Luljeta Lleshanaku

Luljeta Lleshanaku Poems

Your kisses have long been singeing me like a wound
And your pristine body
Frightens me
...

The moon
nicotine of a kiss. . .

A sideways glance
...

I will sit in an alcove of your mouth
As on a stone near a waterfall
Certain that the maelstrom of words will not spirit me away.
...

Sealed within this anguish
As in a tent of soldiers with no return
Where all of your attempts to escape
Inevitably rub against the chest of someone else
Lying next to you.
...

In this town
The annual snowfall
Hanging on the rare and solitary trees
Brings nothing new.
...

The woman recalls
That she was once a member
Of a family of giraffes.
Their warm hides
...

For my two-year-old daughter Lea

I cannot escape your sunflower gaze,
Do not judge me for what I lack,
A maternal instinct
Which like a water bottle grown cold
Ends up at the foot of the bed.
...

We never spoke a word about death, mother,
Just as married couples never talk about sex,
Just as doctors never use the word 'blood,'
Just as the mailman never needs to say 'news,'
And frogmen never need to mention 'air.'
...

A premonition?... Or is the stench of alcohol
On the mailman's breath as he brings me a tardy
Letter?
A foreshadowing
...

A rusty-coloured gate, no name,
The passage to the old people's home.
...

And yet
I recognized
That beloved face
Lacerated by the green grille.
...

For as long as we mirror one another
Like this, even distorted
In silver spoons, on glasses and on bubbly bottles
...

The truth is someone else's privilege, when a soul
Approaches, lock your door, let it pass
As the Jews did, forewarned in Egypt,
When it accosts your lips, show no mercy,
...

The front row desks were always empty.
I never understood why.
Second row was all smacking lips
...

In my family
prayers were said secretly,
softly, murmured through sore noses
beneath blankets,
a sigh before and a sigh after
...

In the village nestled between two mountains
the news always arrives one month late,
cleansed in transit, glorified, mentioning only the dead who made
...

Waking is an obligation:
three generations open their eyes every morning
inside me.

The first is an old child - my father;
...

18.

My deskmate in elementary school
had blue nails, blue lips, and a big irreparable hole in his heart.
He was marked by death. He was invisible.
He used to sit on a stone
...

I.

Medio tutissmus ibis, the middle is the safest ground.
The embroidered tablecloth in the middle of the table.
The table in the middle of the carpet.
...

It's not time for a change.
For as long as I can remember
it's never been time for a change.
...

Luljeta Lleshanaku Biography

Luljeta Lleshanaku (b. 1968, Elbasan, Albania) is an Albanian poet who is the recipient of the 2009 Vilenice Kristal prize for world poetry (past recipients have included Milan Kundera, Adam Zagajewski, Peter Handke, and Zbigniew Herbert.) She was educated in literature at the University of Tirana and was editor-in-chief of the weekly magazine Zëri i rinisë (The Voice of Youth). She then worked for the literary newspaper Drita. In 1996, she received the best book of the year award from the Eurorilindja Publishing House. In 1999, she took part in the International Writers Program at the University of Iowa. She is the author of four poetry collections, one volume of which has been translated into English: Fresco, available from New Directions. The writer, critic and editor Peter Constantine, in his introduction to Fresco, sums up her style in this way: Luljeta Lleshanaku is a pioneer of Albanian poetry. She speaks with a completely original voice, her imagery and language always unexpected and innovative. Her poetry has little connection to poetic styles past or present in America, Europe, or the rest of the world. And, interestingly enough, it is not connected to anything in Albanian poetry either. We have in Lleshanaku a completely original poet." In the same introduction, Constantine further elaborates about Lleshanaku's style: ...one of the elements that distinguishes Luljeta Lleshanaku's poetry is the absence of direct social and political commentary. Her poetry's remarkable variety of themes, which avoids [sic] simplistic reactions to a terrible past and an unstable present and future, is perhaps one of the elements that makes her poems contemporary classics of world literature. The imagery and rhythms captured in the masterful translations gathered under these covers make her poems as compelling in English as they are in Albanian. She speaks individually to her readers, the mark of a true poet able to transcend time and culture. In his afterword to Fresco, translator Henry Israeli added: She is quiet but tough, and her raw brand of honesty and biting humor can offend as quickly as her innocence and sincerity can draw one back in. She can be as direct, critical, and perversely funny as she is in her poems, where, for instance, she states that "our breath disappearing in my lungs / is like lilies dropped into a cesspool." "In her verse, joy lives side by side with melancholy in a kind of symbiotic contradiction. Her lines can be exalting, playful, often bursting with a sense of wonder that is unmistakably youthful, and almost naïve. Her poems are highly imagistic, the connections between images precociously and precariously intuitive. They are, for the most part, short, contained studies, still lifes [sic] rendered abstractly, yet they soar within the boundless imagination of a speaker who delights in the sensual, the tactile, who "light as an Indian feather ... can easily reach the moon" and witnesses "asteroids dying like drones / in ecstasy for their love, their queen.")

The Best Poem Of Luljeta Lleshanaku

Electrolysis

Your kisses have long been singeing me like a wound
And your pristine body
Frightens me
Like the sheets in the surgery ward,
And your breath fades in a corner of my lungs
like a forgotten lily on a wintry park bench.

They have long been ashamed of my freedom
which every day yanks a stake off your fence
In the fire of which
I warm my shanks, blue with cold from flight.

My freedom... your freedom... our common freedom,
Defined once and forever, sealed within a jar.
An atmosphere of electrolysis. A muffled sound,
My soul being nickelled and yours waxing thinner every day,
Deserted by the ions.

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