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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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Učesnik 3. Poetskog maratona, 21.3.2013., Sarajevo, (BiH)
Participant of 3. Poetry marathon, 21.3.2013., Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Participant of 3. Poetry marathon, 21.3.2013., Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Irena Gjoni, Saranda, Albania
Irena Minella Gjoni was born in Saranda. Received her Ph.D. with focus on Albanian Literature as well as Master of Sciences from the Department of Phylology at the University of Tirana,. Albania. Gjoni has also earned a B.A. in Albanian Literature and linguistics. For a number of years has worked as a journalist in a number of newspapers and TV stations. Currently serves as an adjunct professor in the University of Tirana, Saranda Campus and Literature Professor at the “Hasan Tahsini” High School.
She is a member of the Albanian Association of Writers and Artists. Is a member of the Society of professional Journalists and Vice President of “Ionian Club of writers”. She is the editor in chief of a cultural magazine, entitled “Ionian Art.” Is a member of the Art and Culture Committee in the Town Hall of Saranda.
Since her studies in High School she has constantly pulished poetry, literary prose, as well as book reviews and scholarly articles in many newspapers in Albanian and Foreign Language. Has participated in many conferences at home and abroad. She is an active participant in a number of poetry festivals in various European countries. Gjoni has been published extensively in a few Anthologies of international poetry.
Books published:
“A Tattoo on the Sea’s heart” Poetry, 2003
“Relations of Ionian Culture and Mythology with those abroad,” Ph.D. Thesis, 2008
“Loves of a half shape,” fiction writing, 2010
“Mountain peaks and Ionian Magma,” Poetry, 2011
She is a member of the Albanian Association of Writers and Artists. Is a member of the Society of professional Journalists and Vice President of “Ionian Club of writers”. She is the editor in chief of a cultural magazine, entitled “Ionian Art.” Is a member of the Art and Culture Committee in the Town Hall of Saranda.
Since her studies in High School she has constantly pulished poetry, literary prose, as well as book reviews and scholarly articles in many newspapers in Albanian and Foreign Language. Has participated in many conferences at home and abroad. She is an active participant in a number of poetry festivals in various European countries. Gjoni has been published extensively in a few Anthologies of international poetry.
Books published:
“A Tattoo on the Sea’s heart” Poetry, 2003
“Relations of Ionian Culture and Mythology with those abroad,” Ph.D. Thesis, 2008
“Loves of a half shape,” fiction writing, 2010
“Mountain peaks and Ionian Magma,” Poetry, 2011
VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
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LP vinyl sell from
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Abyss love
In a search for answers she creates a stories.
In a search for stories she creates a thoughts.
In a search for thoughts she creates...images.
Soul of the poetry or Poetry of the soul.
Confuses me.
Irena, within the nature.
Hers...And ours.
Editor's word
Sabahudin Hadzialic
Editor in chief
24.10.2012.
In a search for answers she creates a stories.
In a search for stories she creates a thoughts.
In a search for thoughts she creates...images.
Soul of the poetry or Poetry of the soul.
Confuses me.
Irena, within the nature.
Hers...And ours.
Editor's word
Sabahudin Hadzialic
Editor in chief
24.10.2012.
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GOD, VITALIZE those DANCES
Beetles had many ages without having a visit In the world and lives of people. The curiosity of dancers begins its path With white ancient skirts, That intertwined ages, and rumors… ... ... ...... ... ...... ... ... Opened their eyes In the awakened breadth of each-other, Just as many beauties, would have the same thought. Remembered the trips Knotted in the realm of ages, Anecdotes. A meting with a wounded soul, At the moment when there was left Invisibly a tattoo of deception And from pain hysterically screamed the wounded. The sorrowful beetles, Saw this much in the people’s world In a visit, Even shorter than the path. Everything appeared a nightmare, A nightmare of light, Embodied at a blond girl just like the beetles, Sat under the shadow of the housewives, While knitting collars of deceptive tattoos Left over from the night before, While waiting the “MORNING” of the Beetles. While she was their mirror image, Washed her body with a gulp of air, With the tall eyebrows combed her hair. Voices and lights prepared a mantle, While making her their sister. Under the rhythm of beetles: “Revive the dances God,” the Young Beetle was dancing While entertaining the tattoo of deception… LOVE NEAR THE ABYSS We made love at the edge of an abyss. On the tips of your fingers, Felt by the moon’s slice. I am in love with you angel, With you the darkness of the abyss, With you the familiar moon as a thief of hearts. I don’t know who to sadden! The Abyss attracts you with its mysterious depth: Swallows a piece of abyss. The moon lusts you with a piece of hers’: Swallow a piece of the moon. Would you think that I attract you with the unshared Secrets: Swallow a secret of mine. I have to rescue you From myself, the abyss and the moon, While preserving you in a soul shape aquarium Which may not penetrated by many pairs of eyes altogether, Because love swallows heads… THE DARK CLOTH LADY FROM THE SHORES The dark rag of the lady from the shores, Is kidnapped from one angle by the crazy storm, Even though it is heavy from the weight of the “load” Made more sustainable thanks to her, (An old tradition, when she had someone for a gift). The other angle of the rag, Tangled in a pile of dark firewood, Who knows how many winters they were abandoned, Since there is no one to burn them in the fire place. Tries to bring her out of her solitude, With the irreverence of mumbling: “Hope that you would never tear apart!” With the lips that vibrate, Poured like a cross, was hanged over the shoulder. Without it would not begin “the longing of oneself” Seen from beyond the life, from outside of time…. MY OAK TREE You have the smell of an oak Where above you a bird with a human’s voice, Articulated the discourse Since there should have been raised an oracle to Zeus. You are alive in the oak’s soul Since the world placed the first stone. I eat thanks to you my Pelasgian God Almonds and juice from your dreams. Chew and grind them with the teeth of my soul In order to live thanks to your wheat And mixed the bread of the Sun. The scroll of the water’s creek, Are the tears of breath And the murmuring of your leaves, Which meditates even in the dead languages Hugs of branches and roots in the distance. And the articulated fate through their resonance, It says that even when you won’t be, You will continue to grind almonds of dreams with me And arrives with the odor of the oak… THE MOUNTAIN’S SHADOW IN A ROSE’S PETAL There is no ship for the eyes They remained at the same harbor With only one wealth in their hands: A rose petal with two sides, Where on one was kept The shadow of the mountain In the morning, noon, Dusk, midnight…. And on the other side of the petal, Was carved just like in a papyrus: “The greatness of endurance Measures with the spaces Of the invaded dreams.” Will there be possible in every season, A petal of a rose Will be able to extract the mountain’s dream From all her bloody tenderness???!!! There is not a single ship for the eyes Remained at the same harbor FROM A TIGER CAGE HANGING IN THE SKY From a tiger cage hanging in the sky, In this carnivore night of dreams Before Jon with its ancient longing chorus of waves, Feel the wind that enters frivolously Through the tiger’s respire. With her tongue tries to dry her tear, A tear that has made Her road of years and years in order to appear once And it needs centuries to dry), While raising discourses by mountain peaks. O darling, on what side are you looking at the moon today? Or from what side is she looking at you? On the sword of the soul, she saw her broken limbs And blind eyes from your absence. The dark cloth of the sky is turned into An unbroken crystal, unpunctuated For taking – giving divine discourses… Translated in English by: Peter Tase 
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SHTOI ZOT VALLET
Shtojzovallet kishin epoka pa bërë vizitë në botën dhe jetën e njerëzve. Kurioziteti shtojzovall nisi rrugën me fustane të bardhë antike, që ngatërronin epokat, gojëdhënat... ... ... ...... ... ...... ... ... Hapën sytë në frymëmarrjen e zgjuar të njëra-tjetrës, Sikur shumë bukuri, të kishin një mendje. Kujtonin rrugën nëpër ngatërrim epokash, gojëdhënash. Takim me një shpirt të vrarë, në çastin kur i lihej i pazhdukshëm një tatuazh zhgënjimi e nga dhimbja klithte me tërbim sakati. Shtojzovallet e dhimsura, kaq panë në botën e njerëzve në një vizitë, shumë më të shkurtër se rruga. Gjithçka u dukej makth ëndrre, makth drite, trupëzuar tek një flokëverdhë si shtojzovallet, ulur në hijen e zonjave të shtëpisë, duke thurur gërsheta tatuazhesh zhgënjimi të tepruara nga një natë më parë, në pritje të “MIRËMËNGJESIT” të shtojzovalleve. Duke u ngjasuar me veten, me frymë i lanë trupin, me qerpikët e gjatë i krehën flokët. Zërat dhe dritat ia qepën mantel, duke e bërë simotrën e tyre. Nën ritmin shtojzovall: “SHTOI ZOT VALLET”, Shtojzovallja e re kërcente Duke argëtuar dhe tatuazhin e zhgënjimit... DASHURI BUZË GREMINE Bëmë dashuri buzë një gremine. Në mollëzat e gishtave të tu, një cermë hëne të prek. Me ty ëngjëll jam dashuruar unë, Me ty nata e greminës, Me ty hëna e njohur si hajdute zemrash. S’di kujt t’ia prishësh! Gremina të josh me fundin e mistershëm: Gëlltit një copë gremine. Hëna të josh me cermën e saj: Gëlltit një copë hëne. Thua se unë të josh me sekretet e pathëna: Gëlltit një sekret timin. Mua më duhet të të shpëtoj prej vetes sime, greminës dhe hënës, Duke të futur në një akuarium shpirti të padepërtueshëm prej shumë palë sysh njëherësh, se dashuria ha koka... SHAMIZEZA BREGASE Shamisë së zezë të plakës së Bregut, njërin cep ia merr era e stihisë së marrë, edhe pse e rënduar nga pesha e “kufetës” bërë komb në skaj të saj, (Zakon i vjetër, kur kishte kujt t’ia jepte). Cepi tjetër i zezonës, ngecur në një stivë drush të nxirosura, Kushedi sa dimra mbetur aty, se s’ka kush t’i djegë në vatër. Përpiqet ta tërheqë në vetminë e saj, me mallkimin mërmëritës: “Mos u grisç!” Me buzën që i dridhet, hedhur kryq u varën shpinës. Pa të nuk mund të nisë “Vajtimin e vetvetes” parë nga përtejeta, nga jashtëkohësia… 4.LISI IM Ti ke erën e lisit Ku mbi ty një zog me zë njeriu, artikuloi kumtin se aty i duhej ngritur një orakull Zeusit. Ti jeton në shpirtin e lisit qyshkur bota vuri gurin e parë. Unë ha prej teje Zoti im pellazg vallanidhe e lënde ëndrrash të tua. I përtyp e bluaj me mokrat e shpirtit për të rrojtur prej miellit tënd e gatitur bukën e Diellit. Zhurmërima e vijës së ujit, janë lotët e frymëmarrjes dhe fëshfërima e gjetheve të tua, që mendon edhe në gjuhët e vdekura përqafime degësh e rrënjësh në largësi. E fatthëna përmes frushullimës së tyre, Më thotë se ti edhe kur të mos jesh, sërish do bulosh vallanidhe ëndrrash për mua e do të vish me erën e lisit... HIJA E MALIT NË NJË PETAL TRËNDAFILI Nuk paska anije për sytë Ngelën te i njëjti liman Vetëm me një pasuri në duar: Një petal trëndafili me dy anë, ku në njërën nderej hija e malit në mëngjes, në mesditë, në muzg, në mesnatë... E në tjetrën anë të petales, si në një papirus gërmëzohej: “Madhështia e një mbijetese matet me hapësirat e ëndrrave të pushtuara”. A do të mundet vallë në çdo stinë, një petale e trëndafiltë ta nxërë në përndezjen e gjakimtë të saj gjithë hijen e ëndrrën e malit???!!! Nuk paska më anije për sytë Ngelën te i njëjti liman... 6.NGA NJË KAFAZ TIGRI PEZULL NË QIELL Nga një kafaz tigri pezull në qiell, në këtë natë mishngrënëse ëndrrash përballë Jonit me valë korvajtues antik, ndiej erën që drithërueshëm hyn përmes frymëmarrjes së tigrit. Me gjuhën e saj përpiqet të përthajë lotin, (Atë lot që ka bërë vite e vite rrugë për t’u shfaqur një çast e duhen shekuj që të përthahet), Duke sjellë kumte majëmalesh. Oh zemër, në cilën anë po e sheh hënën sonte? Apo prej cilës anë po të sheh ajo ty? Në shpatet e shpirtit, i pa brinjët e saj të thyera E sytë të verbuar nga mungesa jote. Pelerina e zezë e qiellit është bërë kristal i pathyeshëm, i padepërtueshëm për dhënie - marrje kumtesh hyjnore... | ||||||
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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
