Kulturë
Bujar Tafa në gjuhën angleze
E diele, 12.11.2017, 08:29 AM
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