Thursday, March 24, 2016

Ardita Jatru- Three Poems

Ardita Jatru is an Albanian poet. She was born in 1972 Tirane, Albania. Her passions include photography, writing, traveling and time with family and friends. Her poems have been published in these magazines: Poetix (Greece) Poiein (Greece), Maison de la Poesie, Anthology (Belgium), Le capital des most (France), Haemus Review (Romania) and Les Folies- Erotique- (France). She lives with her husband and two daughters in Thessaloniki, Greece . Her poems are translated in English by Laureta Petoshati.

Does Hell let in a loser?
By Ardita Jatru

My eyes establish distances,
My heart trembles
and sometimes is broken ...

you're halfway, said to me the tailor
and points to the meter.
Without eyes and feet you cannot go to death
and I ask him,
Does Hell let in a loser?

Everything will remain here
By Ardita Jatru

Everything will remain here
the breach Pomegranate on the ledge
and the purple sunset
of loveless Sunday,
the sandals with broken heels
and then my stupor.

Here will remain
the two dishes on the table
and the repasts in silence
as the last straw of the joy.
Some hairs in my comb
and my tired face in the mirror.

A gale blew
And you didn’t feel either the door
which was closed behind you.

By Ardita Jatru

She brings near his hand over her lips
and kiss it easier
then gently puts his right hand on her breast
where is heaving a half of breath.
Then bursts out sobbing as hailstorm
and from the two peaks of shoulders΄ bones
are jumping quickly in the air some crystal particles
in the form of a complaint
then she looks at me by the two turbulent pools
which are merging at the point of the chin
and she is asking: Is there a god?
Yes it’s.
But why then God took Tula in?
Her heart has failure.
Jordan is bedridden, why God doesn’t take him in?
His heart is strong.
If so it is unfair,
it is terrible,
well here why is no heart,
this part here though why is empty,
why should this side of the chest was empty
how can be held the soul in a handful heart?
Please Lord,
do a hefty job.
To this cross of skeleton
you take away its soul,
you take away its soul

It’s nine o'clock p.m. of winter.
Beside her is lying the senescent faith.
Jordan’s soul slips
from the left to the right
then in reverse.
She is crying
I am wiping her tears.
She is waiting wandering
while I read to her the Bible.
It’s eleven o'clock p.m. of winter.

Translation from Albanian into English by:Laureta Petoshati

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