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Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc Sarajevo & Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI... WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES |
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Bujar Plloshtani, Tetovo, Macedonia
Bujar Plloshtani, poet, publicist, philosophical essayist and publisher.
Bujar Plloshtani was born December 18, 1983.
Studies Law faculty at the South East European University.
June 2007: participating in the Poetry Festival "Poetry Nights Korca".
October 22, 2007: Bujar Plloshtani is president of artists association"Pushkin"
November 10, 2007: in the Poetry Nights "Meetings under Rrap", in Skopje. The award is given "for erotic action" published in two meetings.
January 11, 2008: in the field of scientific works Wins Second Prize at the Republican.
June 2009: participating in the Poetry Festival "Poetry Jonian", Saranda.
Directs and organizes Poetry Festival "Poetry, art of speech".
August 2010: participating in the Poetry International Festival "Struga Poetry Evenings".
Publications: "Directed by Soul" (2007), "Treaty in logic of thinking"(2009), "By word's logic" (2010).
Bujar Plloshtani was born December 18, 1983.
Studies Law faculty at the South East European University.
June 2007: participating in the Poetry Festival "Poetry Nights Korca".
October 22, 2007: Bujar Plloshtani is president of artists association"Pushkin"
November 10, 2007: in the Poetry Nights "Meetings under Rrap", in Skopje. The award is given "for erotic action" published in two meetings.
January 11, 2008: in the field of scientific works Wins Second Prize at the Republican.
June 2009: participating in the Poetry Festival "Poetry Jonian", Saranda.
Directs and organizes Poetry Festival "Poetry, art of speech".
August 2010: participating in the Poetry International Festival "Struga Poetry Evenings".
Publications: "Directed by Soul" (2007), "Treaty in logic of thinking"(2009), "By word's logic" (2010).
VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
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Put pravac što kreira
Pred nama je poezija sa dva lica. Kao u pozorištu, jedno sa osmijehom, ispunjeno sarkazmom, ironijom i metodološki britkom rečenicom...drugo sa tugom, sjetom i molitvom. Bujar Plloshtani je pjesnik čudnih navika usmjerenih ka razumijevanju sopstvenih želja. Iako svjestan jeste da vrijedi čekati, ipak, ponekad brzopleto, demistificira svakodnevna suočenja sa prostorom i vremenom u kojem obitava. Ipak, ta brzopletost je inspirativna jer gradi, ne razgrađuje. Ne samo njega, već i nas, njegove čitaoce. Iako je, kako veli Kama Sutra (Izdavač Globus/Zagreb & Prosvjeta/Zagreb, 1990., str.33): "Jer svaka stvar koju želimo steći traži od čovjeka da se svakako unekoliko i potrudi oko nje, pa kad umije primijeniti prava sredstva onda će se i dovinuti cilja; stoga možemo reći da nikada nije na odmet potruditi se na pravi način, (čak i kada je suđeno da se ta ista stvar dogodi) i da čovjek nikada neće uživati sreće ako sjedi skrštenih ruku." Bujar upravo to čini. Ide ka poeziji. Kreirajući poetiku duha. Riječ urednika Sabahudin Hadžialić 24.11.2011. |
The road that creates a line
In front of us is poetry with two faces. As in the theater, one with a smile, filled with sarcasm, irony and a sharp methodological sentence... another one with grief, sadness and prayer. Bujar Plloshtani is a poet of strange habits aimed towards understanding his own desires. Although aware of is that worth is to wait, though, sometimes hastily, demystifies the daily confrontation with the space and time we are inhabiting. However, this haste was inspiring because it builds, not breaks. Not only him, but also us, his readers. Although, as Kama Sutra said (Publisher Globus / & Prosvjeta Zagreb/ Zagreb, 1990., Pg.33): "For every thing which we want to acquire asks from the man that he should certainly somewhat do some efforts around it, and when he knows how to apply the right resources then it will get towards the goal; therefore, we can say that never do any harm to try in the right way, (even when meant some thing to happen) and that man will never enjoy happiness if he sits with folded arms. " Bujar just does it. Go towards the poetry. Creating a poetics of mind. Editor's word Sabahudin Hadžialić 24.11.2011. |
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Eaten moon on the lake
(Translated into english by Ermira Babamusta) Sadness captivates my eyes a lunar appearance drifts upon my skin. I am cold cold as ice. It's freezing, no place to warm up, standing alone at the lake. Cold autumn My soul is like the eaten moon on the lake. Monasteries Silence! But not the bells! Ancient stone walls, with the ancient mystical figure. Inside there comes the sun heated with fire and candles. Swear for sins, crossed in front of the crucified prophet. The ancient dome, oval shape of raised above the sky. People perform rituals, beg walls and the figures inside. Gold Leaf (Translated into english by Ermira Babamusta) Gold leaf, I see you amongst others on the branch. Gold leaf beyond the window, All bitter. In deep thoughts, silent and unhappy, Indifferent of the bright sun. Gold leaf, Intelligent but hopeless. Everyone watching, Is making fun of you. Autumn leaf with faded colors, People's colors change too. Rocks (Translated into english by Ermira Babamusta) Heavy rock. It is not moving, pretending it is mad. With lifeless passion, It lies there all gray, egoistic and alone. Overtaken by jealousy, surrounding its every inch. Heavy rock, Strong but mysterious. When the dusk falls, Its face it reveals, Becoming pale. Heavy rock, Lying there, mystic and resentful. |
Hënë e ngrënë mbi liqen (In Albanian)
Trishtimi më hidhet mbi sytë e shkruar, një pamje hënore më rrëzohet mbi lëkurën esmere. Kam ftohtë, më ngrin i ftohti porsi akull. Mërdhihem, streh nuk kam ku të ngrohem, përballë liqenit i vetëm jam. Vjeshtë e ftohtë, shpirti im si hënë e ngrënë mbi liqen Manastiret (In Albanian) Heshtin! Por jo dhe kambanat! Mure me gurë antike, me figura të lashta mistike. Brenda nuk hyn dielli, ngrohen me zjarrin e qirinjve. Betohen për mëkatet, kryqëzohen përballë profetit të kryqëzuar. Kube e lashtë, e ngritur në formë vezake sipër qiellit. Njerëzit kryejnë ritualet, përgjërohen mureve, dhe figurave brenda. Gjeth i zverdhur (In Albanian) Vështroj një gjeth të zverdhur, në mesin e gjithë gjetheve në degë. Gjethi i zverdhur, matanë dritares rri gjithë mllef. Gjeth i heshtur, i thelluar në mërzi, krejt indiferent përballë diellit rri. Gjeth i zverdhur, inteligjent, por i mynxyrshëm. Njerëz nga mendja muf, tallen, përbuzin, përqeshin gjethin. Gjeth i zverdhur, njerëz të zverdhshëm. Gurët (In Albanian) Gur i rëndë. Nuk lëviz prej vendit, gjoja bën inat. Pasion i rrumbullakët, i përhimtë, egoist i pashoq. Brendësinë me xhelozi e ruan, e ka mbështjell si të jetë me vakum. Gur i rëndë, i fortë, me formë enigmatike. Mbrëmjeve në tokë, fytyrën zbulon, zbardhet paksa. Gur i rëndë, një inatçor i rrallë mistik. |
Eaten moon on the lake
(Translated into english by Ermira Babamusta)
Sadness captivates my eyes
a lunar appearance drifts upon my skin.
I am cold
cold as ice.
It's freezing,
no place to warm up,
standing alone at the lake.
Cold autumn
My soul is like the eaten moon on the lake.
In Ohrid
(Translated into english by: Ana Topencarova)
In the quiet lake North Wind rages,
Above us a chilling voice indolently's felt.
Little waves,
Collide with the cold walls of the shore.
In this January without snow
the lake has cought a layer of cold
North wind blows over the scuffed faces
over disillusioned souls.
One lonely boat
over there in the corner hangs on swaying.
From far away, there from the Fortress
The lake reveals sleepy Ohrid with panty of splendors.
Its word pierces the murky cold
The night overnight promotes bitter over us.
Heavy air, waves of late hours
Banks start to boom in the wall.
A wave is repeatedly going along us,
a new sorrow inviting the poets.
Ohrid this January
Sorrowfully soothes us.
Hungarian Song
grandmother, Jolana
Where roots have the same name,
the sky with the only soul changing.
Danube late evenings are the shares,
where the dome lights down town as issued.
This will calm voice throughout Hungary,
cities will pronounce your name.
A blood clot have both
although separated.
You Do not recognize, never
nor I thee,
or too little.
At night when the sky meets the heroes square
I would gazes beyond
you see I be.
In your grave to be cut smooth,
will there ever boast in Bratislava.
And only you do not have to feel ever;
I swear to mother!
You'll have me so close,
one would have.
In plastic art galleries Rembrandt down,
eyes lit me with tears of these images
that are invitation condolence to us.
I am and will be here, perhaps without you,
with the same beautiful name you remember.
Few of your soul,
today I am everywhere.
Even though you did not notice, or Do not you see
believe me that you will feel more of Reality.
Mother do not be afraid of loneliness,
to stand proud and do not sit crooked.
I will be with you,
my love will have support.
Budapest, Brno, Bratislava,
are within an unknown spirit, never
where it remains otherwise want to inspire.
Jolana,
within your image,
I am.
You will find here my word
and I thee: in the beautiful paradise.
The architecture of the soul - superman
Translated into English by: Lorena Vangjeli
I
Furious squall, autumn wind,
you and your shadowy drawing in nature
you dance in the sharp eyes of a superman.
With the autumn leaves, fantasy turns into emotion
and the kingdom of thoughts is the enlighten mind.
Feelings are brown and soft
in solitude they balance with poetry,
you can't challenge the experience, the emotion
it is a Baronial or Shelleynial earthquake.
The threads, dying twice with difficulty and struggle;
two strong and big angels needed
to tear apart the soul completely
because this soul dies hard.
Vast soul, you travel wherever
a whore or a virgin: you rule with intelligence like a tyrant
and in the end, when death will come by: you will die like a man.
You knit your crystal blanket
with the white color of the snow, changing...
the hidden place of the soul is shaped with baroc architecture
and the shape of the soul is called: superman.
None is afraid from your voice
because you are not a ruler of generations,
but a hero for the ones to come
you wake them up from the deep sleep of the seasons.
II
You poured sadness and strived
how much autumn leaves suffocated you?
But you conquered ice and frost
how much you bled! Anybody sow you bleeding?
You, blue and white soul
don't get frozen
give power to thoughts
lifeless in this cold vacuum
with the help of the sound of these verses.
Classic piano, you should play the best sonata
and bring again the autumn wind among us
with the architecture of the soul- Superman.
Stones
Grinding stone.
No moving of earth,
supposedly do ire.
Passion of the round,
The gray, selfish unmatched.
Jealously guards inside,
has reel to be vacuum.
Grinding stone,
strong, enigmatic form.
Evenings on Earth,
face reveals,
discolor slightly.
Grinding stone,
a rare mystical ire.
(Translated into english by Ermira Babamusta)
Sadness captivates my eyes
a lunar appearance drifts upon my skin.
I am cold
cold as ice.
It's freezing,
no place to warm up,
standing alone at the lake.
Cold autumn
My soul is like the eaten moon on the lake.
In Ohrid
(Translated into english by: Ana Topencarova)
In the quiet lake North Wind rages,
Above us a chilling voice indolently's felt.
Little waves,
Collide with the cold walls of the shore.
In this January without snow
the lake has cought a layer of cold
North wind blows over the scuffed faces
over disillusioned souls.
One lonely boat
over there in the corner hangs on swaying.
From far away, there from the Fortress
The lake reveals sleepy Ohrid with panty of splendors.
Its word pierces the murky cold
The night overnight promotes bitter over us.
Heavy air, waves of late hours
Banks start to boom in the wall.
A wave is repeatedly going along us,
a new sorrow inviting the poets.
Ohrid this January
Sorrowfully soothes us.
Hungarian Song
grandmother, Jolana
Where roots have the same name,
the sky with the only soul changing.
Danube late evenings are the shares,
where the dome lights down town as issued.
This will calm voice throughout Hungary,
cities will pronounce your name.
A blood clot have both
although separated.
You Do not recognize, never
nor I thee,
or too little.
At night when the sky meets the heroes square
I would gazes beyond
you see I be.
In your grave to be cut smooth,
will there ever boast in Bratislava.
And only you do not have to feel ever;
I swear to mother!
You'll have me so close,
one would have.
In plastic art galleries Rembrandt down,
eyes lit me with tears of these images
that are invitation condolence to us.
I am and will be here, perhaps without you,
with the same beautiful name you remember.
Few of your soul,
today I am everywhere.
Even though you did not notice, or Do not you see
believe me that you will feel more of Reality.
Mother do not be afraid of loneliness,
to stand proud and do not sit crooked.
I will be with you,
my love will have support.
Budapest, Brno, Bratislava,
are within an unknown spirit, never
where it remains otherwise want to inspire.
Jolana,
within your image,
I am.
You will find here my word
and I thee: in the beautiful paradise.
The architecture of the soul - superman
Translated into English by: Lorena Vangjeli
I
Furious squall, autumn wind,
you and your shadowy drawing in nature
you dance in the sharp eyes of a superman.
With the autumn leaves, fantasy turns into emotion
and the kingdom of thoughts is the enlighten mind.
Feelings are brown and soft
in solitude they balance with poetry,
you can't challenge the experience, the emotion
it is a Baronial or Shelleynial earthquake.
The threads, dying twice with difficulty and struggle;
two strong and big angels needed
to tear apart the soul completely
because this soul dies hard.
Vast soul, you travel wherever
a whore or a virgin: you rule with intelligence like a tyrant
and in the end, when death will come by: you will die like a man.
You knit your crystal blanket
with the white color of the snow, changing...
the hidden place of the soul is shaped with baroc architecture
and the shape of the soul is called: superman.
None is afraid from your voice
because you are not a ruler of generations,
but a hero for the ones to come
you wake them up from the deep sleep of the seasons.
II
You poured sadness and strived
how much autumn leaves suffocated you?
But you conquered ice and frost
how much you bled! Anybody sow you bleeding?
You, blue and white soul
don't get frozen
give power to thoughts
lifeless in this cold vacuum
with the help of the sound of these verses.
Classic piano, you should play the best sonata
and bring again the autumn wind among us
with the architecture of the soul- Superman.
Stones
Grinding stone.
No moving of earth,
supposedly do ire.
Passion of the round,
The gray, selfish unmatched.
Jealously guards inside,
has reel to be vacuum.
Grinding stone,
strong, enigmatic form.
Evenings on Earth,
face reveals,
discolor slightly.
Grinding stone,
a rare mystical ire.
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Copyright © 2014 DIOGEN pro culture magazine & Sabahudin Hadžialić
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: contact_editor@diogenpro.com;
Narudžbe/Order: orderyourcopy@diogenpro.com
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: contact_editor@diogenpro.com;
Narudžbe/Order: orderyourcopy@diogenpro.com
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina