my soul.

Happy to be the shy!

 

THE MUSE

 

A little bit of earth,

a bit of boredom,

a bit of sadness.

 

All over Black.

 

Leaves fallen on the sill

Hurry up to come out, word,

kiss the muse a little!

 

PEACEFUL DEATH

 

Our death will be

the flower aroma,

the evening breeze,

beautiful dream,

smile.

 

The beauty is one.

Believe in God

that kindness is one.

 

Because I'm not staying, I'm going.

Because I'm not going, but jumping.

Because I'm not jumping, but flying.

 

I am light,

flower,

spring,

dream

eye.

 

A million years later

our words

will not be deciphered.

I am the light, I am the wind.

 

DYNAMICS

 

They move more than I,

speak more than I,

think more than I do.

 

Oh my!

I suffer more than them.

 

LITTLE OWL

 

For a thousand years I feed them,

the poor,

and they only cry.

 

They feed well,

then cry.

 

They sleep well

and only cry.

 

THE FRIEND

 

We are crazy.

We do not know either black or white.

We do not know values.

We do not know frontiers.

 

Go, brother, to war,

kill, and if you cannot find worthy enemies,

steal anything that comes out your way!

 

And if you do not go to war, bark!

 

We bark ruthlessly, buddy,

then the world cheers us.

 

LITTLE

 

I have so little time in life to

smile,

pick flowers,

water,

love,

breathe deeply,

wipe tears,

laugh.

 

Lye on the grass,

wash my eyes,

pray.

I have so little time in life to

see you,

dream,

feel you.

I have so little time in life to

love you!

 

MOOOM, TAKE ME TO OUR LORD!

 

Take me in your arms again, mom,

my first creator,

tighten me to your chest,

to feel the divine love

while whipping my tears

and whistling lullabies,

hushhhhh,

my son,

hush, hushhhhh.

 

THE TRIUMPH

 

I do not remember the triumph.

I only remember a bullet,

a red harmonica

in the garden,

a torn dress,

a bicycle

and a shoe of war in the street.

 

THE FIGHT

 

I ran away from the bullet

like from a devil.

 

I sat with my brothers

at lunch in Bahram,

it killed my brothers

I continued my lunch,

I congratulated the children,

I also hugged the wife.

 

I never shed

a drop of blood

neither for religion

nor for the homeland.

 

FREEDOM

 

I ran astray after you,

I did not count my soul.

And you, one night with one,

one night with another,

bitch!

 

GREENING

(to the Bosnian poet Izet Sarajlici)

 

Captain Ivan no longer plays tango,

he drinks red wine, blood.

 

The young ouzel ballerina

I buried last night her next to the wall

so the sun would not see her.

 

Captain Ivan

steps on the flowers when he sees them,

tightens the strap

and cuts the flesh with the cleaver

so that nothing greens again

in Sarajevo.

 

DESTINY OF KOSOVA

 

Christ, they have made you,

countless crosses

cumbering

your back.

Alas!

 

THE FIELD OF PEARS

 

The field of pears must be cleaned,

the witches are still mixed

with ravens, and blackbirds,

they are difficult to separate.

 

In Yskup, the fugitive Jordan

sows the bad seed

he is awake at night and boils moonshine.

 

MY DARDAN KING

 

We laid down four generations,

grandson, father, grandfather,

triangle.

No land, no homeland,

no ash, no wheat.

 

The slabs press our head,

lying on the ground.

 

The black soldiers

cut the trees,

the vine, the pears.

They left us naked

Dardan, my king.

 

Here is the sun,

here's the wind,

where are you, father, king?

You can no longer see the soldiers,

the spears,

our field is quiet.

 

Breathe a little,

my old king!

 

MY TRIUMPH

 

I have defeated my suffering,

I turned horror into pleasure.

I'm glad to see my poor suffering

suffering

for me.

 

THE SHADOW

 

There is a rope

a white coat

and some ground

on a tree that is growing

and blooming.

 

Two opened eyes,

two opened eyes do not stay

next to a tree that is growing

and blooming.

 

BACK AND FORTH

 

Back and forth

a door that opens

and closes

back and forth.

 

A door

and a raven

a croak

and a box

with a lid,

and a door that closes

and opens

back and forth.

 

STONE TO THE HEAD

 

There is nothing else left

but a stone to the head

without a name, without a surname,

without a life date,

we hid in the dream.

 

With two eyes I look

with the head

on earth,

I walk overturned.

 

The legs do not become arms

there is nothing else left

but a stone to the head

and the stretching into a dream.

 

TREE

 

I know the thread

of your masks,

you mate with the wind

and wash with the rain.

 

How come you were not hurt

by the whiteness of the snow

when it was swallowed

by the black earth!

 

You opened your arms

and stretched out branches.

Conceited,

on your leaves

fallen without life.

 

Over your children,

just wood!

 

PARADOX

 

How does the butterfly fly

and how does the bird swim in the water?

 

How do the fish ride in the sky,

how do the leaves spin in a whirlpool?

 

Do not say that

I've seen nothing!

 

THE TREE

 

You do not want to see,

to hear and feel,

to open the eye and the heart.

Be happy!

 

And somewhere a slave

has broken into pieces with an animal.

...

Good luck,

good luck!

 

TREASONS

 

Treasons are white,

I do not say they are not good,

but they seem to be white

like death,

like the soul.

Like the soul and the unspoken

word.

 

STORY

 

One day

I told the children:

the sea is great,

the sky has no borders

and the hunter only in stories

hits the running deer.

 

MUTE POETS

 

The best poets

are the mute ones,

it’s enough to be

in their skin

to try to say

what is not said.

 

The best poets

are the ones

that never write,

when they become mute,

look at the sea,

dream, love.

 

WEDDING

 

With the sky, the wind, the stars

we are together at the feast,

and with the aroma of flowers

when in dreams we are remembered

about the wedding of our angels.

 

The angels do not run from heaven,

we do not run either.

We are the spring of life,

spring is in us.

Amen!

 

PHOENIX

 

The ground of the dead

does not bear eternity.

A star has never fallen

on the ground.

 

Once we see ourselves

in the mirror,

queue ahead

queue backward.

 

RELATIVE

 

Forgive me

for the great deceit,

I'm not me.

 

The legend says

that I had a twin brother.

He was me,

I was him.

 

We've tangled up.

The important thing is that I

am not,

I'm the twin brother

who had

another name,

another destiny.

 

THE LAST TRAVEL

 

On my way to heaven

I meet many people,

they quietly dreaming walk

towards absolute pleasure.

 

I see without end

row after row,

until my glance ends

in the ground over my yellow grass.

 

EYES

 

Which universe will swallow the glance

of the thousands Galactics in motion

that are being eaten by the black hole.

 

Little soul, you are the heaven

that resembles your smile.

 

Your Big Bang

is lost in the black hole

of my eye.

 

THE POETRY OF THE FIGURATIVE NARATION COVERED IN THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE WRITTEN WORD

The poetry volume "My Dardan King" by Bujar Tafa was chosen and translated into Romanian by poet Baki Ymeri and in English by Patricia Lidia. The book gives us a beautiful mirror of the contemporary Albanian poetry. The poet presents the dimensions of his life, from childhood to the present day, to reveal the past and the present as existential processes in his poetical structure. Bujar Tafa's poetry is cultivated and outlined in the right direction of the melody of a clear tone. The metaphor used in his verse is accessible to any generation who understands the command of the written word. It is a systematic approach to poetic values, which makes the reader feel comfortable reading this literary work.

Here we deal with a figurative narration wrapped in the philosophy of the systematized word as a product not only of imagination but also of the living though time and space in which the poet sails in his reed boat... On this platform of the construction of the verse, the Kosovar poet tells us: “An owl is sitting by my head. / An owl / hard and black.“ So here we also find the symbolic metaphor for the ugly time in which the poet brings out the screams of time in his verse, a well-built verse, which reveals the essence of nagging, not only the poet...

In this regard, we read how the author points out, with the hidden eye, the presence of a longing love, like any other thing, and so he takes the love in his arms to put it on the throne of the deserving ones, where its worshipers speak. When writing about love, the poet seems to have an angel entered through the gates of inspiration: I'm watching you / laugh, cry, go crazy / embracing / the skin white like the milk. / / And your tongue, the sweetest in the world, does not know a word / at all / just glances and love and silence. / / However, / you are a celestial.  (I'm watching you)

Here we see the delicacy and the traces of a path of disheveled hair in sleepless nights, in which the author continues to express himself: I'll remember you / in a deep hoar, / one summer evening / when I will sing / Mon amour, mon amour...  (The most beautiful song).

So, without leaving aside the beautiful word dedicated to love, the poet makes us understand another world of his countless worlds, meaning a still unfinished path. We talk about stylistic figures, tropes and symbols, imagination and comparisons, but also about the long journey for new discoveries in the field of Albanian literature. Based on this, the reader will have the opportunity to admire many other compositions taken from the drawer of a talented and gracious creator.

Remzi Limani